Hunted to Huntress

Chapter 1
Hunted to Huntress

-- Regression of the Headmistress --

Character: Dr. Victoria Blackwood

A stern woman in her early forties with a doctorate in educational psychology. Her severe appearance - always in tailored suits with her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun - matches her reputation for discipline and academic excellence. As the first female headmistress of Blackthorn Academy, she's faced resistance from the old guard and has responded by being twice as strict and uncompromising as any of her predecessors.

Background:

Blackthorn Academy is one of the most prestigious colleges in the country, known for its rigorous academic standards and strict discipline. As the newly appointed headmistress, you've made it your mission to restore order and excellence after years of declining standards under the previous administration. Your no-nonsense approach has earned you respect, but also resentment from both students and faculty who chafe under your reforms. You've noticed strange whispers in hallways that stop when you approach, and occasional smirks from those who should fear your authority. Today feels different somehow - there's a tension in the air, a sense that something is about to change. As you prepare for the morning assembly, you can't shake the feeling that you're being watched, studied, and perhaps even... targeted.


You adjust your charcoal gray suit jacket with practiced precision, tugging at the sleeves until they fall exactly where they should. The mirror reflects back a woman of impeccable standards – Dr. Victoria Blackwood, headmistress extraordinaire. Your dark hair is pulled into a bun so tight it creates a natural facelift, not a single strand daring to escape its confines.

As you apply a final touch of matte lipstick in a subdued mauve, you notice something odd in your reflection – for just a second, your eyes seem wider, more uncertain. You blink, and the momentary vulnerability vanishes.

"Dr. Blackwood?" Your administrative assistant, Margery Wells, knocks before entering. She's a thin woman in her fifties with the efficiency of a German train schedule. "The students are assembled. The faculty are taking their places on stage."

"Thank you, Margery. I'll be there momentarily." Your voice is crisp, authoritative – exactly as it should be.

Walking toward the auditorium, you feel the weight of the school pressing down on your shoulders. The hallways of Blackthorn Academy gleam with old money and older traditions. Oil paintings of former headmasters – all men – watch your progress with painted eyes that seem to judge.

Professor Malcolm Thorne, the ancient head of Classics, intercepts you outside the auditorium doors. His tweed jacket smells faintly of mothballs and expensive scotch.

"Ah, Victoria," he says, using your first name despite your repeated corrections. "Ready to face the little monsters? I do hope today's speech isn't another lecture on modernization. Some traditions are worth preserving, wouldn't you agree?"

Before you can respond with an appropriately cutting remark, he leans closer. "You know, you remind me of someone... a student I once had. Bright girl, but always trying too hard to prove herself."

Something about his words makes your thoughts momentarily fuzzy, like static on an old television. For a heartbeat, you feel an inexplicable urge to apologize, to seek his approval.

"I... I'm not..." The words stumble from your mouth, uncharacteristically uncertain.

Thorne's eyes glitter with something that might be amusement. "Well, best not keep them waiting. After you, Headmistress."

You step onto the stage, the bright lights momentarily blinding. Five hundred students in identical uniforms stare back at you. The faculty sit in a row behind the podium, their expressions ranging from bored to openly hostile.

As you approach the microphone, you feel a strange sensation – your suit seems to tighten slightly across your chest, the skirt riding up a fraction of an inch higher on your thighs than is strictly professional. You tug at it discreetly, but it doesn't seem to help.

"Good morning, Blackthorn Academy," you begin, your voice ringing out with practiced authority. Yet somewhere in the back of your mind, a small, unfamiliar voice whispers that you don't belong here, that you're playing dress-up in clothes too big for you.

You push the thought away and continue your address, unaware of the faint smirk playing across Professor Thorne's thin lips as he watches you from his seat.

You grip the podium with manicured fingers, your knuckles whitening as you lean forward. Five hundred faces stare back at you, a sea of navy blazers and restless youth. Your voice rings clear through the auditorium's perfect acoustics.

"This term marks a turning point for Blackthorn Academy," you announce, your words clipped and precise. "The laxity of previous administrations ends today. Effective immediately, all infractions will be logged in our new digital demerit system. Three demerits will result in Saturday detention. Six, in parental conferences. Nine, and the student's continued enrollment will be reviewed by the board."

A murmur ripples through the student body. You notice Professor Thorne exchange a glance with Dr. Eleanor Frost, the young psychology professor whose hiring you opposed. Something passes between them – amusement? Anticipation?

"Furthermore," you continue, "the use of mobile phones during academic hours is strictly prohibited. Devices will be confiscated and held for one week upon first offense, one month upon second."

As you speak, a peculiar sensation creeps over you. The words on your prepared notes seem to swim, rearranging themselves. For a disorienting moment, you struggle to decipher your own handwriting. It appears childish, the letters suddenly too large and uneven.

"I... we will also..." Your voice falters. A bead of sweat traces down your spine. The room feels warmer, your collar tighter. "We will also be implementing mandatory study hall for any student falling below a B average."

Dr. Frost leans forward in her chair, her eyes never leaving your face. She whispers something to Dean Richards beside her, who nods almost imperceptibly.

"Accountability is not punishment," you say, finding your rhythm again. "It is preparation for—"

Your words catch as you feel a strange tingle across your skin. Your severe bun seems looser somehow, tendrils of hair escaping to brush against your neck. More distressingly, your tailored skirt feels different against your thighs – shorter, tighter, riding up with each shift of your weight.

"—preparation for the real world," you finish, fighting the urge to tug at your hemline. "Where actions have consequences."

From the back of the auditorium, a hand rises. It belongs to Sophia Winters, the student body president, a girl with a perfect academic record and a reputation for cutting directness.

"Dr. Blackwood," she calls out, not waiting to be acknowledged, "if accountability is so important, who holds the administration accountable when they fail?"

The question hangs in the air, pointed as a stiletto. You open your mouth to respond with your usual authority, but instead hear yourself say in a higher, almost girlish tone:

"That's not a very nice question, is it?"

Horror floods through you. The words weren't yours – or rather, they were yours, but spoken as if by a much younger version of yourself. Several students exchange confused glances. Professor Thorne's thin lips curve into an unmistakable smile.

You clear your throat, desperate to recover. "What I mean is, the board of trustees provides oversight for all administrative decisions. Now, if there are no further questions—"

"Actually," Sophia interrupts again, her eyes narrowing slightly, "I was wondering if you're feeling all right, Dr. Blackwood? You seem... different today."

The question feels like a trap, though you can't articulate why. "I am perfectly fine," you respond, your voice thankfully back to its proper register. "This assembly is concluded. Students, proceed to your first-period classes."

As the students file out, you feel Professor Thorne's gaze on you, heavy as a physical touch. When you look his way, he winks – a gesture so inappropriate, so out of character for the stuffy classics professor, that you almost gasp aloud.

You stride down the corridor toward your office, your heels clicking against the polished marble with less authority than usual. Students part before you like water around a stone, but several turn to whisper after you pass. Your skin prickles with the sensation of being watched.

Your office door—heavy oak with a brass nameplate reading DR. VICTORIA BLACKWOOD, HEADMISTRESS—feels unusually resistant when you push it open. Inside, the familiar space greets you: leather-bound books lining mahogany shelves, the antique desk positioned to command the room, the portrait of Blackthorn's founder hanging opposite your degrees and certifications.

You lock the door behind you and move directly to the full-length mirror mounted on the wall. What you see makes your breath catch.

Your severe bun has indeed come partially undone, with tendrils of hair framing your face in a way that softens your features, making you appear younger, less formidable. But it's your clothing that truly alarms you. Your charcoal skirt, which reached your knees this morning, now sits mid-thigh. The fabric of your blouse seems thinner, more translucent, and the top two buttons have somehow come undone, revealing the lace edge of your bra.

"This is impossible," you whisper, your fingers fumbling to rebutton your blouse. The buttons slip through your fingers as if greased. Your hands feel oddly clumsy, like they belong to someone else.

You reach for the pins in your hair, determined to restore your proper appearance, but as you attempt to twist your hair back into its tight bun, your reflection seems to shimmer. For a heartbeat, you see not yourself but a younger woman—almost a girl—with wide eyes and a frightened expression.

"No!" The word escapes your lips with unexpected force. You blink, and your proper reflection returns, though your hair remains stubbornly loose.

A knock at your door makes you jump. "Dr. Blackwood?" It's Dr. Eleanor Frost's voice, smooth as honey and just as sticky. "I wanted to check on you after the assembly. You seemed... distressed."

"I'm fine," you call back, your voice steadier than you feel. "Just reviewing some paperwork."

"Are you sure?" Her tone shifts, becoming oddly soothing, almost maternal. "Sometimes we all need someone to talk to. Someone who understands the pressure you're under."

As she speaks, a strange drowsiness washes over you. Your eyelids feel heavy, your thoughts sluggish.

"Perhaps I could come in?" Dr. Frost continues. "We could have a little chat. Wouldn't that be nice?"

The words 'nice' echoes in your mind, and you find yourself reaching for the door handle before catching yourself. Something about her voice, about the cadence of her speech, feels dangerous—like a hand reaching for your mind.

"That won't be necessary," you manage, forcing authority into your voice. "I have calls to make. We can speak later."

A pause follows, heavy with unspoken tension.

"Of course, Dr. Blackwood," Frost finally responds, her voice cooling several degrees. "Later, then."

You listen to her heels click away down the corridor, then turn back to the mirror. With trembling hands, you reach into your desk drawer for emergency hair pins and begin the process of reconstructing your appearance, fighting against the strange resistance of your own body.

You turn to your computer, fingers trembling slightly as you log into the administrative database. The screen's glow illuminates your face in the dim office, casting shadows that make the room feel smaller than it is.

The faculty records section requires your highest clearance code—a six-digit number that momentarily escapes you. You type in what you think is correct, only to receive an error message. On your third attempt, the numbers finally align in your mind, though they seem to swim before your eyes like fish in murky water.

Dr. Eleanor Frost's file opens before you. Her credentials are impeccable: PhD from Cambridge in Cognitive Psychology, specializing in suggestibility and behavioral modification. Published papers on "Linguistic Patterns as Hypnotic Induction" and "Memory Malleability in Authority Structures." Hired six months ago—three months after your appointment as headmistress—on the recommendation of the board of trustees, bypassing your usual vetting process.

"That's not right," you murmur, scrolling through meeting minutes. "I should have interviewed her."

A note in her file catches your attention: "Special research grant approved for collaborative work with Classics Department on 'Ancient Persuasion Techniques in Modern Educational Settings.'" The grant was signed off by Professor Thorne as department head and Dean Richards as financial officer.

You click through to recent activity logs. Dr. Frost has accessed the student psychological profiles—expected for her role—but also faculty profiles, including yours. Three separate times in the past month.

As you read, a notification pops up on your screen: "User EFROST currently viewing: BLACKWOOD, VICTORIA - PERSONNEL FILE."

She's looking at your records right now.

You quickly open your own personnel file to see what she might be viewing. Among the standard information—your academic history, employment record, performance reviews—is a psychological assessment you don't remember taking. It contains detailed notes about your "compensatory authoritarian tendencies" and "unresolved childhood insecurities manifesting as rigid control behaviors."

"This is fabricated," you whisper, scrolling further. The assessment is dated last week and signed by Dr. Frost herself.

At the bottom of the document is a treatment recommendation: "Subject would benefit from guided regression therapy to address formative traumas. Recommend implementation of Protocol Theta-9 with linguistic triggers established during regular interactions."

Your office phone rings, startling you so badly you nearly knock over your coffee. The caller ID shows: DR. E. FROST.

"Dr. Blackwood," her voice purrs through the speaker when you answer, "I see you're taking an interest in my work. Perhaps we should discuss it in person. My office has a much more... comfortable atmosphere for such conversations."

The way she emphasizes "comfortable" sends an involuntary shiver down your spine, followed by an inexplicable urge to suck your thumb.

You send the command to the printer, watching as pages of damning evidence slide into the tray. The psychological assessment with its fabricated claims. The unauthorized access logs. The mysterious Protocol Theta-9. Your hands are steady now, anger burning away the fog that's been clouding your mind.

You pick up your phone and press the intercom button. "Ms. Wells, please ask Dr. Frost to join me in my office immediately." Your voice carries the crisp authority that made you headmistress in the first place.

"Yes, Dr. Blackwood," Margery responds, though you detect a note of surprise in her tone.

While waiting, you arrange the printed evidence in a neat folder, positioning it on your desk where it's visible but not immediately readable. You also open your desk drawer, revealing the small voice recorder you keep for difficult parent conferences. With a discrete press, you activate it.

Twelve minutes later—you note the time precisely—a knock comes at your door. Three soft taps, almost playful.

"Enter," you command.

Dr. Eleanor Frost glides in like smoke, all elegant curves and calculated grace. Her cream-colored blouse and pencil skirt manage to be both professional and suggestive. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes.

"Victoria," she says, using your first name without permission. "How lovely to be invited into your inner sanctum." She gestures around your office with a manicured hand. "So many hard edges in here. Have you ever considered softening the space? Children respond better to nurturing environments."

"I didn't ask you here to discuss interior design, Dr. Frost," you say, emphasizing her title. "Please, sit."

She sinks into the chair across from your desk, crossing her legs slowly. "You sound tense. Would you like a sweet? I always keep candies with me." She reaches into her pocket and produces a small wrapped lollipop, offering it across the desk.

The sight of the candy triggers an unexpected response—your mouth waters, and for a horrifying moment, you want nothing more than to suck on that lollipop. The urge is so strong it's almost painful.

"No," you say sharply, as much to yourself as to her. You tap the folder on your desk. "I'd like to discuss your research project with Professor Thorne. Specifically, Protocol Theta-9."

Frost's expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind her eyes—surprise, quickly masked. "My work with Malcolm is quite technical. I doubt it would interest you."

"On the contrary," you say, opening the folder and turning it to face her. "I find it fascinating how you've been accessing my personnel file, fabricating psychological assessments, and implementing what appears to be an unauthorized behavioral modification program on the headmistress of this institution."

Frost's smile widens fractionally. "Those are serious accusations, Victoria." She unwraps the lollipop slowly, deliberately, the cellophane crinkling in the quiet office. "But I think you're confused. Perhaps you've been working too hard. It's making you... imaginative."

