7 Days of Training

by: Ambrose | Complete Story | Last updated Apr 3, 2021

Set in a world where the AR-Virus hit. This story explores the struggle of an AR-Virus-Victim with AR-fantasies to let his dreams come true after his regression.(8 chapters, willing change of status after AR, little conflict).

Chapter 1

Chapter Description: After the AR-Virus regressed 19 year old John's body to that of a 2 year old he has to come to terms not just with his restrictions, but also with his secret wishes


I lie on my bed, in my room, feeling it being smaller than ever in the seventeen years I live in it, despite it now being larger compared to me than it has been in fifteen. This should struck me funny, but I don’t smile very often these days, not since the AR-Virus hit me. You might think having the body of a toddler is what is depressing me and well it does. I had no problem at school, a good job in sight after it -working at the public library is really more interesting than it sounds- friends and what you could call a general positive outlook on life. The virus took it, though it isn’t what vexes me, what makes me feel imprisoned.

I look around. The bed, much too gigantic to feel comfortable in, the desk with the chair, much to large to comfortable work on, the radio, playing songs I find less and less appealing. A clock showing the time I have no use for. There are books in the shelves I don’t read anymore. Besides them are photos of me, the real, near grown-up me who looks more and more like a stranger each day. A scary stranger. Once when I was alone I stood in front of a mirror, a picture of the old me besides me and compared us. I found little signs of him in my face. His having some edges, my being round and soft, no sign of the possibility of a beard I planned to let grow, even the concept of shaving growing more vague, more funny each day. Even his, my hair has changed, its color going from a light brown one to the fair blond I once had. I look at the picture of me not half a year ago and wonder who he was and could have been.

To fight this, to end this feeling of being ripped in two I once even wore my old shoes and one of my favorite old shirts. I would have looked ridiculous to anyone seeing me this way, marching in front of the mirror in shoes just gigantic on my feet and a shirt dragging on the floor. More than this, I would have seemed like a true two years old -I am between two and two and a half Dr. Abraham said- playing dress up, pretending to be grown up, like his big brother maybe. Part of me found this thought comforting.

My mother’s voice stops my thoughts “John, dinner is ready!”

Despite not feeling very hungry, I slide of the bed and wander into the kitchen, where some spaghetti is already placed on the table. My mother smiles at me, holding the pot with the sauce, while I feel obliged to smile back. With some routine I climb on my chair while she puts spaghetti and sauce on my plate which I look at while kneeling on the seat. This seems to be the only way now to be high enough to eat effectively without spilling things. We begin to eat, which means listlessly poking in the noodles.

“Not hungry?” mother finally asks.

I shake my head, feeling tears dwelling in my eyes and wishing to be in my room, anywhere else, to feel better.

“You can talk with me about everything.”

I look up to her, her loving, understanding face and remember that I always could.

It bursts out of me. “I don’t want to live like this anymore.”

“Oh honey you know they see little chance of curing the virus,” she says. “But you will always be big for me.”

“I don’t want to be big anymore. I don’t want to pretend anymore. It is so hard.” I nearly wail, tears bursting now running freely. “I want to be a baby. To play, to not care, to wear diapers...”

I stop, looking in her eyes, not being able to read her, to know if she understands. Not knowing what I’m doing anymore I jump of my chair, run into my room and bury my face into my pillow. I already regret having said it, think how strange I must look for her now. I cry some more.

After a while, I don’t know how much time has passed, I hear mother coming into the room and notice her sitting down besides me. She begins stroking my hair as she did when I was young the first time and I look up.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Don’t be,” she says. “You have feeling like this a long time, haven’t you?”

“It was okay when I was big,” I admit, suddenly realizing how foolish I was for her not knowing it or at last noticing it. “I had something to do. A life. I thought it would go away once I shrunk below puberty, but it never did, not really.”

“I wouldn’t mind having a baby here,” mother admits, smiling at me, “But you need to be really, really sure.”

