Chapter Description: Clark recounts his first night back in a crib.
I woke up not to the sweet screeching of an electric alarm clock, but to terrible gut cramps. Had I been dreaming, I would have felt that I was being stabbed in the stomach. Out of second nature and a few decades of habit, I rolled my head to the side and searched for the clock as my mind began to process that I was no longer dreaming.
Wooden bars stared back at me. There were no blinking numbers; no snooze button to hit. To my other side there was no Cassie snoring lightly; just more bars and a solid wall. Only the crickets outside added to the soundtrack of my world.
Another cramp in my stomach. My bladder wasn’t happy either. It must’ve been something I ate. My brain corrected me: It must’ve been something I was fed. This wasn’t just denial or paranoia. I was thirty-two. I’d had enough hard drinking Gwiffin Parties to recognize when something was irritating my bowels. Hell, back in college, Littles would make sport of eating Amazon spices just to see who would break first. The pain on your tongue burns like hot coals. The spices raking their claws along your intestine on their way out is worse.
It was the chicken nuggets, maybe. The dipping sauce, more likely. Possibly the milk, too; even if Janet had taken a swig. The ache in my bladder increased into a kind of burning. Instinctively, I tried to clamp down and squeeze my legs together. I got only as far as the thick night time diaper; my knees didn’t even graze each other.
In a weird way I was relieved that I was feeling these things. Whatever had caused my “accident” earlier hadn’t taken away my continence. I wouldn’t be awake just then if it had. Gingerly, I reached underneath the sheets and gave the front of the diaper a squeeze.
Still dry. Good.
Another cramp jogged my memory.
No! Not dry! Not dry at all! I’d already peed myself so that I could get to sleep! The padding was just so absorbent that I’d barely felt it and allowed myself to forget! That meant that this plastic backed monstrosity could hold more; a lot more…
At least that combined with my present discomfort meant I probably hadn’t wet in my sleep. Probably.
I closed my eyes and exhaled through my nose. On my next inhale, my guts decided to jab me from the inside out. I let out a low growl; as if rattling my throat might ease the pain. It didn’t. Not at all.
It was dark outside. It could have been just before dawn when I normally woke up. Being a teacher meant that sleeping in lasted only as long as the sun stayed low. My internal clock didn’t know that I’d been put on permanent vacation. It also could have been just after sunset.
I didn’t know. Babied Littles- dolls- weren’t given clocks. They didn’t “need” to know what time it was since every aspect of their schedule was controlled by an Amazon. They...we aren’t given the basic consideration of a sense of time.
I was one of them now: A diapered Little. An adopted prisoner pet. A living doll. That realization hurt almost as much as the cramping of my bowels. Almost.
I locked my knees and clenched my cheeks as another wave hit me. The pain was coming in waves now. It was like being buried up to my neck in sand as the tide came in. I was helpless. Immobile. Enough strength had returned to my body that I could move a bit, possibly even roll over...but rolling over was not in my best interest. The cramps were coming in waves...lowtide turning into high.
It wouldn’t be long before the only thing keeping me from debasing myself further was leverage and lack of room for anything to come out of me. Fleetingly, I tried to sit up, but between the bulk of my (already wet) diaper, and my stomach muscles writhing in pain, it was a non-starter.
The waves were hot and boiling inside me; a tempest in a teapot that wanted to escape. Each wave enveloped me a little more. I’d close my eyes and clench my cheeks; grit my teeth for the wave to pass. I had to keep my cool. Foolishly, I held my breath as if that did anything for the rest of me. I tensed and waited with each wave, just waiting for it to pass so that I could snatch a quick breath before the next wave submerged me in clenching twisting agony.
It wouldn’t be long now, not long at all. Only one way to end it.
I gasped and opened my mouth. Thought about calling out for Janet. She wouldn’t come, though. Her bedroom was likely on the other side of the house. Even if she could hear me, she wouldn’t come; some twisted typical Amazon way to teach me to “sleep through the night”.
And what if she did come? Would she take me to “go potty”? No. Not at all. Best case scenario, she’d hover over the crib, smiling madly as I filled my pants right in front of her. Fuck. She might even film it and post it on Facelog. “Baby’s first boom boom at home” or typical asinine horseshit.
Another wave made me wince badly enough that I felt my legs spasm and my hands shot down to my belly button. This was going to happen. It just was. A new fact of life. It wasn’t fair, but it was fact. Another new fact: I’d have to lay in my own mess until my new “Mommy” came in to change me.
My mind couldn’t even wrap around what would come next…
One losing battle at a time.
I’d have to do the unthinkable to myself...this time semi-on purpose and I’d be forced to stew in it. That’s why it would’ve been nice to know what time it was. From my literal and figurative position, eleven at night was a world away from five in the morning. If it were five, I could have even found the strength to hold on just long enough...just before Janet came to get me up. If it were eleven, I might as well just get it over with and try to go back to sleep. I’d already learned that I could sleep in a wet diaper…
Another cramp and my growls involuntarily turned into a moan; a whimper even.
No. I decided right then and there that I would not cry. I would not call out. Crying was for when I was safe enough to let my guard down or so completely overwhelmed that I had no guard left. I wasn’t safe then and I still had enough strength in me just then to push on.
Push on. A poor choice of words. My cheeks clenched along with my teeth for what felt like the hundredth time. I wouldn’t call out either. That would just rob me of what small dignity-the dignity of privacy- that I’d been left with in the moment. I would not give up that dignity without a fight.