She places the candy between her lips and sucks, the sound obscenely loud in the silent room. As she does, you feel a wave of dizziness wash over you. Your skirt seems to tighten again, riding higher on your thighs. The urge to fidget, to squirm in your seat like a scolded child, becomes almost overwhelming.

"I'm not confused," you manage, fighting to keep your voice level. "And I'm not imagining the changes to my clothing, or the inappropriate thoughts you're somehow planting in my head."

Frost removes the lollipop with a wet pop. "Oh, Victoria," she says, her voice dropping to a hypnotic murmur. "Don't you think it's time to stop fighting? Wouldn't it be nice to just... let go? To be taken care of for once?"

The word "nice" echoes in your mind like a struck bell, and you feel your resistance wavering. But the anger—the pure, righteous fury at being manipulated—burns through the suggestion.

"Get out of my office," you say, your voice like ice. "And expect to hear from the board of trustees about your immediate termination."

Frost stands, smoothing her skirt. Rather than looking concerned, she appears amused. "We'll continue this conversation later, Victoria. When you're feeling more... receptive." She places the lollipop on your desk before sauntering to the door. "A little something sweet for when you change your mind."

After she leaves, you stare at the candy, fighting the inexplicable desire to put it in your mouth. With a decisive motion, you sweep it into your trash bin, then reach for your phone to call the board chairman.

You gather the printed evidence, along with the voice recording device, and slide them into your personal safe hidden behind the portrait of Blackthorn's founder. The combination—your birth date—feels oddly difficult to recall, your fingers hesitating over the dial before muscle memory takes over.

The corridor outside is mercifully empty as you make your way to the Psychology Department. Dr. Frost's office door bears a small brass plaque with her name and a quote beneath it: "The mind is a garden that requires careful tending." The handle turns easily in your grip—unlocked.

Inside, the contrast to your own office is stark. Where yours is all hard angles and dark wood, Frost's space is deliberately designed to disarm. Plush armchairs instead of straight-backed visitors' seats. Warm lighting from lamps rather than the harsh overhead fluorescents. The walls are painted a soft blue that studies show reduces anxiety.

You move quickly to her desk, opening drawers with gloved hands. The top drawer contains standard office supplies, but beneath them, you find a small notebook bound in red leather. Opening it reveals pages of handwritten notes in a tight, precise script:

"Subject V shows increasing susceptibility to vocal triggers. Primary anchors established: 'nice,' 'sweet,' 'comfortable.' Secondary physical anchors: candy (oral fixation pathway), clothing restriction (authority undermining). Thorne reports success with temporal disorientation techniques during morning assembly."

Your stomach tightens as you flip through more pages. There are detailed observations of your daily routines, your reactions to various stimuli, even notes about your childhood extracted from old school records.

"Protocol Theta-9 progression ahead of schedule. Subject experiencing spontaneous regression episodes without direct triggering. Clothing transformation acceptance indicates reality perception already compromised."

A file folder labeled "Blackthorn Reformation" catches your eye. Inside are photographs—you at various school functions, but subtly altered. In each image, your clothing appears progressively more juvenile, your posture less commanding. The most recent shows you at last week's faculty meeting wearing what looks like a schoolgirl uniform, though you know with absolute certainty you wore a charcoal suit that day.

"Finding everything you need, Victoria?"

You whirl around to find Jeremy Caldwell, the school's IT director, standing in the doorway. His thin face wears an expression of mild amusement.

"Mr. Caldwell," you say, straightening to your full height. "I'm conducting an investigation into concerning activities by Dr. Frost."

"Are you?" He steps into the office, closing the door behind him. "That's not how Dr. Frost described it when she asked me to monitor her office security feed."

Your blood runs cold. "Security feed?"

Caldwell gestures toward a small camera nestled in the corner bookshelf, its lens pointed directly at the desk. "Installed last month. For research purposes, she said." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Though I suspect the research subject wasn't meant to be you."

He moves closer, and you notice he's carrying something—a small tablet displaying a live feed of you standing in Frost's office. "The question is, what do we do now? Dr. Frost is quite upset that you've been snooping. She thinks you need a... time out to reflect on your behavior."

The way he says "time out" sends an involuntary shiver through you, followed by a horrifying urge to apologize, to promise to be a good girl.

You straighten your spine, summoning every ounce of the authority that earned you this position. Despite the strange urges fluttering at the edges of your consciousness, you are still Dr. Victoria Blackwood, headmistress of Blackthorn Academy.

"Mr. Caldwell," you say, your voice cutting through the room like a blade, "I am conducting an official investigation into serious ethical violations by Dr. Frost and Professor Thorne. What you're witnessing isn't insubordination—it's my duty as headmistress."

You step forward, holding up the red leather notebook. "This contains detailed notes on what they call 'Protocol Theta-9'—an unauthorized psychological manipulation program targeting me. They're using linguistic triggers, altered photographs, and possibly psychoactive substances to destabilize my authority and mental state."

Caldwell's smirk falters. He hadn't expected this direct approach.

"I require you to transfer all security footage from this office to my secure server immediately," you continue. "This footage is evidence of my authorized search, not proof of wrongdoing on my part."

You flip open the notebook to a particularly damning page. "Look. 'Subject V experiencing spontaneous regression episodes.' They're documenting how they're manipulating me, Jeremy. And I suspect they're using you too."

His eyes scan the page, widening slightly. "They said this was approved research," he murmurs. "Frost told me the board had signed off on a psychological study of authority structures."

"Did the board approve manipulating the headmistress without her knowledge or consent?" you counter. "Did they approve doctoring my personnel file with fabricated psychological assessments?"

Caldwell shifts uncomfortably. "No, but—"

"Did they approve these?" You show him the altered photographs. "These never happened. I've never dressed like this at any school function."

He stares at the images, confusion evident on his face. "These look... real."

"They're not," you say firmly. "Check the metadata if you don't believe me."

Caldwell hesitates, then taps something on his tablet. The security feed disappears, replaced by a file transfer interface. "I'm copying the footage to your secure server," he says quietly. "But Frost will know I helped you."

"Then help me stop this before it goes further," you press. "What else do you know about Protocol Theta-9?"

He glances nervously at the door. "Not much. They keep the core research in Thorne's office—something about ancient texts and modern psychological techniques combined. But there's a meeting tonight. In the old library annex. After hours."

You nod, gathering the notebook and photographs. "I need your discretion, Mr. Caldwell. And your continued access to the security systems."

"You'll have it," he says, surprising you with his sudden cooperation. "I didn't sign up for... whatever this is. Manipulating people's minds is beyond ethical boundaries."

As you turn to leave, a wave of dizziness washes over you. Your skirt feels uncomfortably tight again, and there's a strange pressure in your bladder you hadn't noticed before—an urgent, childish need that would be mortifying to acknowledge.

"Dr. Blackwood?" Caldwell asks, noticing your sudden discomfort. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," you manage, fighting through the sensation. "Just... their conditioning attempting to reassert itself. I need to get these materials secured immediately."

You leave Frost's office with evidence in hand and an unexpected ally at your back, though you can't shake the feeling that you're racing against a clock you can't see.

You hurry back to your office, the evidence clutched against your chest like a shield. The corridors seem longer than usual, stretching before you like something from a fever dream. Students part as you pass, their eyes lingering a moment too long.

Inside your office, you slide the notebook and photographs into your safe, fingers trembling as you dial the combination. The metal feels cool against your skin, grounding you momentarily against the waves of disorientation that keep washing over you.

"Safe," you whisper to yourself. "They're safe now."

You check your watch—9:05 AM. Professor Thorne should be teaching his Advanced Latin seminar until 10:30. Perfect timing to search his office.

The Classics Department occupies the oldest wing of Blackthorn, all wood-paneled corridors and mullioned windows. Thorne's office door bears a plaque in Latin: "Scientia Potentia Est"—Knowledge is Power. The irony isn't lost on you.

You try the handle. Locked. Of course. You pull out your master key, the one that opens every door in Blackthorn, but as you insert it into the lock, a strange thing happens. The key seems to shrink in your hand, becoming too small for the keyhole.

"What the—" You blink hard, and the key returns to its proper size. You slide it in, turn—and meet resistance. The lock doesn't yield.

"Having trouble, Headmistress?"

You whirl around to find Professor Thorne himself standing behind you, his thin lips curved in that same unsettling smile. He shouldn't be here—he should be teaching.

"Professor," you manage, straightening your jacket. "I was just—"

"Breaking into my office?" he suggests, his voice silky with amusement. "How very... naughty of you."

The word 'naughty' hits you like a physical blow. Your cheeks flush hot with shame, and you have to fight the sudden, overwhelming urge to stare at your shoes.

"I have reason to believe," you say, forcing authority into your voice, "that you and Dr. Frost are conducting unauthorized psychological experiments on faculty members. Including me."

Thorne steps closer, invading your personal space. He smells of chalk dust and expensive cologne. "And what evidence do you have of this... fascinating theory?"

"Enough," you say, meeting his gaze despite the discomfort it causes. "The board will hear about Protocol Theta-9 by the end of the day."

Something flashes in Thorne's eyes—not concern, but satisfaction. "Protocol Theta-9," he repeats, the syllables rolling off his tongue with deliberate precision. "Such an interesting choice of words."

As he speaks, the corridor seems to warp around you. The walls pulse inward, then outward. Your skirt feels tighter still, and worse—you feel a strange dampness between your legs, a mortifying warmth spreading across your inner thighs.

"What have you done to me?" you whisper, horror dawning as you realize you've just wet yourself like a child.

Thorne's smile widens. "Nothing you didn't already want, deep down. We're just... helping you remember who you really are."

Your shoulders slump as you let your posture collapse, eyes dropping to the wet patch spreading across your skirt. The mortification is real—you don't need to fake that—but you channel it into your performance.

"I don't understand what's happening to me," you whisper, your voice deliberately higher than your usual authoritative tone. You let your hands flutter helplessly at your sides. "These... accidents. The thoughts in my head."

Thorne's eyes gleam with predatory satisfaction. He steps closer, his cologne enveloping you like a suffocating cloud.

"There, there," he murmurs, patting your shoulder with patronizing gentleness. "The first step to healing is admitting one needs help. You've been carrying such a heavy burden, haven't you? All that responsibility."

"Yes," you breathe, letting a tremor enter your voice. "It's so hard sometimes."

"Of course it is," Thorne says, producing a handkerchief from his pocket. "Here. Let me help you to my office. We can... discuss what you're experiencing."

He unlocks his door—the same lock that rejected your key moments ago—and ushers you inside. The office is a temple to academic pretension: leather-bound books, a bust of Aristotle, a globe that looks deliberately antiquated.

"Sit," he instructs, pointing to a leather armchair opposite his desk. You comply, crossing your legs to hide the evidence of your accident.

"Protocol Theta-9," you venture, injecting childlike curiosity into your voice. "What does it mean?"

Thorne settles behind his desk, steepling his fingers. "It's a methodology for revealing one's true self. The self beneath social conditioning and professional masks."

"But why me?" you ask, widening your eyes.

"Because, Victoria," he says, using your first name with deliberate familiarity, "you represent everything wrong with modern education. Rigid. Controlling. Denying the natural order."

"Natural order?"

He smiles thinly. "Some are born to lead. Others to follow. You've been... miscast in your role."

You notice a leather-bound journal on his desk, identical to the red one you found in Frost's office. As he speaks, you tilt your head, playing confused while scanning his bookshelf. There—a row of ancient texts with Greek lettering, one volume pulled slightly forward.

"I feel so confused," you say, pressing a hand to your forehead. "Like I'm losing myself."

"Not losing," Thorne corrects. "Finding. The real you has always been there, beneath that stern exterior. A frightened little girl playing dress-up in mommy's clothes."

The words sting, but you force yourself to nod, as if his assessment resonates. "How does it work? The protocol?"

"Ancient techniques of suggestion, combined with modern psychological triggers," he explains, clearly enjoying the role of professor. "The Greeks understood the malleable nature of identity long before Freud."

You lean forward, feigning fascination while memorizing the titles on his desk. "And once it starts... can it be reversed?"

Thorne's smile falters slightly. "Why would anyone want to reverse their journey to authenticity?"

You tilt your head, adopting a posture of childlike fascination. "It's just... amazing. The way you've combined ancient wisdom with modern psychology." Your voice carries just the right note of awe. "How did you even discover these techniques? It must have taken years of research."

Thorne preens visibly at the praise, his thin fingers drumming against the leather journal. "Most academics lack vision," he says. "They see fragments of knowledge and never assemble the whole. I recognized patterns across disciplines that no one else could."

"That's extraordinary," you murmur, leaning forward slightly. "And the implementation—the triggers and suggestions—how do you calibrate them for different subjects?"

He rises from his chair, moving to the bookshelf with the Greek texts. His back to you, he traces a finger along the spines. "Each subject requires a unique... constellation of triggers. For you, we identified core insecurities about authority and legitimacy. Your personnel file was most illuminating."

"My file?" you ask, injecting vulnerability into your tone while your eyes scan his desk for anything useful.

"Your mother was quite domineering, wasn't she?" Thorne pulls down the Greek volume you noticed earlier. "And your father left when you were—what was it—seven? Classic abandonment template."

Your stomach tightens at the invasion of your privacy, but you force a trembling smile. "Yes. I've always tried to be... stronger than her. Better than her."

"And yet here you are," Thorne says with cruel amusement, "sitting in my office with wet panties." 

The humiliation burns hot in your cheeks, but you use it, letting your eyes well with tears. "Can it be stopped? The protocol?"

Thorne opens the Greek text, revealing pages covered in symbols and diagrams. "Theoretically, yes. The mind can be... reset, so to speak. But it requires specific counter-triggers and a deep understanding of the original conditioning."

"And those counter-triggers are...?"

He smiles thinly. "Not something I'd share with the subject, naturally. But don't worry—once the protocol completes its work, you won't want it reversed. You'll be happier. Unburdened."

You notice a page in the open book showing a circular diagram with Greek letters at specific points. Below it, in Thorne's handwriting: "Reversal sequence: Theta-Epsilon-Kappa-Alpha."

