Chapter Description: Chapters Twelve through Sixteen.
APRIL 16TH, 2060
MECHANICAL DIAGNOSIS AND THERAPY, CALIFORNIA PACIFIC_
“Take it easy, Scotty,” scolded Dr. Carroll. “It’s not a race.”
As Scott negotiated his way through the idiosyncratic physical therapy -- traversing the length of a black vinyl runner sans parallel bars for support -- he realized almost immediately that what had been difficult the previous day for one reason (a straddled gait that evoked the awkward locomotion of toddlerhood) was, at current, an altogether new challenge due to its added wrinkle: At age 14, Scott Danvers was shorter in stature, smaller in frame, and plagued with the insecurities and doubts that have become the perennial hallmarks of early adolescence.
It was all just too much at once. Scott would have sworn on a stack of Thor Heyerdahl books that he had spent well over a decade and a half forging a romantic relationship with the ocean. He had been raised through the heart flutters and heartaches of a series of girlfriends, guided emotionally and pragmatically by the wisdom of his late mother, a retired English teacher. He’d driven, he’d gone to college, he’d seen much of the world, and he remembered where he was the day a campaign of nonviolence and humanism had led to a lasting peace in the Middle East.
Had it all just been in his head? A product of exhaustion and being browbeaten by the elements? Had being lost at sea fucked with him that much? Given him the hallucinations, the hopes, the dreams, and the sunburn that, even now, served as itchy testimony to weeks of desolate isolation for which his body was not and never could be prepared?
On the precipice of desperation, a man can trust himself even less than he can others.
“Watch out!!” Carroll hollered.
Scott fell. Having been wrapped up in the motion-limiting shroud of his own philosophical crisis, he had failed to pay attention to coordinating his pace with both the awkward splaying of his legs and the tactile unfamiliarity with his new body. Tumbling rightward, away from the vinyl that had dictated his ill-fated navigation, Scott landed ass-first on the tile floor, the impact -- attenuated only by the thin fabrics of his blue jeans and a fresh pair of boxer briefs -- sending an arc of pain up his coccyx.
Scott waited a couple of beats. And then he began to cry. Long, babyish wails, exploding forth from his widened jaw in sniffles and sobs and peals that would have sounded indistinguishable from those of an infant were it not for the boy’s dalliances with puberty. Tears streamed down his cheeks in reflective rivers and, attempting to shut himself up to the end of maintaining even a modicum of dignity, Scott thrust his thumb into his mouth and slobbered away at it like a pathologically uncoordinated toddler.
To the tortured teenager’s horror, Dr. Carroll’s post-hypnotic suggestions left no stone unturned. Scott composed himself just enough to glance downward, his thumb still in his mouth, and allow his gaze to fall upon the crotch of his jeans, which was rapidly turning from a denim blue to a dark navy extending its domain via an expanding circle. Again, any tensing of the 14-year-old’s groin muscles were for naught, as if the uniquely-male telecommunications cord that connected Scott’s brain to his penis had been amateurishly bifurcated by a wire-cutter.
Scott continued to cry around his thumb as tears spilled forth from his lachrymal ducts and his expulsion of urine broke free from the confines of his tight denim and began to violate the tile floor around him. A thin surface of dim yellow liquid advanced outward along his splayed thighs and Scott could feel the contents of his bladder soak into his bottom and ruin his second pair of boxer-briefs in as many hours.
Carroll rushed over to comfort the wailing teenager, but many of her sweet nothings and reassurances were lost to the smothering envelope of the boy’s humiliation. Never before had the physician laid witness to such an infantile young teenager.
She loved him.
“That’s two accidents, and it’s not even lunch yet,” Carroll noted aloud, though she wasn’t sure whether her charge heard. “We need to get you into something a little more appropriate.”
Scott heard that sentence. And, since he was no dummy, he knew immediately how the story of his morning was doomed to end. Not even his thumb could soothe him by that point.
APRIL 16TH, 2060
ROOM 3891, CALIFORNIA PACIFIC_
Some roads to humiliation are universal. Nobody wants to be the jerk who, having strutted in like a badass, robs a 7-Eleven only to walk out with $4.27 but without the driver’s license he left on the counter. Nobody wants to spend hours wooing a bar patron home for a nightcap, during which he realizes he’d had one cocktail too many and that the limp tool dangling between his legs calls to mind overcooked pasta.
But there is no humiliation on the planet, relative to the person who suffers it, greater than that of being a teenage boy forced into diapers.
