Cry Havoc

Chapter 17
Humiliation

Chapter Description: from Book Two: Submission

thursday 24 october – 6:15 PM

Wednesday evening had been a complete disaster for Troy “Impulse” Delvecchio, so some of it has to be discussed before the spotlight is shined on the even worse night to follow.

It had all started with the dreaded sit-down. Troy hadn’t had the sit-down with his mother for four years, at which point he had simply become too intimidating and strong to give a shit. But, now, at 4’10”, his mother had a good half a foot on him. Not to mention the nigh-constant thumbsucking habit he’d developed, which had utterly dwarfed Loudmouth’s defense mechanism of constant bawling.

So, as Impulse sat on the center panel of their old couch, sucking intently on his left thumb, slumped even lower than his diminutive height would have suggested, all he could really do was nod at all the new “ground rules” that were being laid down. Truly, they weren’t new “ground rules” at all, but merely ones that he’d have to follow until his shrinking tapered off -- garbage removal, dishwasher-emptying, vacuuming... house shit.

Impulse had, just one short month previously, been the baddest motherfucker in the neighborhood. Now, here he was, sucking his thumb like a petulant toddler and listening to his mother tell him to take out the recyclables. It made him want to suck his thumb even harder. Maybe even cry-- perhaps Loudmouth was really onto something with that. Perhaps even...

...and that’s when it happened.

Impulse was pissing in his jeans. It was a slow stream by virtue of the circumference of his urethra, but there was no doubt that he was pissing his pants. He hadn’t even noticed it start-- didn’t even notice it until it had finished. Apparently, whatever agent that had caused Impulse to become hung like a raisin had also shrunk his bladder (and its alert nerves) to those of a two-year-old’s.

Well, Mrs. Delvecchio was not the least bit impressed that Troy’s response to her diplomacy was destroying her couch with his urine.

...Which brings us to today, whose afternoon sit-down included a few additional rules. Odd rules.

The implementation of those rules began at 6:15 PM, when a once-again-damp Troy was somberly led upstairs... not by his mother, but by his 14-year-old sister, Elizabeth. The girl could scarcely contain her excitement-- and she couldn’t contain her glee, because she’d been directed in advance as to what to do for Troy.

It chilled Impulse to the bone.

As well as it should have. He, too, had been warned-- that even the slightest resistance was to be met with punishments of such lethal humiliation that he’d have to spend the rest of his life invisible. Impulse was finally starting to identify those moments during which he didn’t quite have a hope in Heaven.

Elizabeth laid Troy across the white upstairs bathmat, which had been preemptively covered with a protective tarp. Impulse idly sucked his thumb as his little sister removed his trademark undershirt and overhemmed children’s pants.

“That’s the last time you’ll ever be wearing those,” she hissed. “Every last article of clothing you own has been given to Goodwill, except the filthy, disgusting, or hideous things we had to toss into an industrial shredder.

“From now on, you wear exactly what we say and only what we say. And we happen to like bright colors. Yellow, for t-shirts and sleepers, for example. And a shiny kind of white pants.”

Troy’s eyes went wide, but he didn’t dare debate. In any case, he was far too preoccupied with the fact that his kid sister was working face-to-face with his comically undersized genitals. It was almost too much to bear, so the 17-year-old did the first thing that came to mind... he stuck his thumb in his mouth and he began to nurse.

“Goooood boooooy,” his sister cooed.

Troy felt a strange sensation began to gather around his denuded crotch. When he raised his head to look, he saw that Elizabeth was coating his pubic area with shaving cream. The shame was just too much, his eyes burning as his 14-year-old sister used a safety razor to remove any indication that such a penis belonged on anybody else. Soon, he was as smooth as the baby he felt as if he was, and the tears he was crying were hot and steady.

“Maybe tomorrow morning I’ll even be able to give you a bath,” she cooed, whispering, smiling, over his tortured face. “Won’t that be good? All those bubbles and those nice toys, as Lizzie McNo-titties runs that nice, soapy washcloth all over your tiny dinky? In fact...”

--Elizabeth wrestled with a few things from her supply bag--

“...why don’t we get you into a niiice, clean diaper right now, hmm?”

Impulse burst into tears around his thumb. Nobody had said he couldn’t do that.

With a little help from the impotent little rugrat of whom she was in charge, Elizabeth was able to slide the diaper beneath his ass and straighten it out.

“Now for the baby oil!”

Oh God.

With delicate, ivory hands did Elizabeth massage warm, slick baby oil all over Impulse’s diaper area, particularly his bottom and along his tiny, almost microscopic penis.

Though Elizabeth did feel a twitch. Troy whined softly and bit his bottom lip.

“My, my, my!” teased his kid sister. “I guess such a little pee-pee still has a little feeling in it after all!”

She went over it a few more times with the oil. Troy bit harder, arched his back, moaned, and dribbled two tiny pinheads of white pearlescence down the shaft of his infantile nubbin.

He then wished to have died many, many years ago.

“That’s alright, sweetheart,” Elizabeth cooed to her big brother. “Itty bitty babies have accidents all. the. time.” During his afterglow, Impulse could feel a double-thick disposable diaper being pulled up between his thighs and held to his tummy, and he could feel each of the four tapes being affixed in sequence.

The subject was closed. The debate was over. Troy “Impulse” Delvecchio was never going to be a punk, a thief, a thug, or a vandal... ever again.

He was too much of a baby.

to be continued