"I feel so confused," you say, pressing your hands to your temples. "Sometimes I feel like myself, and other times..."

"The oscillation is normal," Thorne assures you, closing the book before you can memorize more. "The protocol works in waves. Each regression is followed by a period of clarity—that's when the real conditioning happens. The contrast between states creates cognitive dissonance, which accelerates acceptance."

He places the book on his desk and checks his watch. "I have a class to teach. But perhaps we should continue this discussion later. You seem... receptive today."

The way he says "receptive" makes your skin crawl, but you nod eagerly. "I'd like that. I have so many questions."

"Good girl," he says, the phrase hitting you like an electric shock. Your vision swims momentarily, and you feel an overwhelming urge to suck your thumb.

Thorne watches your reaction with clinical interest. "Fascinating how quickly the triggers take hold. We'll speak again soon, Victoria. Very soon."

As Thorne turns his back to reshelve the Greek manuscript, you see your chance. In one swift motion, you snatch the weathered tome from his desk and tuck it beneath your jacket, holding your breath.

Your heart pounds in your ears, but you force your voice to remain steady. 'Professor Thorne, I appreciate your insights. I'd like to continue our discussion later, but I really must change out of these...soiled clothes first.'

He turns back to you, his cold eyes sweeping over your damp skirt. 'Of course, Headmistress. Wouldn't want the students seeing you in such a state. We can't have them losing respect for your authority now, can we?'

The mocking edge to his words raises your hackles, but you maintain your composure. 'Indeed. I'll return to my office after I freshen up. Please send any relevant materials there for my review.'

Thorne inclines his head, a faint smirk playing about his lips. 'As you wish. I look forward to our next meeting, Victoria. I believe we have much more to... explore together.'

You suppress a shudder at his insinuating tone and turn on your heel, striding out of his office with the purloined manuscript pressed against your chest beneath your blazer. As soon as you're out of sight, you break into a jog, ducking into the faculty restroom.

In the privacy of a stall, you shimmy out of your soiled skirt and slip on a spare you keep in your office for emergencies. The feel of the clean fabric against your skin helps center you, pushing back the fog of confusion and vulnerability that's clouded your mind since this strange ordeal began.

You check your reflection in the mirror, smoothing your hair back into its tight bun. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes overbright, but you look more like yourself again. More like the formidable Dr. Victoria Blackwood, Headmistress of Blackthorn Academy. Not the lost little girl Thorne and Frost are trying to reduce you to.

Tucking the manuscript more securely into your jacket, you square your shoulders and march out of the restroom, heading for your office with renewed purpose. You need to contact Caldwell and get access to that security footage. It's time to get to the bottom of this twisted game Thorne and Frost are playing.

You slip into your office, locking the door behind you with a soft click. The stolen Greek manuscript feels heavy in your hands, its weathered pages crackling with secrets.

At your desk, you spread the book open, scanning the dense text for any mention of reversal techniques. The ancient Greek letters swim before your eyes, but you force yourself to focus. There. A diagram labeled 'Metamorphoses of the Mind,' with a series of symbols connected by arrows. 

You trace the arrows with a fingertip, murmuring the Greek words beneath your breath. "Theta... Epsilon... Kappa... Alpha..." The air seems to shimmer around you as you speak, and for a moment, your mind feels clearer. Sharper. The fog of confusion and doubt that's plagued you since this morning recedes, leaving only cold, hard purpose.

You flip to the next page, heart pounding as you scan for information on accelerating the protocol. If you could turn their own weapon against them... There. A section on 'Rapid Induction Techniques,' with a list of triggers and suggestions. You pull Dr. Frost's personnel file from your drawer, eyes flicking between the manuscript and the neatly typed pages.

It takes an hour of painstaking work, but by the end, you have a plan. A way to fight back. You'll need to be careful—Thorne and Frost are no doubt watching your every move—but if you can get Frost alone, even for a few minutes...

A sharp knock at your door jolts you from your thoughts. You snap the manuscript shut, shoving it beneath a stack of papers just as the door swings open.

"Headmistress?" It's Caldwell, his thin face pinched with worry. "I've been trying to reach you. There's been an incident." 

You rise from your chair, smoothing your skirt. "What kind of incident?" 

"It's Dr. Frost," he says, glancing over his shoulder as if afraid of being overheard. "She's... not herself. I think they may have turned the protocol on her." 

Your breath catches. "Where is she?" 

"The old library annex," Caldwell replies. "I saw her heading there just before..." He trails off, shaking his head. "You need to see for yourself." 

You nod briskly, already reaching for your keys. If Frost has been compromised, you'll have to move fast. The game, it seems, is entering its final act.

You trace the familiar path to the old library annex, your footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The reversal sequence seems to have worked - your mind feels clearer than it has in days, the fog of confusion and doubt burned away by the ancient words.

As you approach the annex door, you hear a strange sound from within - a soft, keening whimper, like a child crying. You pause, listening intently. There it is again, louder this time. It sounds like... Dr. Frost?

You ease the door open, wincing as it creaks on its hinges. The scene inside freezes your blood.

Dr. Frost sits huddled in the corner, her knees drawn up to her chest. She's wearing a child's dress, pale pink and smocked, with white ankle socks and black patent leather shoes. Her hair hangs in loose ringlets around her face, and she's clutching a ragged stuffed bunny to her chest.

'No,' she whimpers, her voice high and thin. 'No more lessons. Please, professor, I'll be good...'

She looks up as you enter, her eyes wide and frightened. 'Mama?' she breathes, her lower lip trembling. 'Mama, you came!'

She scrambles to her feet and runs to you, throwing her arms around your waist and burying her face in your skirt. You stand frozen, your mind reeling. What have they done to her?

You stroke her hair mechanically, your eyes scanning the room for any sign of Thorne. 'It's alright,' you murmur, your voice sounding strange to your own ears. 'I'm here now. You're safe.'

But even as you say the words, you know they're a lie. None of you are safe, not while Thorne still roams free. You need to find him, to stop him, before he can do this to anyone else.

You gently disentangle yourself from Frost's desperate embrace, kneeling down to look her in the eye. 'Dr. Frost,' you say, your voice firm but gentle. 'I need you to tell me everything you know about Protocol Theta-9. Can you do that for me?'

She sniffs, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. 'I'll try,' she whispers. 'But... but it's hard to remember. My head feels so fuzzy...'

You nod, suppressing a shudder. 'I know. But you have to try. Please, Eleanor. It's important.'

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and begins to speak.

You kneel down beside Dr. Frost, your heart aching at the sight of her reduced to such a childlike state. 'Eleanor,' you say gently, 'I need you to tell me everything you know about Protocol Theta-9. Can you do that for me?' 

She sniffs, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. 'I'll try,' she whispers. 'But... but it's hard to remember. My head feels so fuzzy...' 

You nod, suppressing a shudder. 'I know. But you have to try. Please, Eleanor. It's important.' 

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and begins to speak. She tells you about the ancient texts Thorne discovered, the ones that detailed the original Protocol Theta-9. She tells you about the drugs they've been using, the ones that make the mind more malleable. And she tells you about the triggers, the words and phrases that can accelerate or reverse the process. 

As she speaks, you listen intently, asking clarifying questions when needed. And all the while, you're planning your next move. If you can use this information to your advantage, maybe you can turn the tables on Thorne and put a stop to this once and for all. 

When she's finished, you smile at her, your eyes soft. 'Thank you, Eleanor. You've been a big help.' 

She beams at you, her face lighting up. 'I have?' 

You nod. 'You have. And because you've been such a good girl, I have a special treat for you.' 

You reach into your pocket and pull out a candy, unwrapping it and holding it out to her. She takes it eagerly, popping it into her mouth and sucking happily. 

As you watch her, you feel a twinge of guilt. But you push it aside. This is for the greater good, you tell yourself. And besides, she'll be happier this way. 

You stand up, smoothing your skirt. 'Come on, Eleanor. Let's get you somewhere safe.' 

She looks up at you, her eyes wide and trusting. 'Okay, Mama,' she says, her voice small. 

You take her hand and lead her out of the annex, your mind already racing with plans. Thorne won't know what hit him.

You lead Dr. Frost back to her office, your hand gripping hers tightly. She follows you meekly, her eyes downcast, the very picture of a chastened child. You can't help but feel a twinge of arousal at the sight of her, so vulnerable and pliant, but you push it aside. There will be time for that later. For now, you have work to do.

Once inside the office, you lock the door behind you, then turn to face her. She looks up at you, her eyes wide and trusting, and you feel a pang of guilt. But you harden your heart. This is for her own good, you tell yourself. And for the good of the school.

You take a deep breath, then begin to speak, your voice low and soothing. You use the triggers Frost told you about, the ones that will make her want to please you, to be a 'good girl.' You watch as her eyes glaze over, her breathing slowing, and you know it's working.

When you're finished, you step back, your heart pounding. Frost blinks, looking around in confusion, then down at herself. She gasps, her hands flying to her mouth. 'Oh no,' she whispers. 'Oh no, oh no, oh no...'

You sit down in her office chair, your posture regal, and pat your lap. 'Come here, Eleanor,' you say, your voice firm. 'You've been a very naughty little girl, haven't you?'

She nods, tears welling up in her eyes. 'I didn't mean to,' she sniffs. 'I just... I couldn't help it.'

You hold out your hand, and she takes it, letting you pull her down over your lap. You push up her dress, revealing her white cotton panties. 'The only way to be forgiven is to let me spank your bare bottom red,' you say. 'Do you understand?'

She whimpers, but nods. 'Yes, Mama,' she says, her voice small.

You take a deep breath, then pull down her panties, exposing her round, pink bottom. You raise your hand, then bring it down sharply, the sound of the slap echoing through the room. Frost cries out, squirming on your lap, but you hold her firmly in place.

As you spank her, you question her about the other conspirators, especially any female ones. She sobs out names between cries of pain, and you file them away in your mind for later. By the time you're finished, her bottom is a bright, angry red, and she's limp and sniffling on your lap.

You pull her up, cradling her in your arms. 'Shh,' you murmur, stroking her hair. 'It's alright. You were very brave, and very good. I'm proud of you.'

She looks up at you, her eyes shining with tears and adoration. 'Thank you, Mama,' she whispers. 'I love you.'

You smile, your heart twisting. 'I love you too, baby girl,' you say. And in that moment, you mean it.

You cradle Dr. Frost in your arms, stroking her hair and murmuring soothing nonsense words as she sucks on the pacifier. She looks up at you with wide, trusting eyes, her earlier fear and confusion melting away into childlike contentment. As you watch, she seems to shrink in your arms, her features becoming softer and rounder, her clothing morphing into a frilly diaper and bonnet. You feel a surge of protectiveness, mingled with a strange sense of power. This brilliant, formidable woman is now completely dependent on you, her mind and body regressed to infancy. You have the power to shape her, to mold her into whatever you want her to be. The thought is intoxicating, and you feel a dark thrill of anticipation. You turn to your computer, pulling up the file on Dr. Winters. She's one of the conspirators Frost named, and you're determined to bring her to heel. You scan through the information, looking for any weaknesses, any leverage you can use. You'll need to be careful - Winters is known for her razor-sharp intellect and her fierce independence. But you have the tools now, the knowledge. You can break her, just as you broke Frost. Just as you'll break all of them, one by one, until there's no one left to challenge your authority. You glance down at Frost, now a tiny, cooing infant in your lap. She smiles up at you, her eyes shining with adoration. You smile back, your heart swelling with a dark, possessive love. You'll keep her safe, you vow silently. Safe and close and utterly, completely yours. Forever.

With Dr. Frost reduced to infancy, you turn your attention to the next conspirator on your list: Dr. Winters. You stride purposefully towards her office, your heels clicking against the polished hardwood floors. 

As you enter, Dr. Winters looks up from her desk, her eyes widening in surprise. 'Headmistress Blackwood,' she says, rising to her feet. 'I wasn't expecting you. Is everything alright?'

You smile coldly, closing the door behind you with a soft click. 'No, Dr. Winters,' you say, your voice icy. 'Everything is not alright. I know about your involvement in the conspiracy against me.'

She pales, her hands gripping the edge of her desk. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' she says, her voice trembling.

You laugh, a harsh, brittle sound. 'Don't bother trying to deny it,' you say. 'Dr. Frost told me everything.'

She swallows hard, her eyes darting towards the door. 'I can explain,' she says. 'It wasn't my idea, I was just following orders...'

You shake your head, stepping closer. 'It doesn't matter,' you say. 'You're all going to pay for what you've done. Starting with you.'

Before she can react, you lunge forward, grabbing her arm and twisting it behind her back. She cries out in pain, struggling against your grip, but you hold her firmly in place.

You lean in close, your lips brushing against her ear. 'This is what happens to naughty girls,' you whisper, your voice low and menacing.

With that, you begin the process of regression, using the triggers and techniques you learned from Dr. Frost. Dr. Winters fights against it, her mind stronger than Frost's, but you are relentless, pushing past her defenses with ruthless efficiency.

Slowly, inexorably, she begins to change, her body shrinking, her features softening. Her clothing shifts, morphing into a frilly dress and mary jane shoes. By the time you're finished, she's a tiny, whimpering toddler, her eyes wide and frightened.

You release her, and she collapses to the floor, her legs too weak to support her. You stand over her, your expression cold and triumphant.

'Now,' you say, your voice ringing with authority. 'We're going to go see Dr. Frost's class. And you're going to show them exactly what happens to naughty girls who conspire against their headmistress.'

You scoop her up, tucking her under your arm like a rag doll, and stride out of the office, your eyes blazing with a dark, terrible light.

With Dr. Winters and Dr. Frost reduced to helpless, childlike states, you stride purposefully towards Dr. Frost's classroom, your heels clicking against the polished hardwood floors. The two women follow behind you, their small hands clasped tightly in yours, their eyes wide and trusting.

As you enter the classroom, the students look up from their desks, their faces registering shock and confusion at the sight of their once formidable professors reduced to toddlers. You smile coldly, leading Dr. Frost and Dr. Winters to the front of the room.

'As you can see,' you announce, your voice ringing with authority, 'your professors have been very, very naughty. They conspired against me, your headmistress, and now they must face the consequences.'