I nod, feeling hope for the first time after so long.

“So, here is what I suggest we do. You will try being a real toddler for a week and I will treat you accordingly. If you still like it after this you can stay this way as long as you like.” I listen and while I do so my heart beats like mad, this is what I always dreamed of! “First we go to buy you a pack of training pants you wear these seven days. After that we can switch to diapers. Agreed?”

I nod again, feeling unable to speak.

“Great!” mother says smiling and stands up. “Come then.”

I practically jump of the bed and walk to where my shoes are standing. I feel so excited I can’t grasp the shoelace properly. Why hadn’t I decided for Velcro-straps in the first place... because they looked to young for me of course. When I have finally managed it, mother stands above me, holding a sweater.

“Hands up.”

First I’m surprised, then I smile and rise my arms. Toddlers were often dressed up, I remember when she pulls the sweater over me. When done, I am about to grab for my wallet, watch and cell phone, but mother raises a finger.

“Do toddlers need any of these?” she asks.

I shake my head. Of course not. Mother extends her hand and I place the things in it.

“You have your mommy to buy you things and tell you what time it is,” she explains with a smile. “I will take this somewhere safe.”


While mother goes to her room, I can’t but notice the strange feeling of excitement and maybe a little regret. Since my contact to my old friends pretty much broke off after my regression, the cell-phone is no great loss, though I guess I will miss its games. The wallet is a recent purchase. Small, so I can wear it and containing my ATM card, ID-card and AR-victim-ID. I hardly used the ATM card lately since I found it hard to find anything capturing my interest and I could buy without a raised eyebrow by other people -I once saw a ball with Simba on it for instance-. Still it is a loss of control I feel and gladly accept, along with the fact that mother is buying things from now on.

The ID-card and AR-Victim-ID though... These are the only things identifying me as an adult outside. While the photo of my ID-card has been updated, my AR-Victim-ID shows both versions of me. There simply has been too much trouble with real children pretending to be AR-Victims to not go sure. Not having it means a loss of identity, one of the few things connecting me with my old grown-up life. It feels good to let go of it though. Now I’m ready to go undercover.

Mother comes back and we walk downstairs. Feeling like I could race to the car, I yet stay at my mother’s side. Outside she opens the backdoor of the car and lifts me up when I’m about to climb in, placing me in my big booster seat and strapping me up. Feels great and I smile at her. The big booster seat isn’t mandatory for virus victims -though there is a hot debate going on- but mother suggested it out of concern for my security. I pretended to accept it only reluctantly, but in truth I was overjoyed. While its colors weren’t as bright as other booster seats I saw in the shop, it is yet through and through made for toddlers and as such pretty much the only thing I own which was. Even my clothes look decent and sensible, with no brightly colored patterns or animals I spotted on true toddlers when I met them. This way I always feel people identifying me as a virus victim only by looking at them.

In contrast the booster seat is big enough for me to sink in. While I can climb in and fasten the security belt on my own, I always need someone else to loose it, making it even better. I sometimes imagine sitting in a stroller during our trips which is great. The best is I know I look just like every other toddler to people seeing me in it. Once a cyclist had stopped besides my window, looked at me and waved at me with a wide smile I knew people reserved to toddlers. I had waved back with a big, goofy smile I only half pretended and had felt exalted for the whole day. In retrospective mother must have seen me in the back-mirror.

Mother is a careful driver and the trip is at the same time too long and too short. I feel fidgety, anxious to arrive at the shop and a bit afraid of what comes once we have. They say toddlers can become overstimulated, not knowing what to do with their energy. I hadn’t thought much to it, but this was how I now feel. When the car stops at the parking space of a supermarket we have rarely visited before, mother takes me out and seems to sense this in me. Carefully she places me on the ground -a strange feeling being moved so easily- and goes on eye-level and looks in my eyes.