Think about it. They all have something to prove. Often many things. They’re adults. They’re independent. They know everything. They’re tough, masculine, and altogether cool. The world is their arcade cabinet and they’re flipping the dip switches.
Lying on his hospital bed, denuded, his thumb in his mouth and his free fingers nervously toying with his damp penis, 14-year-old Scott Danvers felt none of these things. He felt only the humiliation, and he knew it to be an emotion coughed up from the smoldering brimstone volcanoes of Hell itself.
All Scott could do was suck his thumb, clutch Alex in the crook of his elbow, and sob nigh-inaudibly as Dr. Carroll and Nurse Divine conspired to diaper him. First came the baby wipes... damp, relentlessly cold, and slid along the boy’s genitals and thighs in the businesslike idiom one would expect from medical professionals. The oil followed, and Carroll took special care in massaging the slippery concoction between the folds of Scott’s legs, beneath his testicles, and along the shaft of his penis.
In very little time at all, blood rushed to the tissues of Scott’s sex organ and plumped the young teenager’s rod into a four-inch erection.
“Nurse Divine?” asked Carroll. “Would you be so kind as to grab an extra diaper from the supply closet down the hall? Scotty has several hours left to go before his evening changing.”
“Right away, Dr. Carroll.”
After the RN took her leave, Carroll wrapped her oil-slick hand around Scott’s throbbing cock and began to slide her fist up and down its length. The boy’s eyes shot wide open in a sadistic amalgam of horror and arousal.
“You see, Scotty?” Carroll articulated in a soothing voice. “The purpose of a doctor is to attend to all of her patient’s needs. To keep him happy and healthy and looked after, so that, when he goes out into the world, he’s equipped to handle anything and everything.”
Scott merely moaned around his thumb. The head of his dick was leaking pre-cum and his balls were beginning to boil.
“Doesn’t that sound familiar? Isn’t that the job of a good mother? To keep her son happy and healthy and looked after? To provide what he needs to feel safe, loved, and cherished in perpetuity?”
Scott quivered. He was about to have another accident.
“The line between doctor and mother is such a blurry one, Scotty. Just as blurry as the one between teacher and mother. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”
Scott writhed. His back arched upward a bit. The boy had hit the point of no return.
“Of course you’d know that, Scott,” Carroll smiled. She increased the speed with which she masturbated the young boy as soon as he began to give off the signals of inevitability. “It’s always diapers for you, Scotty. It’s always... infancy for you, Baby ‘Cotty.”
An explosion of semen burst forth from the head of Scott’s penis. The boy whined and grunted and groaned around his saliva-dripping thumb as his testicles emptied themselves into the air, the ribbons of their release arcing downward to splatter and coat the 14-year-old’s slim figure.
When the storm, at last, abated, Scott collapsed into an exhaustion he hadn’t felt since his maritime rescue. In fact, he felt as if he had just been rescued again.
“‘Atta boy,” cooed a smiling Dr. Carroll. “That’s my baby.”
APRIL 16TH, 2060
PSYCHIATRY, CALIFORNIA PACIFIC_
“I am going to slowly and clearly recite a list of facts to you. You will repeat them back to me. Is that understood?”
The unbiased observer would consider the tableau idiosyncratic. Dr. Carroll sat authoritatively at Elias Farnham’s oaken desk, scrawling marks on a clipboard laid flat not far from a digital audio recorder. That wasn’t the hell of it. The odd sight, as it were, was that of Scott Danvers himself: a 14-year-old boy, sprawled along the length of a three-paneled couch, dressed only in socks, a light-blue t-shirt, and a doubled-up disposable diaper that showed the telltale stain of a light wetting. Scott had become almost entirely diaper-dependent. Only his misguided optimism lent him hope that he was residing in the midst of a transitional phase.
Technically, his hope was well-founded; the phase was, indeed, transitional. But Scott and Dr. Carroll were steering the wheel in opposite directions.
“Yeah,” said the boy, capping his off his reply with a yawn. Every motion he made elicited the choral crinkles of his thick, fluffy diapers.
“It is Friday, April 16th, 2060. Phnom Penh was the capital of Cambodia until the nation was annexed by Vietnam.
“You are a baby, Scotty.
“Tomorrow, the ultimate truth will have been revealed to you. Your date of birth is November 9th, 2058. You are 17 months and one week old. You will remember the events of the previous 27 years, but only as illusions; your crystal-clear memories of the past few decades will manifest as flashbacks and dreams.