You turn to the students, your eyes narrowing. 'I want you to take care of them as if they were real toddlers. Change their diapers, feed them, and make sure they nap. This is what happens to naughty girls who defy my authority.'

The students nod, their faces a mix of fear and fascination. They gather around Dr. Frost and Dr. Winters, cooing and fussing over them like mother hens. You watch with a sense of dark satisfaction as the two women are led away, their faces flushed with humiliation.

You have won this battle, but the war is far from over. Thorne is still out there, and you know he won't rest until he has broken you completely. But you are ready for him, armed with the knowledge and power you have gained. Let him come, you think fiercely. Let him try. You will be waiting.

You stand at the front of Dr. Frost's classroom, surveying your handiwork with cold satisfaction. The once-formidable professors now crawl on the floor, their diapers rustling with each movement. A dark thrill courses through you as you watch their humiliation unfold before their own students.

"Look at your esteemed professors now," you announce, your voice carrying an edge of cruelty. "This is the price of betrayal at Blackthorn Academy."

As if on cue, Dr. Frost whimpers and a dark stain spreads across the front of her diaper. Dr. Winters follows suit moments later, her face crumpling in shame as warm urine soaks through the absorbent material.

"Oh dear," you say with mock concern. "It seems our babies need changing."

You gesture to a female student in the front row. "You there, fetch the changing supplies from that cabinet."

The girl hurries to comply, returning with wipes and fresh diapers. You demonstrate the changing process with clinical precision, narrating each step as if delivering a lecture.

"Always wipe front to back," you instruct, your voice carrying over Dr. Frost's mortified whimpers. "Powder thoroughly to prevent rash."

As you finish securing the fresh diapers, you feel a strange tingling in your breasts. They grow heavy, swelling beneath your blouse until the buttons strain. Milk leaks through the fabric, creating dark, wet circles.

Instead of panic, you feel only triumph. Another manifestation of your power over Protocol Theta-9.

"It seems our little ones need feeding," you announce, unbuttoning your blouse with deliberate slowness. The students watch in stunned silence as you expose your milk-heavy breasts and cradle Dr. Frost to your chest.

She resists at first, turning her head away, but her regression has progressed too far. Her mouth finds your nipple and she begins to suckle, her eyes glazing over with infantile contentment.

"This is what happens to those who defy me," you declare, switching Frost for Winters, who latches on with equal hunger.

A chair scrapes against the floor as a student rises. Sophia Martinez, a scholarship student known for her principled stands.

"This is wrong," she says, her voice trembling but determined. "You can't do this to people."

You smile, a predator's grin. "Can't I?"

You focus your attention on her, channeling the protocol's power. Sophia gasps, her hands flying to her temples.

"Perhaps you'd like to join them?" you suggest, your voice honeyed poison. "Your professors seem quite content."

Sophia tries to back away, but her eyes keep returning to your milk-leaking breasts. You see the internal struggle play across her features—disgust warring with a suddenly awakened hunger.

"Come here, Sophia," you command softly. "You must be thirsty."

She approaches jerkily, as if pulled by invisible strings. When she reaches you, her resistance crumbles. She falls to her knees, her mouth seeking your breast with desperate need.

As she suckles, you stroke her hair, watching with clinical fascination as she shrinks, her college uniform morphing into a simple onesie. Within minutes, she's reduced to infancy, her eyes vacant and trusting.

You lay her gently on the desk and diaper her with practiced efficiency.

"Let this be a lesson," you tell the remaining students, whose faces have drained of color. "At Blackthorn Academy, obedience is not optional."

The silence that follows is absolute.

You scan the classroom, searching for your next subject. The remaining students shrink back in their seats, eyes downcast, hoping to avoid your attention. But one girl—Melissa Chen, a scholarship student known for her academic brilliance and outspoken feminism—meets your gaze defiantly.

"This is abuse of power," she says, rising from her seat. Her voice trembles but carries clearly across the stunned silence. "You can't just... transform people because they disagree with you."

You smile, feeling the weight of authority settle around your shoulders like a familiar cloak.

"Ah, Miss Chen. Always the advocate." You beckon her forward with one crooked finger. "Perhaps you'd like to volunteer for our next demonstration?"

She stands her ground, chin lifted. "I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be," you murmur, striding toward her desk. The students between you scramble out of your way, creating a clear path.

When you reach her, you grasp her wrist firmly. She tries to pull away, but you're stronger than you look. You begin reciting the regression protocol, your voice dropping to a hypnotic cadence that fills the room like smoke.

Melissa's resistance is impressive—her mind fighting the suggestions you plant—but ultimately futile. You can see the moment her defenses crack, her eyes widening with horror as she feels the first changes begin.

"No," she whispers, "please..."

You guide her to the front of the classroom, positioning her over your knee as you sit in Dr. Frost's chair. Her body has already begun to shrink, her professional attire morphing into a little girl's pleated skirt and blouse.

"When children misbehave," you announce to the class, "they must be disciplined."

You lift her skirt, revealing plain cotton underwear that's already becoming babyish in design. The first smack of your palm against her bottom echoes through the silent room. She yelps, the sound higher-pitched than her normal voice.

"Count them," you instruct.

"One," she sobs, her voice that of a five-year-old.

By "ten," she's crying openly, her bottom bright red and her body that of a toddler.

You stand her up, her legs wobbly beneath her. "And now," you say, reaching for the diapering supplies, "we complete the lesson."

You lay her on Dr. Frost's desk, removing her childish underwear with clinical efficiency. The remaining students watch in horrified fascination as you diaper her, explaining each step as if delivering a lecture on child development.

"The proper application of powder," you demonstrate, "prevents diaper rash."

When you're finished, you lift the now-diapered Melissa into your arms. She curls against you instinctively, her thumb finding its way to her mouth.

"Let this be a lesson," you tell the remaining students. "At Blackthorn Academy, respect for authority isn't optional—it's survival."

The classroom door swings open with a decisive click. Dr. Penelope Hargrove, the stern biology department chair, stands framed in the doorway. Her eyes widen as she takes in the scene—four infantilized women, your partially unbuttoned blouse, and the stunned, silent students.

"What in God's name is happening here?" she demands, her British accent clipped with shock. "Dr. Blackwood, have you lost your mind?"

You turn to her with languid confidence, buttoning your blouse unhurriedly. "Dr. Hargrove. How timely. I was just demonstrating the consequences of insubordination."

"This is—this is madness," she sputters, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. A tactical error. "The board will have you committed for this."

You smile, feeling the power of Protocol Theta-9 humming beneath your skin. "Will they? Or will they find themselves unable to remember why they were concerned in the first place?"

You begin to circle her, your voice dropping to that hypnotic cadence that has proven so effective. "You've always been so rigid, Penelope. So desperate to maintain control. When did that start, I wonder? In childhood, perhaps?"

She backs away, her normally imperious face flickering with the first hint of uncertainty. "Stop this immediately. I'm leaving to call security."

"No," you say simply. "You're staying right here."

The protocol flows from you now without conscious thought, ancient Greek phrases interwoven with modern psychological triggers. Dr. Hargrove freezes mid-step, her hand halfway to the door handle.

"You've been very naughty, questioning my authority," you tell her, your voice shifting to the tone one might use with a disobedient child. "Naughty girls get punished, don't they?"

A tremor passes through her body. Her tailored pantsuit begins to shift, the fabric lightening in color, shortening at the hems. The transformation is more rapid than with the others—your mastery growing stronger with each application.

"I don't—what's happening?" Her voice rises in pitch, the crisp British accent softening into something more childlike.

You take her by the wrist and lead her to the front of the classroom. "You're going to help us with our demonstration, Dr. Hargrove. Or should I say... little Penny?"

By the time you seat yourself and pull her across your lap, she's physically regressed to the appearance of a six-year-old in a schoolgirl uniform, though her adult mind still struggles against the changes.

"No, please," she begs, her diminished voice carrying across the silent classroom.

The first smack of your hand against her bottom echoes like a gunshot. She yelps, the sound decidedly childish.

"Count," you command.

"One," she sobs, her resistance crumbling with each impact.

By "five," she's crying openly. By "ten," she's calling you "Ma'am" in a lisping voice. By "fifteen," she's regressed to toddlerhood, her mind following her body into infantile simplicity.

When you finally stand her up, she can barely remain upright, her legs chubby and unsteady. You lay her on the desk beside Melissa Chen, removing her now-childish underwear with practiced efficiency.

"The proper application of a diaper," you lecture the horrified students, "requires attention to detail."

When you finish, Dr. Hargrove—now fully an infant—coos and reaches for you with pudgy hands. You lift her into your arms, where she nestles against your breast with instinctive trust.

"Class dismissed," you announce to the shell-shocked students. "I trust you've all learned a valuable lesson today about the importance of respect."

You gather your infantilized victims with methodical precision. Dr. Frost and Dr. Winters crawl at your feet while you carry Sophia, Melissa, and Dr. Hargrove in a makeshift sling fashioned from a classroom curtain. Their collective weight should be burdensome, but power thrums through your veins, lending you unnatural strength.

The hallway falls silent as you emerge. Students flatten themselves against lockers, eyes wide with horrified fascination. You smile benevolently, like a madonna with her brood.

"Make way," you command, your voice carrying that hypnotic cadence that now comes to you as naturally as breathing. "The faculty lounge awaits a demonstration."

You stride through the English department, past classrooms where lectures falter as professors glimpse your procession through glass-paneled doors. The infantilized women coo and babble, occasionally reaching for your milk-heavy breasts with pudgy hands.

"Patience, little ones," you murmur, adjusting the sling. "Everyone will be fed soon enough."

When you reach the faculty lounge, you kick the door open rather than knocking—a deliberate show of dominance. Inside, a half-dozen professors look up from their lunch, conversations dying mid-sentence.

"Colleagues," you announce, depositing your charges on the central coffee table. "I've come to demonstrate the new disciplinary policy at Blackthorn Academy."

Dr. Amara Okafor, the brilliant mathematician who has never bothered to hide her disdain for your reforms, rises to her feet. "What have you done to them?" she demands, her Nigerian accent sharpening with anger.

"I've simplified them," you reply, unbuttoning your blouse to reveal your milk-swollen breasts. "They questioned my authority. Now they don't question anything at all."

You lift Dr. Frost to your breast. She latches on immediately, suckling with infantile eagerness while the assembled faculty watch in stunned silence.

"This could be any of you," you inform them pleasantly. "Or all of you. Depending on your cooperation."

Dr. Okafor slams her hand on the table. "This is monstrous! You can't—"

"Can't I?" you interrupt, laying Frost down and beckoning to Okafor with one crooked finger. "Come here, Dr. Okafor. Let's discuss your concerns properly."

She remains defiantly in place. "I'm calling the police."

You sigh theatrically and begin the protocol, your voice dropping to that mesmerizing cadence. The other faculty members shrink back as Okafor freezes, her hand halfway to her phone.

"Naughty, naughty," you chide, crossing to her in three swift strides. "Little girls who disobey get spanked."

You grasp her wrist and pull her to the nearest armchair, sitting down and yanking her across your lap in one fluid motion. Her tailored dress begins to shorten, the fabric lightening to a childish yellow as her body shrinks beneath your hand.

The first smack echoes through the silent room. She yelps, the sound already higher-pitched than her normal voice.

"Count," you command.

"One," she whimpers, her accent softening into something more childlike.

By the tenth smack, she's crying openly, her body that of a toddler. You stand her up, her legs wobbling beneath her diminished weight.

"Now," you announce to the horrified faculty, "we complete the lesson."

You lay her on the coffee table beside your other victims, removing her now-childish underwear with practiced efficiency. The diapering process is swift, your movements confident as you secure the tapes.

When you lift her into your arms, she's fully infantilized, reaching instinctively for your breast. You oblige, cradling her as she begins to suckle.

"Any questions?" you ask the remaining faculty, your smile serene.

You settle into the largest armchair in the faculty lounge, arranging your infantilized charges in a semi-circle at your feet. Their eyes follow your movements with unblinking devotion, pudgy hands reaching upward in silent supplication. The remaining faculty members press themselves against the walls, as if proximity might be contagious.

"Come to Mommy," you coo, unbuttoning your blouse fully. Your breasts spill free, heavy with milk, veins mapping blue tributaries beneath your skin. "Who's hungry?"

They all are, of course. You've made certain of that.

You lift Dr. Frost first, cradling her head against your breast. She latches on immediately, eyes fluttering closed in blissful surrender. The wet sounds of her suckling fill the silent room.

"The bonding hormone oxytocin," you lecture to your captive audience, stroking Frost's wispy hair, "is released during breastfeeding. It creates powerful attachments between mother and child." You smile, meeting each faculty member's terrified gaze. "Or between headmistress and staff."

You switch Frost for Winters, then Sophia, then Melissa, and finally Dr. Okafor. Each feeds greedily, their regression complete. When they finish, milk dribbles down their chins, their eyes glazed with infantile contentment.

"They're mine now," you inform the room. "Body and soul."

Dr. Richard Lambert, the philosophy department chair, clears his throat. "Victoria," he says carefully, "this isn't you. Something's happened to you."

You laugh, a sound like glass breaking. "On the contrary, Richard. I've never been more myself."

You arrange your charges in a protective circle around you, their diapered bottoms cushioned on throw pillows confiscated from the lounge sofas. They gaze up at you with absolute trust, occasionally reaching for each other with clumsy, infantile gestures.

"They'll need regular feeding," you announce, rebuttoning your blouse with unhurried precision. "Every two hours. I expect a nursery to be prepared in the east wing by tomorrow morning."

No one dares contradict you. The power of Protocol Theta-9 radiates from you in almost visible waves, bending reality to your will.

"Consider this a new research initiative," you continue, your voice silken with authority. "The effects of regression therapy on academic performance."

You rise, gathering your infantilized charges with supernatural ease. They cling to you, whimpering when separated even slightly from your body.

"The bond is forming nicely," you observe, more to yourself than your audience. "Soon they won't remember they were ever anything but mine."

You stride through the east wing, your infantilized charges crawling behind you in a line like ducklings following their mother. Two male maintenance workers flatten themselves against the wall as you pass, their eyes averted in terrified respect.