“I know you are excited, but I want you to concentrate. In there you must play a little pretend, so the others can believe you are really a little tot. A few may have seen you before, but if there is anyone who knows you were once a big boy we can easily make him believe you slipped a bit. You know what I mean?”

I nod. A few victims of the virus, especially the ones turning very young like me, lost their memories of ever being older. Some lost everything, others just a bit and most grow more accustomed to the urges of their younger body. I had once thought of pretending to be one of them, but feared of not being able to pretend good enough. The same fear makes me suddenly feel very cold, all the energy drowning.

“What if someone finds out?” I ask insecure.

“No one will.” mother says, striking my cheek softly. “Just don’t answer when someone speak to you and look shy. A lot of boys of your age are.”

I nod, feeling not shy, but scarred. If someone found out it would be humiliating, not as much as if mother hadn’t understood, but still much. I feel scarred again, desperately searching for some comfort. Luckily my mother seems once again to sense it, maybe by my body language and picks me up. It is a strange feeling to be held this way and at first the part of me that is very much grown up resist it. Then she slowly walks to the supermarket and I rest my head on her shoulder, looking surprised at how big she is and how small everything looks from her perspective. Of course I have been even larger than her once, but the feeling with comes with it was too distant to feel familiar. Despite of this it works. A part inside me tells me everything is okay. Being held this way feels more natural by every second, I even believe to hear my mothers heart and it is comforting, like I am part of her now and nothing can harm me.

Then we enter the supermarket. Mother takes a shopping cart, places me in the child seat and I feel just like me again, or rather a smaller version of me I was just a hour ago. Part of me tells me everyone in the store will know instantly, but as we pass some the first customers, checking for fruits and vegetables, no one pays attention to me and I notice their eyes passing over me. Sitting in the shopping cart seems to automatically places me in the category of a toddler, yet I remain a little nervous. Even more so when mother pushes me not in the direction of the toilet articles.

“We need to shop for supper and breakfast, don’t we?” she asks playfully.

I nod in return and begin starring at my hands, not to alert anyone. How are real toddlers acting while sitting in shopping cart seats? I hardly know, since I always avoided looking at them too much, so I improvise and concentrate only on my feelings. It feels pretty strange being pushed to something you don’t see as does being pushed in the direction you sit in. Taking a look at the aisle around me I notice the cornflakes-boxes passing me. Their colorful design is more appealing to me than before, but still not terrible interesting. I look down on me, seeing my legs hanging free and smiling them a bit. That’s fun!

Smiling I look up, seeing my mother smile, too. She strokes my hair before turning to a woman behind the meat counter. I don’t listen, since I don’t want to give myself away by too much interest, trying once again to concentrate on my feet. My name is called and I look up confused. The woman is holding a rolled slice of mortadella close to me.

“Just take it from the nice lady,” mother tells me and I do so, as carefully as I can. “Say thank you John.”

Initially I don’t know what to say, fearing to pronounce it too mature, then I get an idea and take a bit of the gigantic looking slice in my mound.

“Thankka!” I mumble, causing my mother and the other woman to laugh.

“Such a darling,” the woman says. “I have one my own this age and he isn’t near this well behaved!”

“Oh he can be a wild one, too,” mother replies.

I decide to concentrate on the slice, taking care of not eating with my mouth closed too much, which needs much attention considering it is pretty much hard wired in my brain. This went well, I guess, considering the woman even had a toddler of her own and didn’t notice anything while paying attention to me. Yet, I can’t find myself to relax too much.

We are moving again before I have finished the slice and without me having noticed the talk having ended. I look around, but can’t make out neither our position nor our direction. This perspective is just too different from my adult one as the one as walking toddler alike. Suddenly mother makes a sharp, playful turn and we come to stop in the aisle with containing the diapers and training pants for babies and toddlers. I laugh spontaneously, looking at the pictures of toddlers smiling at me from the packages of various brands and ages.