If I was going to have to soil myself, it would be better to do it while no one was looking; even if it meant prolonged discomfort. It was how I’d have to think, now. It’s how I’d have to survive. Small acts of rebellion and choice. Tiny bits of defiance. Little things.
It was a fact of life for the time being.
I reached out and grabbed the nearest crib bar with one hand.
My body wanted to push.
My bladder was screaming. My bottom was shouting. But my mind wouldn’t give the command. “Just...fuckin’....do it…” I whispered. “Just get it over with.”
It wasn’t happening though. I couldn’t make myself; couldn’t let myself. Even though I’d relaxed my bladder and wet myself earlier that night. Even though something had made me lose control a few hours prior to that. It didn’t matter. I just couldn’t.
Going through one trauma doesn’t make the next one any easier. Train yourself to write with your right hand, and writing with your left isn’t something you can just pick up on a whim. A lifetime of potty training wasn’t going to be undone in less than a day, and contrary to what any Amazon thought, I was potty trained!
Yet the body and mind are connected, and when the chips are down, the body always wins. It wasn’t me who decided to poop; it was my body. I didn’t make myself lift my legs up off the mattress; it just happened. My body was too tired of the pain to resist. And even though I felt that push from inside me, I gave no conscious command for my sphincter muscles to contract.
I felt it though. I had no choice as I emptied myself. The second my diaper was filling up beneath me, my bladder gave in, flooding it for the (what I hoped was only) the second time that night. I just grit my teeth and hissed as I used the infantile garment for its intended purpose.
Maybe this is how real babies start. They don’t know how to use their bodies, so their bodies go on autopilot. And it’s warm and squishy and messy and smelly, but then a grown-up comes and fusses over them and cleans them up and changes them; and over time they associate those feelings of going in their pants with the feelings of being fussed over and doted on and they just get used to it. Maybe even like it.
Maybe that’s what happened to Littles who broke and went full native instead of turning into dolls. Maybe that’s what would happen to me eventually…
DON’T EVEN THINK LIKE THAT! NOT HERE! NOT NOW!
I slammed my eyes shut and immediately regretted it. Less sensory input meant that I felt more. I wasn’t done yet and in the two seconds that I’d closed my eyes, I felt every trickle and splash, every push and ooze more acutely. I opened my eyes and forced myself to finish; actively pushing the rest out of both sides of me just to get it over with.
Finally, I was done. I just lay there in the dark nursery, my legs still up off the mattress, not wanting to spread the mess. I felt the diaper start to wick the wetness away from my skin and bulk up around me, wet splashes becoming moist squishes. I became vaguely aware of the mess cooling; perhaps stiffening even; though that had to be my imagination.
I couldn’t sleep like this. I wouldn’t sleep like this. Groaning, and exhausted I tapped into my last well of strength and swung my legs sideways. I released the crib bar and reached for the other side throwing my weight even as my legs got tangled in the sheets.
I was rewarded by landing on my belly, the solid mess staying (relatively) away from me, while the wet pulpy mass cushioned and cradled my crotch. No leaking either, so I guess that was a plus.
It was dark. I wanted to be out of my body in the worst way and the only escape was unconsciousness. So I closed my eyes and murmured inside my own head.
Just ignore it and go to sleep.
Don’t think about it.
Just ignore it and go to…
Don’t think about…
Just ignore it and go…
Just ignore it and..
Just ignore it…
I don’t remember how many times I actually mumbled that to myself that night, but I think you get the gist. Eventually, my brain stopped thinking and I lost consciousness; back to the sweet oblivion that was dreamland. It might have been another eight hours before I felt Janet’s shadow over me, her hand patting my rear and cooing like an idiot. Or it might have been an eternity that lasted only 9 minutes. Point being, I escaped, if only in sleep.
Remember when I told you about my morning routine at the beginning of this book? Alarm, snooze, toilet, shave, get dressed, breakfast shake, out the door to work. Remember? Sure you do. And that unless I said otherwise, assume that’s how most of my mornings went more or less with only a slight variation here or there? Of course.
Well, this was my new middle of the night routine. I’d wake up in the middle of the night having to go to the bathroom, but knowing no bathroom would be made available, I’d agonize with myself for what was objectively far too long. Sometimes I’d have to poop. Most times I’d have to pee. But eventually I’d just give in, do the deed, and then roll over and force myself back to sleep.
A lifetime before this, I would have either gone to the bathroom and then stumbled back to bed half-asleep; or just muscled down and forced myself back to sleep; even a full bladder wasn’t enough to get me to leave my comfy bed.
Trapped as I was, the dynamic shifted. I couldn’t leave my bed if I’d wanted, and having the option...no...the expectation that my toilet was strapped to my waist made it hard to sleep with a full bladder. My mind would just fast forward to the inevitable instead of nestling down in the pillow.
So remember that as you read on from here out. I might not explicitly state it, but every night I fought a small battle with myself and lost. Every night I woke up, argued with myself a bit, gave up, hated myself, and then went back to sleep.
It was a far cry from my old routine, but part of me thought this might happen. It's why I kept reminding myself in the first place.
I played the game and I lost, just like so many other Littles before me. I couldn’t win. Never really had a chance. But I never could have not played, either. And it wasn’t fair. Not at all. But, for a short while at least-or so I promised myself- these would be the new facts of my life.
Stories of Age/Time Transformation