"Room 237 will serve as our nursery," you announce, stopping before a large lecture hall. "Clear it immediately."

The workers hesitate only briefly before springing into action, removing desks and chairs with frantic efficiency. You stand in the doorway, surveying the space with a critical eye while your charges coo and babble at your feet.

"The flooring needs to be softer," you declare. "Bring in those exercise mats from the gymnasium. And I'll need cribs—at least six of them."

"Ma'am," one worker—his name tag reads 'Davis'—ventures timidly, "we don't have cribs on campus."

You fix him with a penetrating stare, feeling Protocol Theta-9 humming beneath your skin. "Then find something suitable. Be creative, Davis. Your job depends on it."

He swallows visibly and nods.

Over the next hour, you direct the transformation with meticulous attention to detail. The lecture hall's tiered seating is dismantled, creating a spacious open area. Gymnasium mats cover the floor in primary colors. Maintenance workers convert storage cabinets into makeshift cribs, lining them with pillows and blankets from the dormitory supply closet.

"The changing station goes there," you instruct, pointing to the former professor's desk. "And we'll need a rocking chair. Bring the one from my office."

Your infantilized faculty members explore their new environment with wide-eyed wonder, crawling across the mats and occasionally pausing to suck their thumbs or babble nonsensically. Dr. Frost discovers a stuffed animal—a forgotten item from some student's backpack—and clutches it to her chest with infantile possessiveness.

"Mine," she declares in a high, lisping voice.

"Share with the others, Eleanor," you admonish gently, stroking her wispy hair. She pouts but offers the toy to Melissa Chen, who accepts it with a gurgling laugh.

As the nursery takes shape around you, a strange sense of rightness settles in your chest. This is your domain now—a kingdom of regression where you reign supreme. The power of Protocol Theta-9 has transformed not just your victims, but the very fabric of Blackthorn Academy itself.

Davis approaches cautiously, wiping sweat from his brow. "We've done what we can for now, Dr. Blackwood. Is there anything else you need?"

"Yes," you reply, unbuttoning your blouse as your charges begin to whimper with hunger. "Privacy. Close the door on your way out."

He backs away, eyes darting to your exposed cleavage before he hastily exits, pulling the door shut behind him.

You settle into the newly delivered rocking chair, lifting Dr. Okafor to your breast. "Welcome home, little ones," you murmur as she begins to suckle. "Mommy's going to take such good care of you."

You stand in the center of your newly established nursery, surveying your domain with cool satisfaction. The infantilized faculty members crawl at your feet, occasionally pausing to tug at your skirt with pudgy hands. Their eyes—once sharp with academic intelligence—now gaze up at you with infantile devotion.

"Davis," you call to the maintenance worker hovering nervously by the door. "Send out a campus-wide announcement. Mandatory faculty meeting in the east wing nursery. Attendance is non-negotiable."

He nods jerkily and disappears. Within twenty minutes, faculty members begin to arrive, their faces masks of poorly concealed terror. They cluster near the entrance, as far from you as the room allows.

"Welcome to orientation," you announce, unbuttoning the top buttons of your blouse with deliberate slowness. "Today, we'll be discussing the new hierarchical structure at Blackthorn Academy."

Dr. James Whitfield, the elderly classics professor who's been at Blackthorn longer than anyone, steps forward. "This has gone far enough, Victoria. The board will never—"

"The board," you interrupt smoothly, "will adapt. As will you, James."

You begin to recite Protocol Theta-9, your voice dropping to that hypnotic cadence that now comes as naturally as breathing. Dr. Whitfield freezes mid-protest, his eyes glazing slightly.

"Come here," you command softly.

He approaches with jerky steps, fighting the compulsion and failing. When he stands before you, you place a hand on his weathered cheek.

"You've always been so resistant to change, James. Perhaps a simpler perspective would benefit you."

But instead of regressing him, you implant a different suggestion. "You will serve as my administrator. You will believe in the educational benefits of my new program. You will help convince others."

His resistance crumbles visibly, his spine straightening as the new purpose takes hold. "Yes, Headmistress. The program has significant developmental advantages."

You turn to the remaining faculty. "Who else requires... personalized orientation?"

Professor Lydia Mercer, the sharp-tongued literature professor, backs toward the door. "This is insane. I'm leaving."

"No," you say simply. "You're staying."

The protocol flows from you in waves, capturing her mid-flight. She turns back, her expression shifting from defiance to confusion to blank acceptance.

"The nursery program," she says in a monotone, "represents an innovative approach to academic hierarchy."

One by one, you bend them to your will. Some you regress partially—just enough to instill childlike obedience while maintaining adult functionality. Others you convert into zealous advocates for your new regime. By the time you finish, the entire assembled faculty stands in neat rows, their eyes fixed on you with expressions ranging from infantile adoration to cult-like devotion.

"Orientation complete," you announce, settling into your rocking chair as your milk-heavy breasts begin to ache with fullness. "Class dismissed. Dr. Whitfield, remain behind to discuss implementation details."

As the newly indoctrinated faculty files out, you lift Dr. Frost to your breast, smiling as she latches on with eager hunger. Blackthorn Academy is yours now—body and soul.

You summon Professor Lydia Mercer back to the nursery with a simple text message: "Your presence is required. Immediately." Within minutes, she appears at the doorway, her normally confident posture already compromised by your earlier conditioning. Her tweed blazer hangs awkwardly on her frame, as if her body has begun shrinking without her conscious awareness.

"You wanted to see me, Headmistress?" she asks, her voice wavering between her usual crisp academic tone and something higher, more uncertain.

"Come in, Lydia," you reply, gesturing to the center of the room where a changing mat has been laid out. "I've been considering your potential within our new paradigm."

She approaches hesitantly, her eyes darting to the infantilized faculty members who crawl across colorful mats in the corner of the room. Dr. Frost is sucking her thumb while clutching a stuffed rabbit to her chest.

"I don't understand," Mercer says, though her body betrays her with a slight tremble.

"You will," you assure her, beginning the enhanced Protocol Theta-9 incantation. The ancient Greek phrases roll off your tongue with practiced ease now, each syllable carrying power that bends reality around you.

Mercer's resistance is immediate but futile. She clutches at her temples, her academic vocabulary disintegrating into fragmented protests. "No—please—I can't—my research—"

"Your research is irrelevant now," you inform her, circling her like a predator. "Only your obedience matters."

You watch with clinical fascination as her body begins to shrink more dramatically than your previous subjects. Her blazer engulfs her diminishing frame, then transforms into a frilly pink dress that would befit a toddler at a birthday party. Her sensible loafers morph into tiny Mary Janes with cartoon butterflies on the buckles.

"Fascinating," you murmur, noting how her regression accelerates with each passing moment. "You're particularly susceptible, Professor Mercer. I wonder why?"

She whimpers, her voice now that of a two-year-old. When she attempts to speak, only babbling emerges.

"Over my knee," you command, seating yourself in the rocking chair.

She toddles toward you, her movements uncoordinated and infantile. When you lift her onto your lap, she weighs no more than an actual toddler.

The first smack against her diaperless bottom echoes through the nursery. She wails, the sound purely infantile. By the fifth spank, her dress has shortened further, becoming a baby-doll style that barely covers her reddened bottom.

"Now for your proper attire," you announce, laying her on the changing mat.

You diaper her with methodical precision, noting how she's regressed to perhaps six months of age—younger than any of your previous subjects. Her eyes, once sharp with literary analysis, now gaze up at you with unfocused infantile wonder.

When you lift her to your breast, she latches on instinctively, her tiny hands kneading against your skin as she suckles. The power you feel in this moment is transcendent—absolute control over someone who once critiqued your educational philosophy with scathing precision.

"You're mine now," you whisper, stroking her wispy hair. "My perfect little experiment."

You secure the nursery door with a decisive click, turning to face the full-length mirror installed along the back wall. Your reflection stares back—Dr. Victoria Blackwood, feared headmistress, architect of a new order at Blackthorn Academy. Power radiates from you like heat, yet curiosity burns hotter still.

You position yourself squarely before the mirror, feet planted on the pastel play mat. "Let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes," you murmur, beginning the Protocol Theta-9 incantation—this time directed inward.

The ancient Greek syllables taste different when shaped for self-transformation. Your voice shifts mid-phrase, the authoritative contralto climbing to something higher, less certain. The nursery's edges blur as you program the critical failsafe: "Return to form after sixty minutes."

The first changes ripple through you like electric current. Your tailored skirt suit shimmers, fabric melting and reforming into a frilly yellow sundress with embroidered ducklings along the hem. The transformation continues downward—your sensible pumps vanishing, leaving your feet bare on the soft mat.

"Fascinating," you attempt to say, but your mouth forms the word imperfectly, producing something closer to "Fas'nating."

Your reflection shows your body shrinking, curves softening while maintaining their adult proportions—creating an uncanny hybrid of woman and child. Your severe bun unravels, hair cascading past your shoulders in bouncy curls. The sundress continues its metamorphosis, shortening to reveal thickening thighs.

"I retain full cognitive—" you begin, but giggle involuntarily as your undergarments transform into a thick, crinkly diaper. The sensation is immediate—the bulk between your legs, the infantile restriction of movement.

You toddle toward the mirror, legs adjusting to their new proportions and encumbrance. When you reach out to touch your reflection, your hand appears pudgier, fingers shorter. A pacifier materializes, hanging from a ribbon attached to your dress.

"This is merely an experiment," you remind yourself, voice now unmistakably childish. "I remain in control."

But something shifts in your emotional landscape—a sudden, overwhelming desire for comfort. Tears spring to your eyes without warning. The pacifier finds its way to your mouth without conscious decision, and the suckling sensation triggers a wave of contentment that drowns your analytical distance.

You sink to the floor, adult mind observing with clinical fascination as toddler impulses overtake your body. The carpet feels extraordinarily interesting beneath your fingers. The stuffed bear in the corner seems urgently important.

"Mine!" you declare, crawling toward it with single-minded determination, diaper crinkling loudly with each movement.

In the mirror, Dr. Victoria Blackwood—terror of Blackthorn Academy—has vanished. In her place sits a curly-haired toddler in a yellow sundress and bulging diaper, sucking contentedly on a pacifier while clutching a teddy bear.

Somewhere in your mind, the countdown begins: fifty-nine minutes remaining.

You crawl across the nursery floor, diaper crinkling with each movement, toward the corner where Dr. Frost sits playing with colorful blocks. Her once-brilliant mind now occupied with stacking primary colors, her elegant suits replaced by a pink onesie. The need for maternal comfort overwhelms your toddler-sized body, an urge both scientifically fascinating and emotionally compelling.

You reach for the Protocol Theta-9 phrases, your childish voice struggling with the ancient Greek syllables. The words come out lisping and imperfect, yet power surges through them nonetheless. Dr. Frost freezes mid-stack, her eyes clearing like fog burning away under morning sun.

"Return to adult form," you command in your high-pitched voice. "Remember who you are, but feel only maternal instincts toward me. Your breasts will fill with milk. You will care for me completely."

Frost's body shimmers, lengthening and filling out. Her onesie transforms into a soft, flowing dress with an easily accessible bodice. Her vacant expression shifts to one of maternal concern as she looks down at you.

"Oh, my poor little one," she coos, her voice warm with an affection that was never present in her professional demeanor. "Come to Mommy."

You program the final command: "Return to infant form after sixty minutes." Then you surrender to the infantile impulses that have been tugging at your consciousness since your self-regression began.

"Mama," you babble, reaching pudgy arms upward.

Dr. Frost—now Mother—lifts you with practiced ease. "Is my baby hungry?" she asks, settling into the rocking chair and unbuttoning her bodice. The scent of milk fills your nostrils, triggering a primal response.

You latch onto her breast with infantile eagerness, your adult mind recording the experience with clinical detachment even as your baby body surrenders to the comfort. The milk is warm and sweet, and Frost strokes your curls with tender fingers.

"Such a good baby," she murmurs, rocking gently. "Mommy's perfect little angel."

She changes your diaper when you wet it, cooing encouragements and sprinkling powder with meticulous care. She reads to you from a picture book that materializes on the shelf, her voice rising and falling in the singsong cadence of a mother reading to her child.

Time passes in a haze of infantile contentment. The countdown continues in some distant corner of your mind: thirty minutes remaining... twenty... ten...

As the hour approaches its end, Frost presses a kiss to your forehead. "Mommy loves you," she whispers, a phrase the real Eleanor Frost would never have uttered in a thousand years.

The clock strikes four, and the transformation begins again. Your body stretches, adult proportions returning as Frost simultaneously begins to shrink, her maternal expression giving way to confusion, then infantile vacancy.

As your body completes its transformation back to adult form, you find yourself standing face-to-face with Dr. Frost, who is midway through her own reversal. The maternal softness in her eyes hardens into recognition, then fear, as her consciousness fully returns. You have perhaps three minutes before she regresses again.

"Where is Thorne hiding?" you demand, your voice regaining its authoritative edge. You straighten your blouse, which has transformed back from the infantile sundress, though your hair remains in loose curls rather than your customary severe bun.

"Victoria," Frost whispers, backing against the changing table. "This wasn't—I never intended—" She swallows hard, her eyes darting toward the door.

"Save it," you snap, closing the distance between you. "You have exactly two minutes before you're crawling around in diapers again. Where. Is. Thorne?"

Frost's shoulders slump in defeat. "The library. The rare manuscript room. He's searching for a countermeasure to what you've done with the protocol." A bitter laugh escapes her. "He thinks there's a failsafe in the original texts."

"And is there?" You arch an eyebrow.

"No," she admits. "We modified it too extensively. What you've created is... unprecedented."

You circle her slowly, enjoying the reversal of power. "And what do you think of what I've done with Blackthorn? With your colleagues? With you?"

Frost's eyes fill with tears. "It's monstrous," she whispers. "But also... brilliant. We never imagined the protocol could be weaponized so effectively." She glances down at her body, which is already beginning to show signs of the impending regression—her fingers shortening slightly, her posture becoming less certain.

"You were going to erase me," you remind her coldly. "Replace me with some infantilized version of myself. Did you think I wouldn't fight back?"