“Now which would you like?” she asks, standing in front of the packages of different brands and sizes.

Having honestly no idea I’m going to tell her so, when I notice a woman approaching. By her side is a little, black-haired toddler, pushing a little shopping cart of her own. I remain silent and luckily my mother notices her before making a remark which could uncover me.

“Seems like someone is ready for the next stage,” the woman notices, giving me a warm smile.

“We are giving it a try,” mother replies, edging the truth.

I try concentrating on my legs again, but find myself looking to the girl who I guess is about my age. She sucks a pacifier, clipped on her pink overalls and looks at me quite intensely. Something in me tells me she knows I’m pretending, though I try to tell me I’m paranoid and it wouldn’t matter anyhow. I wonder if sucking my thumb would calm me down as the pacifier seems to relax her, but something in me still holds me back.

“Boys are different. I know it from my Peter. He just didn’t want to stay dry,” the woman says. “Do you want a tip?”


“Use Huggies Training Pants. They hold more, feel wet and you can open and close them easily again. Pampers Pull Ups are just diapers.”

Mother smiles. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Come Kathy! Say the goodbye.”

Kathy does wave and after a second I wave back smiling.

Once they’ve left and we are alone again, mother takes up the package of Huggies Training Pants holding it to me. It has the cartoon figure of a little boy dressed at pirate on the front.

“What do you say?” she asks playfully. “Do you want to be mummies little pirate?”

“Pirate mommy!” I agree enthusiastically, finding the picture very appealing.

She smiles, putting the package in the cart behind me before taking a few more things from the shelf. Among them are Big Kid Flushable Wipes special for Pull Ups with Mickey and Donald on them. Then she takes baby creme and powder, making me guess I won’t have problems with any diaper rash in the time to come. Suddenly she stands before me, blocking my view as she looks down on something. She picks it up and places it under the cart behind me, covering it with the other articles before I have a chance to look at it.

“A little surprise for you,” she tells me with a big smile.

Before I can ask she pushes me out of the aisle and in direction of the checkstands. We are the first in line and it goes quick, seconds later she puts everything in a bag, including the mysterious article, but excluding the package of Pull-Ups.

“Would you like carrying it for mommy?” she asks as she picks me out of the shopping cart seat and puts me down.

I nod, holding the package which looks so huge in front of me, smiling proudly as we go back to the car. When everything is packed and I’m strapped safely in my booster seat again, mother turns to me again.

“Well that was an adventure, wasn’t it?”

I smile. It is true, this was more exciting than anything I did in months and I feel more alive right now than since a long time.

“Mhh mom?” I begin. “Can I have a pacifier? I wouldn’t need to speak in public then.”

“You don’t need to speak before others even now, silly. Nobody thinks something by it and you did great in there, baby!” I smile by the praise as she continues. “Maybe I buy you a paci later. For now you could try too look in the internet for words toddlers your age use if you want. Beginning with mommy for mom.”

I nod as mother... mommy starts the car and drives us out of the parking lot. This sounds like a great idea! Still I find myself starring at my thumb and just for a moment I try to suck it. It feels neither bad nor good, though I believe to still taste the slice of mortadella. Looking up I notice mother watching me from the back-mirror and feel a bit embarrassed at her smile, so I look out of the window. I can’t help but think that the world seems larger right now.

When we go home mother brings everything in and tells me to stay in my room while she prepares something. Telling myself I’m a good little boy I do and begin googling for what words a toddler of my age should know. It is a little like doing research for a school project and I decide to see it as such while fighting my excitement of what is to come. After finding some sites informing parents that there is always a wide gap between the development of such skills in toddlers, I finally find a list of 25 of the 100 to 300 words a toddler of my age should know and begin mesmerizing them.

Mommy, Daddy, baby, milk, juice, hello, bye-bye, yes, no, dog, cat, ball, nose, eye, banana, cookie, car, hot, thank-you, bath, shoe, hat, book, more, all gone.