“You have the mind of an infant. Historical events hold no meaning for you. Letters and numbers hold no meaning for you. Shapes and colors do hold meaning for you, but imply no significance. As far as you know, the extent of the universe is limited to what you can see, hear, smell, taste, and touch at any given moment.
“You have the body of an infant. You are a crawler, a drooler, a nose-picker, and a perpetual grinner. You wet your diapers without warning, day or night. You mess your diapers without warning, day or night. In fact, you look forward to the immensely satisfying feeling of loading the seat of your baby pants with poop. It is your most prized accomplishment. It is to what you will forever aspire.
“Your reaction to new objects is to explore them by cramming them into your mouth. The urge for you to suck on something -- anything -- is omnipresent. Your thumb. Your pacifier. Your bottle. Your toes. A nipple. Which leads us to the alpha and the omega of your new reality:
“I, Dr. Annabelle Carroll, am your mother, Baby ‘Cotty. Your name is Scott Michael Carroll.
“You are my son.”
Scott yawned, and leaked a little more pee into the diaper separating his thighs. “...My name is Scott Michael Caroll.
“I am your son.”
APRIL 16TH, 2060
ROOM 3891, CALIFORNIA PACIFIC_
Scott Carroll had difficulty falling asleep that night.
Though his mother had showed him the utmost love and affection in stripping him and changing his soaking diapers, and though Nurse Divine (whom Scott had been instructed to refer to as Aunt Sylvia) was perfectly punctual in slapping a glop of apple-perfumed paste onto the bedroom’s vaporizer, Scott still felt like a stranger in a strange land. Or, more accurately, a strange baby in a strange body. He felt so dramatically little, to the point wherein operating the body of a 14-year-old had become a terrifying and clumsy proposition. He wondered to himself whose bright idea it had been to stick a toddler in the skeleton of a high schooler.
Scott didn’t have to worry about risking any movement, though. There he was, tucked snugly and securely into a hospital bed with safety bars lining either side, enveloped in a sheet and a blanket folded inward with such expertise that the boy couldn’t bring himself to remember a time during which he had felt more safe and secure.
Alex was there, held lovingly in Baby ‘Cotty’s grasp, and the young teenager allowed his eyes to flutter in pleasure and serenity as he nursed calmly on his wrinkled thumb. He had been stripped entirely naked, save for the double-thick pair of Pampers that wrapped his waist in a tight but comfortable grasp.
Scott grinned around his thumb as he pooped himself. He hadn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell of stopping the excretion, so he didn’t even bother trying; he merely laid back and allowed it to happen. Hard stools of mess, working their way out of his insides and into diapers specifically designed to handle the output of a teenager-- it was almost too good to be true. The boy’s giggles were involuntary. The sensation of his spread butt cheeks, coupled with the pushing force he exerted to compensate for the resistance waged against his evacuation by the tightness of his diapers, imbued him with a transcendent, almost orgasmic sense of self-actualization.
And it was squishy. So squishy. Baby ‘Cotty felt silly.
So little... forever.
APRIL 17TH, 2060
PEDIATRICS, CALIFORNIA PACIFIC_
For the second consecutive day, Scott awoke in a body that was entirely new to him. New, but not foreign. His physical makeup had, at last, caught up with the mental and emotional states carved into his psyche.
It was a thing of beauty.
The grinning, drooling Baby ‘Cotty, 17 months old in both body and mind, giggled incomprehensibly as his sausagelike fingers clutched at his wrinkled feet. He pulled one of them up into his mouth and began to suckle upon it, thick rivulets of drool dripping from the connection point and moistening the linens upon which the toddler rested. Each and every motion made by the rugrat elicited a harmony of crinkles from a genuine pair of baby Pampers... a fresh diaper, mercifully, as Scott had regressed to infancy with a teenager’s load nearly as big as he filling out the seat of an increasingly-oversized diaper.
“Well,” Carroll sighed, scrawling a few more notes into her file, “it’s hard to believe we’re at your discharge date already.”
Scott squealed and blew a spit bubble.
“I’ll be tendering my resignation now,” Nurse Divine remarked, “not that I regret assisting you for a minute.”
“I’ll be joining you,” replied Dr. Carroll. “I’ve accomplished what I set out to do. What Baby ‘Cotty needs now is a full-time mother to care for him and keep him mired in safety and love.”
“I couldn’t think of anybody better.”
With the paperwork filled out and the red tape cut, it was with the bright smile of a new life that Dr. Annabelle Carroll left California Pacific for the last time, cradling Baby ‘Cotty Carroll in her arms, the two of them reentering a warm and sunny world.
A world all to themselves.
. . . the end