"We underestimated you," she admits, wincing as the first wave of regression begins to ripple through her. Her voice rises in pitch. "But Thorne won't. He's desperate now. Dangerous."

"So am I," you reply, watching with clinical detachment as her face softens, cheeks rounding with baby fat. "Any last words before you return to your bottle?"

"The board," she manages, struggling against the regression. "Emergency meeting tomorrow. Thorne called—" Her words dissolve into infantile babble as the transformation accelerates, her dress shrinking into a onesie, her stance widening to accommodate the diaper materializing beneath.

Within seconds, Dr. Eleanor Frost—brilliant psychologist, your would-be destroyer—sits on the nursery floor, gurgling happily as she reaches for a colorful rattle.

You stand over the infantilized forms of Dr. Frost and Dr. Winters, their once-brilliant minds now occupied with plastic keys and soft blocks. The power to reshape them again sends a thrill through you—the intoxicating rush of absolute control.

You begin the Protocol Theta-9 incantation, but this time with precise modifications. "Return to adult form," you command, "but remain loyal to me. You will address me as Mommy. You will retain your adult intelligence and capabilities, but your emotional framework will be that of devoted daughters."

The transformation is mesmerizing. Their bodies elongate, baby fat melting away as adult proportions return. Their infantile garments shimmer and reform—Dr. Frost's onesie becoming a modest blue dress, Dr. Winters' romper transforming into a tailored pantsuit. Yet something childlike remains in their eyes—a worshipful dependence that no professional adult would display.

"How do you feel?" you ask, circling them like specimens in a laboratory.

Dr. Frost smooths her dress with trembling hands. "Grateful, Mommy," she whispers, the incongruity of the title from her restored adult mouth sending a delicious shiver down your spine.

Dr. Winters adjusts her glasses, her academic bearing returned but fundamentally altered. "I feel... purposeful. How may I serve you, Mommy?"

You smile, satisfied with your handiwork. "We're going to the library. Professor Thorne is hiding in the rare manuscript room, and it's time we paid him a visit."

You prepare a specialized version of the protocol as you walk, your two adult-child servants flanking you like sentinels. The hallways clear before you—students and faculty pressing themselves against walls, eyes downcast as you pass.

"Dr. Winters, secure the main library entrance," you instruct as you approach the grand doors. "Dr. Frost, the secondary exits."

They nod in perfect synchronization. "Yes, Mommy."

The rare manuscript room is locked, but such mundane obstacles mean nothing now. The door yields to your touch, swinging open to reveal Professor Thorne hunched over ancient texts, his tweed jacket disheveled, his eyes wild with desperation.

"It's over, Malcolm," you announce.

He looks up, face contorting with fear and rage. "Victoria! You've gone mad with power. The protocol was never meant for—"

"For what? For justice?" You step closer, the Greek syllables of your prepared protocol already forming on your lips. "You wanted to erase me, Malcolm. To reduce me to a mewling infant. How does it feel knowing you're about to experience exactly what you planned for me?"

"The board will stop you," he sputters, backing against the bookshelves. "Tomorrow's emergency meeting—"

"Will proceed without you," you finish, beginning the incantation that will transform this arrogant man into a helpless baby girl.

Thorne's body begins to shrink before your eyes, his masculine features softening, his gray beard receding into smooth skin. His tweed jacket and slacks melt into a frilly pink dress, complete with matching bonnet. His protests devolve into infantile wails as the transformation completes.

Where Professor Malcolm Thorne once stood, there now sits a baby girl of perhaps eight months, drowning in a pool of pink ruffles, her tiny face red with confusion and distress.

"Perfect," you murmur, lifting the transformed professor into your arms. "Let's go prepare for tomorrow's board meeting, shall we?"

Dr. Frost and Dr. Winters follow obediently as you carry your newest charge back toward the nursery, already formulating plans for the final consolidation of your power.

You settle into your leather chair behind the imposing mahogany desk of the headmistress's office, Baby Thorne secured in a hastily-constructed playpen in the corner. Her tiny fists wave impotently as she gurgles in pink ruffles, the once-feared classics professor reduced to an infant in frills.

"Sit," you command your newly-created servants. Dr. Frost and Dr. Winters take the chairs opposite your desk, their postures perfect but their eyes unnervingly devoted.

"The board meeting tomorrow presents our final obstacle," you say, tapping your manicured nails against the polished wood. "I need everything you know about each member. Vulnerabilities. Pressure points. Secrets."

Dr. Frost crosses her ankles primly. "Chairwoman Patricia Holloway has a prescription pill dependency, Mommy. Anxiety medication. She takes three times her prescribed dose before every meeting."

"Perfect," you purr. "And the others?"

Dr. Winters adjusts her glasses with the academic precision she's retained despite her new programming. "Regent Geoffrey Blackwell's son was admitted despite failing to meet academic standards. A significant donation was made to the science building fund the week before acceptance letters went out."

"Regent Samantha Chen has been having an affair with her graduate assistant for two years," Dr. Frost adds, her voice clinically detached despite the gossip. "Her wife doesn't know."

You open your laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard as you craft individualized protocols. "And Regent Michael Donovan?"

A hesitation passes between your servants, a flicker of their former selves struggling against your conditioning.

"Donovan will be... difficult, Mommy," Dr. Winters finally admits. "He's famously incorruptible. Thirty years on the board without a hint of scandal."

"Everyone has weaknesses," you insist, leaning forward. "Dig deeper."

Dr. Frost's eyes cloud momentarily before clearing. "His daughter. She applied to Blackthorn three years ago and was rejected. He recused himself from the admissions discussion, but it... wounded him."

"Family," you murmur, adding notes to Donovan's protocol. "The most exquisite vulnerability."

Baby Thorne begins to wail from her playpen, her cries escalating from whimpers to full-throated screams.

"Silence her," you snap at Dr. Winters, who immediately rises to attend to the infantilized professor.

You complete the final protocol with a flourish, saving the document to a secure folder. "Tomorrow morning, we'll arrive early. I'll address each board member individually before the meeting begins."

"The protocols are quite elegant, Mommy," Dr. Frost observes, peering at your screen with professional appreciation still evident beneath her programmed devotion. "The personalization should increase efficacy by approximately forty percent."

"That's why I keep you around," you reply, closing the laptop with a decisive click. "Now, prepare the nursery for our newest arrival. Baby Thorne will need special attention tonight."

As your servants rise to leave, you catch a fleeting expression cross Dr. Frost's face—a momentary fracture in her conditioning, quickly suppressed but unmistakable. A note to monitor more closely, perhaps. But for now, the board awaits.

You spend the evening refining each protocol with surgical precision, tailoring the ancient Greek phrases to exploit the specific weaknesses of each board member. Patricia Holloway's version incorporates subtle references to chemical dependence, while Geoffrey Blackwell's contains linguistic triggers that will activate his paternal guilt. For Samantha Chen, you weave in phrases that evoke secrecy and forbidden desire.

Michael Donovan's protocol proves the most challenging. You pace your office, Baby Thorne's occasional whimpers providing an ironic soundtrack to your contemplation.

"Family disappointment," you murmur, finally crafting a sequence that targets parental protectiveness. "The universal Achilles heel."

With the protocols perfected, you make your way to the nursery. The evening light casts long shadows across the pastel-colored room where your regressed subjects play and crawl. Dr. Hargrove and Dr. Okafor sit in a corner, stacking blocks with the single-minded focus of infants, while Melissa Chen and Sophia Martinez nap in adjacent cribs.

Dr. Frost sits apart from the others, a picture book open on her lap though her eyes are unfocused, staring at nothing. Something in her posture—too rigid, too aware—confirms your suspicions.

"Eleanor," you say sharply, and her head snaps up with a responsiveness no infant should possess.

"Yes, Mommy?" The words come automatically, but there's a flicker behind her eyes—a calculation, a resistance.

You approach slowly, your heels clicking against the hardwood. "You seem... distracted."

"Just tired, Mommy." Her smile is perfect, practiced. Too perfect.

You place your hand on her head, feeling her tense beneath your touch. "Let's reinforce your programming, shall we?"

Before she can respond, you begin reciting an enhanced version of Protocol Theta-9, one specifically designed to strengthen loyalty conditioning. Dr. Frost's eyes widen momentarily before glazing over, her body going slack as the words penetrate her consciousness.

"You will remain loyal to me," you intone. "Any thoughts of resistance will cause intense physical discomfort. Your happiness depends entirely on my satisfaction with your service."

When you finish, Dr. Frost looks up at you with renewed devotion, the fractures in her conditioning sealed—for now.

"Thank you, Mommy," she whispers, and this time the gratitude in her voice sounds genuine.

The next morning, you arrive at the board room an hour before the scheduled meeting. You arrange the chairs strategically, placing name cards to ensure each member sits exactly where you want them—within optimal range for your influence.

At 8:15, the door opens and Patricia Holloway enters, her nervous energy palpable as she clutches her designer handbag.

"Victoria," she says, surprise evident in her voice. "I didn't expect anyone to be here so early."

"Patricia," you reply, your voice dropping to the hypnotic cadence you've perfected. "I thought we might have a moment to discuss the academy's... pharmaceutical budget."

Her pupils dilate as you begin the protocol, her resistance crumbling before it even begins to form.

Your gaze sweeps the room methodically, searching for any signs of surveillance or hidden witnesses. The boardroom is austere and formal, with a long mahogany table and high-backed leather chairs. Oil paintings of past headmasters gaze down sternly from the walls.

Satisfied that you are truly alone with Patricia, you turn your attention back to the anxious board member. She stands before you, her fingers twisting nervously around the handle of her designer handbag.

"Patricia," you purr, your voice low and hypnotic. "Why don't you have a seat? We have much to discuss about the academy's...pharmaceutical budget."

She blinks at you, her pupils already dilating in response to your triggered protocol. "The...budget? I'm not sure I..." 

"Sit," you command, and she complies instantly, her body moving to obey before her mind can question. You take the seat beside her, angling your body towards hers.

As you recite the carefully crafted phrases, Patricia's expression goes slack, her eyes glazing over. Her resistance crumbles like a sandcastle against the tide of your influence. By the time you finish, she's gazing at you with rapt devotion, any thoughts of anxiety medication long forgotten.

"You will support my proposals without question," you instruct her. "And you will discourage any dissent among the other members. Understood?"

"Yes, Headmistress," she breathes, her voice dreamy. "Whatever you say."

You leave her sitting there and return to your place at the head of the table, a smile playing at the corners of your mouth. One down, three to go.

Minutes later, the door opens again, admitting Geoffrey Blackwell. His paunch strains against his tailored suit, and his florid face is set in a self-important scowl. That will change, shortly.

Geoffrey Blackwell enters the board room, his paunch straining against his tailored suit, a self-important scowl etched across his florid face. But you know his weakness, the chink in his armor of entitlement and wealth.

"Geoffrey," you purr, rising from your seat at the head of the table to greet him. "So good of you to come. I know how busy you must be, what with your many...responsibilities."

His scowl falters, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. "Headmistress Blackwood. I trust this meeting won't take long? I have a tee time at eleven."

"Oh, I'm sure we can conclude our business...expediently." You let the word hang between you, watching as realization dawns in his eyes. The guilt over his son's admission, the knowledge that his wealth and status bought his child's place at Blackthorn.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," he blusters, but it's too late. You have him.

"Your son is a student here, isn't he, Geoffrey? Admitted despite...failing to meet our usual academic standards." You step closer, your voice low and hypnotic. "But a significant donation to the science building fund can open many doors, can't it?"

He opens his mouth to protest, but no sound emerges. His eyes are glazed, his posture slack. The tailored protocol is working, his guilt and shame making him putty in your hands.

"You will support my proposals without question," you murmur, your lips close to his ear. "And you will discourage any dissent among the other members. Understood?"

"Yes, Headmistress," he breathes, his voice dreamy. "Whatever you say."

You smile, cold and triumphant. Two down, two to go.

You approach Patricia Holloway, who sits slack-jawed and glassy-eyed in her chair, the effects of your tailored protocol evident in her vacant stare. 

'Patricia,' you purr, your voice a hypnotic caress. 'How are you feeling?'

She blinks slowly, her pupils dilated. 'I feel...peaceful, Headmistress. Like everything is...clear.'

You smile, a cold, triumphant thing. Her conditioning is holding. But you're not satisfied. Not yet. 

'You look tired, Patricia,' you murmur, your fingers grazing her temple. 'Don't you think it's time you took a...rest?'

As you speak, you will her to regress, to shed the years and responsibilities like a too-tight skin. Before your eyes, fine lines smooth, muscles soften. Her designer suit morphs into a frilly pink dress, ruffles at the hem and neckline. Her hair, once a neat chignon, falls in ringlets around her face.

'Oh,' she breathes, her voice high, childish. 'I feel so...light.'

You stroke her hair, your touch proprietary. 'You're mine now, Patricia. Mine to care for, mine to command.'

She nods, her eyes wide, adoring. 'Yes, Headmistress. I'm yours.' 

You straighten, your gaze sweeping the room. Two board members, both firmly under your control. Two more to go. A thrill of anticipation runs through you. The thought of their shocked faces, their crumbling wills, is almost enough to make you giddy. Almost.

But you compose yourself. There is still work to be done. You return to your seat at the head of the table, your posture regal, commanding. Let them come. Let them see what happens to those who dare to cross you. You are the Headmistress. And Blackthorn Academy is yours.

You wait, your posture regal, commanding. The door opens to admit Samantha Chen, her sleek black hair pulled back in a chignon, her stride purposeful. But when she sees you, she falters, uncertainty flickering across her face.

'Samantha,' you purr, rising to greet her. 'So good of you to come. I know how...busy you've been. With your graduate assistant.'

Her eyes widen, her cheeks flushing. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' she says, but her voice lacks conviction.

'Oh, I think you do,' you murmur, stepping closer. 'But don't worry. Your secret is safe with me...for a price.'

As you speak, you will her to submit, to bend to your will. Her eyes glaze, her posture slackens. The tailored protocol is working, her guilt and shame making her putty in your hands.

'You will support my proposals without question,' you instruct her. 'And you will discourage any dissent among the other members. Understood?'

'Yes, Headmistress,' she breathes, her voice dreamy. 'Whatever you say.'