Sounds easy enough, though it is the lowest amount of words and I don’t know how to combine them or even speak them out so that I don’t sound too maturely. It would be easier if I had bounced at one year and a half, where the number was ten, or even one year, at which I just had to think of mama and dadda. I know there is little point in such thoughts, so I begin learning them, when at the second round when mother looks in.


I follow her, feeling my excitement swell again as we enter the living room, where the pack of Training Pants stands on the table beside the baby cream. She picks me up, placing me on the couch besides her and looks at me thoughtfully.

“Mommy thought about it and I have some ideas. Do you want to hear them?”

I nod.

“First. We, that is me, will tell the neighbors that your mind has slipped, like it happens to some victims of the virus,” she explains “If you decide against being a baby after a week I can just say you have gotten better.”

I nod.

“Second. I don’t expect you to use your Training Pants every time, but you should wet them once a day, enough for at last one coin to disappear. Oh and you should do poopy in it at last once during the week. Don’t tell me if you have. I will check it regularly at last if I think of it. Mommy must learn a bit, too, to live with a baby again.”

I nod again. This sounds very sensible.

“Third. If you decide you don’t want to be a baby, just tell me. You can keep the training pants no matter what and pretend being pretty much potty trained.”

“I want to try the seven days,” I assure her.

Mother smiles. “Then, lets change you!”

With this mother picks me up and places me on the table. Then she opens and pulls down my trousers, making me rise first one leg then the other. She proceeds with the underwear, a plain one without any motive, which I had always disliked for this reason and throws both on the couch.

“Now a little cream so you little butt and wee wee doesn’t get raw.”

Despite this being exactly what I wanted, I feel feel my cheeks glow at these words, The adult part of my brain insists that there is such a thing as modesty, even if it has little use for my tiny body. I try to tell myself this, though when mother begins rubbing butt I slip a bit and mother holds me so I don’t fall.

“Careful!” she warns.

I nod and control myself, as she finishes creaming my butt and continues with my groin area. There is really nothing to be modest of, I know that and instead concentrate on the soft, but relaxing smell of the cream. It doesn’t help much. Then, finally, she opens the pack of Training Pants and takes one out.

“One leg up.” she orders and puts my left, still socked foot through the hole when I follow. “Next one.” I rise my right foot and she pulls it through the other hole. Finally she pulls the training pants the whole way up and is done.

“How does it feel?”

“Great!” I say, despite feeling a bit disappointed, since in the first moment it feels just a bit thicker than my adult undies. Of course it is supposed to, helping toddlers to change from diaper to big boy underwear and of course it is just for seven days, but still I feel let a bit down.

“You have to see yourself in the mirror!” mother says.

She picks me up, places me down on the ground. I think that I can get used to be picked up. Then I walk to the mirror in the corner and for the first time really notice the difference between underpants and training pants. It makes me spread my legs a bit, not much, not enough to toddle, but there is a slight adjustment in my movements I find unsettling at first. Also moving makes me feel the thickness in the front and around my back and I instantly feel protected by it. Also the waistband and the parts around the legs are really tight, but in a good, comforting way. I definitely can get used to this!

In front of the mirror I nearly can’t believe what I see. A toddler in a blue shirt looks at me. His pirate themed training pant clearly visible. He could easily be one of the toddlers on the diaper pack covers, looking cute and a bit confused. I grab my shirt and so does he, so I know it is me! I giggle, maybe for the first time, pulling up my shirt to get a good look on my training pant. It fits me just perfect and without realizing it I jiggle a bit on my feet, feeling as if I could dance. Mother comes closer and I smile up at her. She returns the smile, going on her knees to be on my eye level.

“Do you like what you see?”

I nod, a bit too much and too fast, but I don’t care.

“I like it, too,” she says. “And do you know what I see?”

I shake my head, having no idea.