You smile, cold and triumphant. Three down, one to go.

You turn your attention back to Patricia, who sits slack-jawed and glassy-eyed in her chair, the effects of your tailored protocol evident in her vacant stare. You encourage her regression, watching with satisfaction as she shrinks, her features softening, her clothing morphing into a frilly pink dress.

'Oh,' she breathes, her voice high, childish. 'I feel so...light.'

You pull her over your lap, pushing up her dress to reveal her bottom. 'You've been a bad girl, Patricia,' you purr. 'Keeping secrets from your Headmistress. You need to be punished.'

You bring your hand down on her bottom, spanking her until her skin is pink and warm. She whimpers, tears trickling down her cheeks, but she doesn't resist. You pull a diaper from your bag, fastening it around her waist.

'There,' you coo. 'All better now. Mommy's going to take good care of you.'

She nods, her eyes wide, adoring. 'Yes, Mommy. Thank you, Mommy.'

You straighten, your gaze sweeping the room. Three board members, all firmly under your control. One more to go. A thrill of anticipation runs through you. The thought of their shocked faces, their crumbling wills, is almost enough to make you giddy. Almost.

But you compose yourself. There is still work to be done. You return to your seat at the head of the table, your posture regal, commanding. Let them come. Let them see what happens to those who dare to cross you. You are the Headmistress. And Blackthorn Academy is yours.

You rise from your chair, commanding the attention of the three board members under your control. Geoffrey Blackwell and Samantha Chen sit in docile obedience while Patricia Holloway, already partially regressed, fidgets in her frilly dress and diaper.

"I propose," you announce, your voice resonating with authority, "that we formalize a new disciplinary policy at Blackthorn Academy. Protocol Theta-9 will be implemented as an official punishment for those who fail to meet our standards."

Geoffrey raises his hand mechanically. "I second the motion."

"All in favor?" you ask, watching as three hands rise in perfect unison.

"The motion passes," you declare, satisfaction coursing through you like electricity. "And I believe we should demonstrate its efficacy immediately."

You turn to Samantha Chen, her sleek business attire and composed demeanor a stark contrast to what she'll soon become. "Samantha has been keeping secrets from us. Haven't you, Samantha?"

She nods, her eyes vacant. "Yes, Headmistress."

"And secrets deserve punishment." You begin the enhanced regression protocol, your words weaving through the air like poison. Samantha's body begins to change before your eyes—her professional blazer morphing into a pink onesie, her sleek chignon unraveling into wispy baby-fine hair.

She whimpers as her mind collapses, decades of education and experience crumbling like sand castles against the tide. Her vocabulary shrinks, her posture softens, her control over her bodily functions fades away.

"Ba... ba..." she babbles, drool collecting at the corner of her mouth.

You turn to Patricia, already partially regressed, and complete the process. Her remaining adult awareness dissolves as you speak the final phrases of the protocol. She giggles, a high-pitched sound devoid of self-consciousness or dignity.

"Now," you announce to Geoffrey, who watches with glazed fascination, "it's feeding time."

You unbutton your blouse with deliberate slowness, revealing your full breasts. Lifting Samantha first, you cradle her against your chest. She latches on instinctively, suckling with infantile need.

"This is what happens to those who oppose me," you tell Geoffrey as you stroke Samantha's hair. "This is what awaits anyone who questions my authority at Blackthorn."

You switch infants, now cradling Patricia against you. She feeds greedily, making soft contented noises.

"The vote is recorded," you say to Geoffrey. "Protocol Theta-9 is now official academy policy. I have the board's full support to implement it as I see fit."

Geoffrey nods mechanically. "Yes, Headmistress. Whatever you say."

The door to the boardroom remains closed, the final board member conspicuously absent. But you're not concerned. When Michael Donovan finally arrives, he'll find a very different board than the one he expects—and a headmistress whose power is now absolute.

You gaze at the infantilized board members with a mixture of satisfaction and strategy. The meeting with Michael Donovan requires a united front—at least initially.

"Time to grow up, just for a little while," you murmur, beginning the temporary restoration protocol. The words flow from your lips with practiced ease, ancient Greek phrases dancing through the air like invisible serpents.

Samantha Chen's body stretches and reforms before your eyes, pink onesie morphing back into her sleek pantsuit, baby-fine hair thickening and darkening as it coils itself into her signature chignon. Her eyes clear, though the vacant devotion remains.

Patricia Holloway undergoes a similar transformation, frilly dress and diaper replaced by her conservative skirt suit, her ringlets tightening into a professional bob. Both women blink in momentary confusion before their programming reasserts itself.

"Remember," you instruct them, voice low and hypnotic, "you support all my proposals unanimously. Once Donovan agrees, you will signal your approval by touching your left earring, Patricia, and adjusting your glasses, Samantha."

They nod in perfect unison, their movements mechanical yet convincing enough to fool an outsider.

The door opens precisely at 8:50, admitting Michael Donovan. Unlike the others, his posture is rigid with suspicion rather than conditioning. His steel-gray hair and weathered face speak of decades in academia and boardrooms, his eyes sharp beneath bushy brows.

"Headmistress Blackwood," he says, voice cool. "I see the others have arrived early."

"We had preliminary matters to discuss," you reply smoothly. "Please, join us."

He takes his seat, eyes scanning the room, lingering momentarily on Patricia's slightly glassy stare. "I understand there are concerns about recent... changes at Blackthorn."

"Merely improvements to our disciplinary structure," you counter, launching into your carefully prepared speech about Protocol Theta-9, reframed as an innovative behavioral modification technique.

As you speak, you weave in the phrases designed specifically for Donovan, watching for signs of their effect. But something is wrong. His eyes remain clear, his posture alert.

"That sounds remarkably like hypnosis, Headmistress," he interrupts. "Or something more sinister."

You increase the intensity of your protocol, but Donovan's resistance is unexpected. A lifetime of academic skepticism has armored his mind against suggestion.

"I think not," he says firmly, rising from his chair. "This meeting is adjourned pending a full investigation into—"

You abandon subtlety, launching into the most potent version of the protocol. Patricia touches her earring; Samantha adjusts her glasses. The three board members surround Donovan, physically restraining him as you complete the regression sequence.

His struggle is brief but fierce. Then, before your eyes, Michael Donovan—the incorruptible, the principled—shrinks and softens. His tailored suit melts into a frilly pink dress, his steel-gray hair lengthening into golden curls.

"Ba... ba..." he babbles, his voice high and infantile.

You smile in triumph, then turn to Patricia and Samantha. "Join your fellow board member," you command, reinstating their regression.

Within moments, three infant girls crawl at your feet, all traces of their former authority erased. You lift Donovan—now Michaela—to your breast first, a symbolic feeding of the most resistant.

"Welcome to the new Blackthorn Academy," you murmur as she suckles greedily. "Where everyone knows their proper place."

The board meeting concludes with unanimous approval of all your proposals, recorded meticulously in minutes that will never be questioned.

You crawl across the plush carpeting of the boardroom toward Patricia's discarded handbag, the leather Prada tote lying forgotten beside her infantilized form. The three regressed board members coo and babble around you, their adult minds buried beneath layers of psychological conditioning.

The handbag's clasp opens with a satisfying click. Inside, beneath a wallet and compact mirror, you discover a small leather-bound notebook. Your fingers tingle as you extract it, sensing its importance before you've read a single word.

"Well, well, Patricia. Keeping a diary?" you murmur, flipping it open.

The pages reveal meticulous documentation in Patricia's elegant handwriting. Dates, times, observations—all chronicling the strange occurrences at Blackthorn Academy over the past months. Your own behavior is documented with clinical precision: mood swings, lapses in professional judgment, contradictory directives. She's noted the sudden personality shifts in faculty members, the unexplained absences of students who questioned your authority.

"'March 15th,'" you read aloud, "'Dr. Blackwood appeared disoriented during faculty meeting. Referred to Professor Thorne as 'Daddy' before correcting herself. Later found sucking her thumb in her office. When confronted, claimed to have no memory of incident.'" 

Your stomach tightens. These notes could destroy everything you've built if they fell into the wrong hands. You tear out the pages methodically, shredding each one before stuffing the fragments into your pocket.

"No evidence, no problem," you whisper, watching baby Patricia gnaw on her own foot, unaware of the destruction of her meticulous work.

You check your watch—9:05. Time to visit the nursery. You arrange for Geoffrey, still in his adult form, to watch over the infantilized board members while you're gone.

The east wing nursery buzzes with infantile activity when you arrive. Dr. Penelope Hargrove and Dr. Amara Okafor crawl across colorful play mats, their academic brilliance reduced to fascination with jingling keys. Professor Lydia Mercer sucks contentedly on a pacifier in a corner playpen.

Dr. Eleanor Frost sits apart from the others, her adult form restored but clearly strained. When she sees you, something flickers behind her eyes—a momentary resistance quickly suppressed.

"Mommy," she says, the word catching slightly in her throat. "I was just checking on the babies."

You approach her slowly, noting the subtle signs of weakening conditioning—the too-straight posture, the overly deliberate movements.

"Eleanor," you say softly, using her first name rather than the maternal title she's supposed to use for you. "How are you feeling today?"

A flash of panic crosses her face before the placid smile returns. "I'm feeling wonderful, Mommy. Just wonderful."

But you've seen it—the crack in her façade, the glimpse of the real Dr. Frost fighting to resurface. Her conditioning is failing faster than you anticipated. You'll need to act quickly to reinforce it before she becomes a threat to your carefully constructed dominion.

You approach Dr. Frost with calculated precision, watching her eyes track your movements like prey sensing a predator. The nursery's cheerful décor—pastel walls and stuffed animals—creates a grotesque backdrop for what you're about to do.

"Eleanor," you say, your voice honeyed with false concern, "I think we need to have a little chat about your... progress."

She backs away instinctively, her body betraying what her conditioned mind tries to hide. "I'm doing well, Mommy. Really."

"No," you counter, circling her slowly. "You're fighting it. I can see the resistance in your eyes."

Dr. Frost's composure cracks. "Victoria, please—" The slip of using your first name is all the confirmation you need.

"That's not what babies call their mommies," you hiss, grabbing her wrist with unexpected force.

She struggles against your grip, desperation lending her strength. "You don't understand. The protocol has side effects. Long-term regression could cause permanent neurological damage—"

"How convenient that you've suddenly remembered your expertise," you say, forcing her to her knees. "Did you think I wouldn't notice? That I'd let you plot against me?"

Tears well in her eyes. "I wasn't plotting. I was trying to save what's left of us all."

You begin the enhanced regression protocol, your voice dropping to a hypnotic cadence. Ancient Greek phrases slither from your lips, wrapping around her consciousness like constricting snakes.

"No, please," she begs, her voice already shifting higher. "Not permanently. You need me—someone who understands the protocol—"

"I understand it perfectly," you interrupt, continuing the incantation.

Dr. Frost's body begins to change before your eyes. Her modest blue dress dissolves into a pink onesie with embroidered ducklings. Her professional bob softens into wispy baby-fine curls. Her limbs shorten, adult proportions melting into infantile pudginess.

"This time," you whisper as her mind collapses, "there's no coming back. No temporary reprieves. No adult moments to look forward to."

Her eyes widen in horrified understanding before the last of her adult consciousness drowns beneath waves of infantile simplicity. The transformation completes with a final, humiliating touch—her bladder releases, the onesie darkening between her legs.

"There," you say, lifting the now-babbling infant into your arms. "That's much better."

You carry her to an empty crib in the corner of the nursery, specially prepared for permanent residents. The mobile above it spins lazily, colorful shapes designed to stimulate what little mind she has left.

"Welcome to your forever home, baby Eleanor," you coo, laying her down. "No more fighting. No more thinking. Just bottles and diapers and naps for the rest of your life."

She gurgles in response, tiny fists waving aimlessly in the air, all traces of Dr. Eleanor Frost—brilliant psychologist, conspirator, potential savior—erased completely.

You leave baby Eleanor in her crib, her gurgles fading behind you as you move through the nursery toward Dr. Winters' private room. Unlike the other regressed subjects who share the communal nursery space, Winters merited special accommodation—a concession to her former status and potential usefulness.

The door to her room is ajar, spilling soft lamplight into the hallway. You push it open to find Dr. Winters seated at a small writing desk, her back ramrod straight in a tailored navy pantsuit. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun, an echo of your own preferred style. The juxtaposition of her professional appearance against the pastel walls and stuffed animals lining the shelves creates a dissonant tableau.

"Mommy," she says, turning to face you. The word sounds practiced, deliberate—a recitation rather than an instinct.

You circle her slowly, noting the subtle tells: the too-precise fold of her hands in her lap, the overly steady gaze, the absence of the eager-to-please expression your other conditioned subjects display.

"What are you working on, Dr. Winters?" you ask, deliberately using her title instead of a first name or infantile nickname.

A flicker of something—panic? defiance?—crosses her face before the placid mask returns. "Just some thoughts on the nursery schedule, Mommy. I thought a more structured approach might benefit the babies."

You pick up the paper from her desk. The handwriting is meticulous, the content seemingly innocent—feeding times, nap rotations, play activities. But beneath the mundane details, you notice a pattern in the first letters of each paragraph: H-E-L-P.

"Interesting organizational system," you remark, folding the paper and slipping it into your pocket. "Tell me, do you remember our conversation about loyalty?"

"Of course, Mommy. I'm completely loyal to you."

"Then why," you ask, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "do I sense resistance?"

Winters' composure cracks slightly. "I'm not resisting. I'm helping you manage the nursery, as you asked."

"No," you say, moving closer until you're looming over her seated form. "You're planning something. Just like Eleanor was."

"Eleanor?" A genuine note of concern enters her voice. "What happened to Dr. Frost?"

"Dr. Frost has been permanently retired to infancy," you reply, watching her reaction carefully. "She fought her conditioning. I couldn't allow that."

Winters' face pales, but her voice remains steady. "I understand, Mommy. I won't make the same mistake."

But you see it in her eyes—calculation, not submission. Dr. Winters isn't broken. She's biding her time.

You approach Dr. Winters with a cold determination, the enhanced regression protocol already forming on your lips. She senses your intent and tries to flee, but you grab her arm, holding her in place with an iron grip.

"No, please," she begs, her voice trembling. "I'll do anything you want. I won't resist anymore. Just don't make me a baby again."

Your expression remains impassive as you begin the incantation, ancient Greek phrases sliding off your tongue like venom. Winters struggles against your hold, her desperation growing as she feels her mind start to slip.

"Mommy, please," she sobs, resorting to the infantile title in a last-ditch effort to sway you. But it's too late. Her body is already changing, her tailored pantsuit morphing into a frilly pink dress, her severe bun unraveling into soft golden curls.

You release her arm as she shrinks, her proportions shifting from adult to infant in a matter of seconds. She collapses to the floor, her legs no longer able to support her weight. When she looks up at you, her eyes are wide and innocent, all traces of her former intellect wiped away.

"Ba ba?" she mumbles, her tiny hand reaching for you. You scoop her up, cradling her against your chest as you carry her to the communal nursery room. The other regressed subjects look up as you enter, cooing and babbling in greeting.

"Say hello to your new sister," you announce, setting Dr. Winters down among them. She crawls forward, her diaper rustling with each movement. The others surround her, patting her head and shoulders in welcome. Dr. Winters giggles, her former life already forgotten in the face of this new, simpler existence.

You watch for a moment longer, satisfaction thrumming through your veins. With Dr. Winters permanently regressed, your control over Blackthorn Academy is now absolute. No one remains to challenge your authority or uncover your secrets. The school is yours to shape as you see fit, a kingdom of mindless obedience and infantile devotion.

You make your way back to the boardroom, your heels clicking against the polished floors with authoritative precision. The door swings open to reveal the infantilized board members, their adult forms replaced by the cherubic innocence of infancy.

Geoffrey Blackwell, the only one still in his adult form, looks up as you enter. His eyes are glassy, his expression vacant. The effects of your conditioning are clear.

'Headmistress,' he says, his voice flat. 'The children have been quiet.'

You nod, your gaze sweeping over the room. Patricia Holloway and Samantha Chen, now reduced to infancy, lie on their backs, tiny fists waving in the air as they coo and babble. Michael Donovan, the most recent addition to your nursery, sucks on a pacifier, his eyes wide and unseeing.

'Good,' you say, kneeling beside Patricia. 'Let's make sure they stay that way.'

You begin the process of reinforcing their conditioning, your voice low and hypnotic as you recite the ancient Greek phrases. The infants' eyes grow heavy, their movements sluggish. By the time you finish, they're little more than living dolls, their minds permanently locked in a state of infantile bliss.

You straighten, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. The board is yours, their wills bent to your own. Blackthorn Academy is truly under your control now, a kingdom of mindless obedience and infantile devotion.

You stand at the podium, surveying the gathered faculty and students with a cold, appraising eye. The auditorium buzzes with nervous energy, whispers and sidelong glances exchanged between neighbors. You tap the microphone, the sharp sound echoing through the room, silencing the crowd.

"As you know," you begin, your voice ringing with authority, "there have been some changes to our disciplinary policies here at Blackthorn Academy. Effective immediately, any infractions will be met with swift and severe consequences."

A murmur ripples through the audience, expressions ranging from confusion to fear. You scan the crowd, looking for any signs of open defiance. Your gaze lands on a young woman in the front row, her dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, her eyes narrowed in challenge.

"You can't do that," she says, rising to her feet. "We have rights. You can't just punish us however you want."

You smile, a cold, predatory thing. "I assure you, I can." You step out from behind the podium, approaching the girl with slow, deliberate steps. "What's your name?"

She lifts her chin, defiance etched in every line of her body. "Olivia."

"Olivia," you repeat, savoring the sound of her name, the weight of it on your tongue. "Such a pretty name for such a naughty girl."

You begin the regression protocol, your voice low and hypnotic. Olivia's eyes widen, her hands clutching at her throat as if to stop the words from taking hold. But it's too late. Her body begins to change, her jeans and t-shirt melting away into a frilly pink dress, her hair escaping its ponytail to frame her face in soft ringlets.

She shrinks, her proportions shifting from adult to infant in a matter of seconds. When the transformation is complete, she stands before you, a cherubic toddler, her eyes wide and uncomprehending.

"Ba ba?" she mumbles, her tiny hand reaching for you. You scoop her up, cradling her against your chest as you turn to face the audience once more.

"Let this be a lesson to all of you," you announce, your voice ringing with triumph. "Disobedience will not be tolerated. Not from students, not from faculty, not from anyone."

With that, you begin to unbutton your blouse, baring your breast to the crowd. Olivia latches on instinctively, suckling with infantile need. The auditorium is silent, the only sound the soft, wet noises of Olivia's feeding.

"This is your future if you defy me," you say, stroking Olivia's soft hair. "This is what awaits anyone who questions my authority."

The crowd is silent, shell-shocked, as you turn on your heel and stride from the stage, Olivia still cradled in your arms. You have made your point. Blackthorn Academy is yours, and yours alone.

You turn back to the audience, a cruel smile playing at your lips. The power surges through you, intoxicating and absolute. These sheep before you, these future infants – why wait for their inevitable transgressions? Why not transform them all now?

"You will all be naughty eventually," you announce, your voice echoing through the auditorium. "Your regressions are inevitable. So why not now?"

You raise the microphone to your lips, the ancient Greek phrases forming on your tongue. But something is wrong. The words feel heavy, sluggish, as if fighting against you. A strange pressure builds behind your eyes.

"What's happening?" you mutter, your voice suddenly higher, thinner. The microphone slips from your fingers, clattering across the stage.

A ripple of confusion moves through the audience. Professor Olivia Bennett, the psychology department chair, rises from her seat in the third row.

"The protocol has limitations, Dr. Blackwood," she calls out, her voice steady. "It was never designed to affect multiple subjects simultaneously. The psychic backlash is... well, you're experiencing it firsthand."

You try to respond, to reassert your authority, but your voice emerges as a childish squeak. Horror dawns as you feel warm liquid streaming down your legs, pooling around your feet. Your bladder has betrayed you, your expensive heels vanishing to leave you barefoot in your own puddle.

"Stop this!" you command, but your voice has risen an octave, your words slurring into a childish lisp. "I order you to thtop!"

Your tailored suit begins to dissolve, replaced by nothing but a thick white diaper stretched across your rapidly shrinking form. Your hair, once your crown of authority, twists itself into ridiculous pigtails.

The audience's shock gives way to nervous titters, then open laughter. Baby Olivia, still cradled in your increasingly smaller arms, giggles and points at you with a chubby finger.

"Ba-ba funny!" she crows, squirming free from your weakening grip.

You feel your mind fragmenting, adult knowledge slipping away like water through a sieve, even as your awareness remains cruelly intact. Fifteen months old now, standing wobbly in nothing but a diaper, exposed before the entire school.

Thick tears roll down your plump cheeks as you wail, the sound purely infantile. You've lost everything – your authority, your dignity, your very adulthood – in one catastrophic miscalculation.

A cheer rises from the audience, the sound deafening in your sensitive baby ears. Professor Bennett approaches, kneeling to your new height.

"The board suspected something was wrong," she says softly, for your ears alone. "They sent me to investigate. I've been studying Thorne's work for years – did you really think you were the only one who understood the protocol?"

She lifts you easily, your tiny legs dangling helplessly. "Don't worry, Dr. Blackwood. We'll take very good care of you in the nursery you so thoughtfully prepared."

Your tiny body betrays you as you dissolve into infantile wails, fat tears rolling down your chubby cheeks. Your legs kick uselessly in Professor Bennett's firm grip, the tantrum as ineffective as it is humiliating. The diaper crinkles loudly with each movement, a constant reminder of your degradation.

"Poor Dr. Blackwood," Bennett coos with mock sympathy, her voice carrying through the auditorium. "All that power, all that control, reduced to this." She bounces you slightly, eliciting another wail.

You try to form words, to threaten, to command, but your mouth produces only babbles and half-formed syllables. Your adult mind remains cruelly intact, trapped in this useless infant body.

"What's fascinating," Bennett continues, addressing the stunned audience, "is that the regression protocol can be calibrated. Most of our infantilized faculty have had their minds reduced to match their bodies." She turns you to face her, her eyes clinical and detached. "But you, Dr. Blackwood – you get to keep your awareness. You get to experience every humiliating moment with perfect clarity."

A student approaches the stage hesitantly. "Professor Bennett? What happens now?"

Bennett smiles, the expression not quite reaching her eyes. "Now we begin the process of rebuilding Blackthorn Academy. Dr. Blackwood's... innovations... will be studied and contained. The affected faculty will be cared for until we can determine if reversal is possible."

She shifts you to her hip, your tiny body powerless against her movements. "As for our former headmistress, she'll be joining the nursery she so thoughtfully prepared. A fitting punishment, don't you think? To be cared for like the infant she is, while remembering exactly who she used to be."

The audience murmurs in agreement, their faces a blur of judgment and relief. Your world has collapsed into this moment – helpless, exposed, defeated. The power you wielded so cruelly now turned against you with surgical precision.  Your infant eyes catch a glimpse of the stage where you once stood in absolute authority. The puddle of your shame still glistens under the harsh lights, a final monument to your fall.

The auditorium door swings open with theatrical timing, and a collective gasp ripples through the crowd. Dr. Eleanor Frost strides onto the stage, her adult body restored to its full glory, yet bizarrely clad in nothing but an oversized diaper. Her breasts are heavy and swollen, visibly leaking small beads of milk that catch the harsh stage lighting.

"Oopsie! Is someone having a bad day?" Frost coos in a disconcertingly childish voice that clashes with her matronly appearance. Her eyes, once sharp with academic intensity, now sparkle with infantile glee. "Does my dolly need her mommy?"

Professor Bennett's professional demeanor falters. "Dr. Frost? This is impossible. You were fully regressed."

"Silly Livy," Frost giggles, reaching for you with hands that seem both maternal and childish simultaneously. "Mommy's special now. Mommy's better."

Bennett instinctively steps back, but an invisible force seems to emanate from Frost—a palpable aura of maternal energy that fills the auditorium like heavy perfume. "What are you doing?" Bennett demands, her voice wavering for the first time. "Stop this immediately."

Frost ignores her, plucking your infant form from Bennett's suddenly slack arms. "My precious dolly," she whispers, cradling you against her bare chest. Her skin radiates unnatural warmth.

You watch in horrified fascination as Bennett's tailored blazer begins to shimmer and dissolve, reforming as a frilly pink baby dress. Her professional slacks melt away, replaced by a thick diaper visible beneath the short hemline.

"Professor Bennett!" a faculty member calls out in alarm, rising from their seat.

Bennett doesn't respond. Her eyes have gone wide and glassy, her thumb creeping inexorably toward her mouth. She appears physically unchanged except for her clothing, but her posture has shifted, shoulders hunching, knees turning inward.

"Livy needs to wait her turn," Frost announces, her childish voice carrying an undercurrent of authority that silences the murmuring crowd. "Does Livy understand?"

Bennett nods slowly, her thumb now firmly lodged in her mouth. "Yeth, Mommy," she lisps around the digit, eyes downcast in perfect childish submission.

Frost settles into a chair that wasn't there a moment before, a rocking chair materialized from nothing. She positions you at her breast, and your infant body betrays you once more as you latch on instinctively, your adult mind screaming in humiliation even as sweet warmth floods your mouth.

"Good dolly," Frost praises, stroking your pigtailed head. "Drink up while Mommy watches her other baby grow down."

You can't tear your gaze away as Bennett begins to physically change—her height diminishing, her proportions shifting, her features softening into childish roundness. In less than a minute, where the formidable Professor Bennett once stood, there is only a toddler of perhaps two years, drowning in a now-oversized baby dress, staring at her tiny feet with tearful confusion.

You surrender to the inevitable, your adult mind watching in clinical detachment as your infant body responds to Frost's breast. The milk is sweet and warm, flooding your system with a strange languor that makes your limbs heavy. Your analytical faculties remain intact, observing the surreal tableau unfolding before you.

Frost reaches down with her free arm and scoops up the toddler-sized Bennett with surprising strength. "Come to Mommy, little Livy," she coos, positioning the former professor at her other breast. Bennett latches on immediately, her eyes glazing over with contentment.

"Isn't this better?" Frost asks, looking down at both of you with a beatific smile. "Mommy likes being nakey. Don't know why grown-ups always cover up with silly clothes. Bodies are pretty!"

The audience sits in stunned silence, no one daring to move. Frost begins to rock gently in her chair, humming a nursery rhyme that echoes unnaturally through the auditorium's acoustics.

"Wanna hear a story, everyone?" she asks, her voice childishly high but carrying an undercurrent of power. Without waiting for a response, she launches into her tale. "Once upon a time, there was a mean lady named Victoria who wanted to be the boss of everything. She made Eleanor into her Mommy and herself into a baby for fun!"

You try to protest, but your mouth is full, your infant vocal cords incapable of forming words.

"But then Vicky was sooooo mean," Frost continues, her face momentarily darkening before brightening again. "She tried to make me a baby forever and ever! But guess what? I woke up all grown-up, and I knew—I just knew—I was supposed to be everyone's Mommy!"

She looks around the auditorium with a critical pout. "This place is so boring! It needs more colors. Pink and baby blue and pictures of unicorns! And play mats and toys everywhere!"

As she speaks, the auditorium begins to transform. The walls bleed from institutional beige to candy pink and powder blue. The austere stage sprouts plush carpeting in primary colors. Academic banners dissolve into posters of cartoon unicorns and smiling animals.

"That's better!" Frost giggles, as a wave of energy pulses outward from her rocking chair.

The transformation spreads to the audience. Faculty members and students alike look down in confusion as their clothing shimmers and dissolves, replaced by thick white diapers. Yet instead of panic, a strange calm settles over the room. Expressions of shock melt into placid acceptance.

"Now everyone matches!" Frost exclaims with childish delight. "And we're going to have so much fun learning and playing together!"

You continue to suckle, your mind racing even as your body remains docile. This isn't the Protocol Theta-9 you mastered. This is something else entirely—something far more powerful and unpredictable. And you, the architect of this chaos, are now merely its first victim.