“I see a clever little toddler,” she says. “Clever and brave for he told his mother how he felt no matter how much he feared what she would say. I love you.” With this she gives me a kiss on the forehead and embraces me.

“I love you, too mummy.” I say.

After a moment she stands up again.

“Oh I nearly forgot. I have a surprise for my little boy in the kitchen,” mother says and holds out her hand. “Come.”

I take her seemingly gigantic hand and let myself being led in the kitchen. We stop in the middle of it, where she lets go of my hand.

“Close your eyes.”

I do and can’t help but giggle a bit again. It is so funny! So exciting!

“Open them again.”

When I do so I see a red plastic potty standing on the floor before me, the flushable wipes besides them.

“I think the toilet is a little too big for you. You will use this from now on and when you are done call me, so I will make you all nice and clean again. Is this fine for you?”

“Yes, mommy!”

She gives me a piece of paper and looking at it I see it is a potty chart with Dora the Explorer and some of her friends on it.

“I will let you draw a star every time you use a training pant from now on. If you make a big one in it you can draw a circle around the star.”

I like the idea, especially since normally these are used for exactly the different purpose. Also it gives me a goal and when mother sticks the chart on the door of the bathroom, exactly in the height of my eyes, I think it is the best idea mother ever had. It makes the whole thing so much more fun.

“You already had a big day, so the chart starts tomorrow.”



I grin and go to my room continue to learn about the language skills I’m supposed to have. When I climb on the chair I feel how flexible the training pant is, following my every movement. Of course it has to, to prevent any accidents from leaking out. Sitting down with crossed legs I also witness the thickness of it in full effect, feeling like having a small pillow under me. Learning the words goes easier now, maybe because I’m more relaxed and after a while I google the things I should be able to do.

Technically ar-virus-victims suffering mental slips are well known to sometimes display a wild mix of skills and knowledge they have normally forgotten. I remember reading about one having bounced at four and being happily reenlisted to Kindergarten, one day painting vaginas and even writing the word under them. A stern word from a caretaker and a time out in the corner later and he had all forgotten about it. Of course such things only give arguments to those saying that ar-virus-victims have no place in institutions for real children, calling them a danger for their normal development and comparing them to people suffering dementia or Alzheimer.

The other side argues that those institutions like daycares, kindergartens or on occasion even schools are best equipped to deal with them and call it cruel to not put them in the existing institutions. At last in the moment the authorities tend to the latter’s side, though I guess rather since they fear the large costs if new institutions become the standard. Just recently I read of a woman, now the legal caretaker of her brother who has become eight in mind and body, suing a summer camp for not accepting him and can’t help but wonder how it turns out.

Yet, I don’t want to be seen as ar-virus-victim, at last not at the first glance, so I concentrate on my case again. I read through the things I should do at my age, finding this even harder than what I should be able to say and I feel sure to be found out in no time. Insecure I feel frustration rise in me. I know I should be more relaxed and just give my best, but the one thing I can feel is how unfair it is, without realizing, that it is exactly what a real toddler would feel in my situation.

“Time for supper,” my mother call me, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Sighing I jump out of my chair and walk into the kitchen, the training pant suddenly not making me feeling secure anymore but worried. Yet, I try not to let my mother notice it when I climb the chair. To my surprise I find on a plate before me a slice of bread with strawberry marmalade on it neatly cut in little pieces and without crust. Realizing I should have expected it, I eat it with hunger for I skipped dinner nearly completely, but no real appetite and take few sips of an unsweetened tea. The cup is too large for me, as I have no chance of holding the handle, concentrating to hold it with my two hands instead, despite them not coming even close to holding it completely.

When I’m done I go back to my computer while mother cleans up. A little later she comes in my room.

“Time for a special little boy to go to bed.”

Surprised I look at the clock, discovering it is nearly fifteen minutes past seven.

“I know it is already well past bedtime.” she says, following my look. “And this while you had such a big day!”

I want to tell her that I’m not tired and need to do some research, but as if my body wants to betray me I yawn instead, making mother smile.


Mother extends her hand and jumping from the chair I take it, knowing there is no point in arguing now if there ever was one. We walk into the bathroom where she makes me stand on the white step stool I use to reach the sink and until now the toilet. Meanwhile she fills a glass with warm water, gives it to me to clean my mouth with and I do so and spit out while already puts toothpaste on my toothbrush. I half expect her to clean my teeth, but she just holds it to me, watching me while I clean them on my own. Once finished she puts my toothbrush away. I must have left a bit of toothpaste in my face, for after that she goes over my face with a wet washcloth.

“So, all clean,” she says. “Now it is potty time.”

“I don’t have to,” I say truthfully.

“Oh no matter. Just sit on your potty for a bit while I clean up, will you?”

I see little point in it, but decide to do so, good toddlers obey their mothers after all and I want to be good. Walking in the kitchen, mother takes the potty out from under the sink and places it in the middle of the room. I’m about to pull down my training pants when she stops it and does it for me. The she lifts me up, tells me to extend my legs which I do despite my surprise and puts me on the potty.

“Now sit there until I say otherwise.”

I nod and mother leaves the room. All on my own, bored and convinced of the uselessness of this, I look around in the kitchen. It looks larger from this position, everything, even the kitchen table look like made for giants, the room under it looking like amazing to hide under, to explore. I can’t help but feel suddenly intimidated by it, by how easily I once overlooked all this. To change my thoughts I begin to explore the red potty. I like its color, which is probably why mother picked it. Its seat covers my wee wee, probably to prevent me from playing with it or to make a leak. The way my legs are standing upright feels different from the way I normally have them hanging from the toilet, so I spread them. Doing so makes me think of sitting in a wide saddle, riding a horse. This mental image shifts to driving a fire truck, red like the potty, being a firefighter with shining yellow hat, putting fire out with a large hose, spreading liters and liters of water.

A sound pulls me out of this daydream. It is the sound of liquid hitting plastic. Urine. I’m peeing in the potty without having noticed it! Surprised I look down on me, my wee wee, still protected by the potty, feels warm as tiny splashes of urine cover it. I’m wondering at how much comes out and why it had felt like my bladder was empty before. I also wonder if I could stop it now. Finally I’m finished.

“My my, someone had to pee!” mother says.

I look up finding her standing above me, not knowing how long she stands there and not know how much time had passed, for the clock was, maybe intentionally, behind me. Smiling she takes me from the potty. A few tinkles fall on the floor, but if she cares she doesn’t say. Instead she takes some Flushable Wipes and begins cleaning my front and behind. Once finished she throws the wipes in the potty, pulls up my training pant and empties the potty in the toilet, cleaning it with a bit of toilet paper. After putting the potty back under the sink she once again takes my hand and leads me back in my room.

There I find the computer being off, the curtains closed, my bed made ready to slip in and my depressingly plain blue pajama being on the top of it. Mother puts me on my bed.

“Hands up!”

I do so and she pulls the shirt over my head and finishes it by removing my socks. Then she puts me in my pajama lays me on down and pulls the cover up to my shoulders.

“You were so brave today,” she tells me, stroking my hair and giving me a kiss on my forehead. “Sleep well.”

“Thank you mommy.”

Mommy, not mom or mother. I need to remember that.

Mommy turns off the light and closes the door so leaving it is only a little bit open. I lie there in the darkness, suddenly feeling not a bit tired. The training pant feels strange on me, too strange to sleep in comfortable. I turn and twist, feeling more and more worried. What if it doesn’t work, if I don’t hold through, if someone finds out? What if mom doesn’t want it anymore?

There is no change I can sleep this way, maybe I should pull it off, maybe I should... before I can think more I’m deep asleep.

To be continued...



End Chapter 1

7 Days of Training

by: Ambrose | Complete Story | Last updated Apr 3, 2021


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