Loving Care: The Stories of Lola Trechlyn

Chapter 8
C1 - No Child Left Behind

Chapter Description: F on M, Physical AR. / Originally published on June 26th, 2007.

for scott

The summer sun poured through the classroom windows and illuminated Scott’s smiling face. The 18-year-old fidgeted at his desk, casting eager glances at the clock and expending nervous energy by tapping his foot and twirling a pencil between his fingers.

Two fifty-six, he thought to himself. Only four minutes ?til it’s all over!

The transition was bittersweet for Scott. He had spent his entire life growing up in his town - attending its schools, befriending his peers, learning from the town’s teachers and eating its homemade ice cream. He didn’t know anything else, and a part of him didn’t want to leave.

He knew, however, that it was time, and he took some solace in understanding that he would carry the town and its people in his heart forever. Scott saw himself walking across the stage and accepting his diploma. He saw himself saying goodbye to his friends, wishing his mentors well, and packing up the family car. College and the “real world” loomed before the boy, simultaneously inviting and intimidating him, beckoning Scott out of his childhood and into a brave new...

“Scott!”

“Y...Yes, Mrs. Danvers?”

The homeroom teacher tsk-tsked admidst the knowing chuckles of Scott’s classmates. All his life, he had been led around by the nose at the whim of a wandering, flight-prone mind; why would it be any different at 2:58 PM on the very last day of his high school career?

“Come up here and get your portfolio rubric.”

Scott stepped away from his desk and approached his teacher, taking the grade report of his senior project from Mrs. Danvers’s hand. He had to wait the longest, as usual; throughout school, Scott had resented his bad luck in having a last name which started with a letter so close to the end of the alphabet. Their eyes met and the twentysomething smiled. Scott, typically, became awestruck, his heart stopping for but a split second that seemed like hours. He had had his fair share of passing relationships throughout his high school career, but not anything, nor anybody, had made him feel quite as special or as cared for as the smile of his high school homeroom teacher.

She was beautiful. Mrs. Danvers looked five years her junior, with flowing blonde hair, fountain-blue eyes, and perfectly-squared teeth as white and crisp as freshly-fallen snow. She radiated a magic, a loving aura that for eternity could go unwritten but would forever stay with Scott, warming his heart when the evenings got chilly and his old hometown seemed so far away from...

“You may sit down now, Scott.”

“Oh, sorry.” More chuckles.

Scott returned to his seat and glanced at the paper. It was an itemized assessment of his senior portfolio, a discipline-spanning project at which he toiled away for months, spending the occasional all-nighter chugging Red Bull and cursing W.’s “No Child Left Behind” legislation.

But there were no numbers written, no boxes checked... just a simple note, scrawled in red pen and rendered in impeccable cursive handwriting: “See me after class.”

Scott felt his heart drop into his stomach. At the same time, the dismissal bell rang, and the poor boy nearly jumped out of his seat from fright.

“Have a great summer, everyone!” Mrs. Danvers called out toward the mass of bodies rushing for the classroom door. “I’ll miss you!”

At last, when the final graduating senior had bounded past the threshold and slammed the door behind him in celebration, the classroom wherein so many memories had been made was empty.

Except, of course, for Scott and Mrs. Danvers.

The teenager hoisted his backpack over his shoulder and took a couple of nervous steps toward the young woman, holding the rubric in his hand.

“You, um... you wanted to see me, Mrs. Danvers?”

The teacher smiled again and nodded. She sat at the front edge of her desk and crossed her long, slender legs. “Yes, Scott. I won’t take up too much of your time.

“I wanted to let you know that it’s been a pleasure having you in my classes these four years,” said Mrs. Danvers. “You’re kind, you’re gentle, you’re sweet... you’re a fabulous writer, a terrific orator, and an outstanding student.”

Scott blushed furiously. “Th...thank you!” He could feel the blood pumping hotly through his cheeks. At this moment, as it had been for so many years prior, the young man would do anything for Mrs. Danvers’s approval.

“Really...” she continued, “...and please, don’t repeat this, but you’re the best student I’ve ever taught. Truly, my favorite.”

Scott’s heart melted and the boy scratched the back of his head modestly. “Thank you, Mrs. Danvers. You’re my favorite teacher, too.”

The lady winked. “Why, what a sweet thing to say!”

Scott nodded and glanced around anxiously. “So... uh... about my senior project...”

“Yes! Of course,” Mrs. Danvers said, throwing up her hands. “I get so scatterbrained sometimes. Here it is. Let’s look at it together.” The teacher pulled a manila file folder from the inbox on her desk and set it beside her, flipping it open so the teenager standing in front of her could follow along.

“There’s, um, a lot more stuff in here than I remember including,” Scott said. He pressed down on the inch-high stack of papers with his fingertips and flipped through them with his thumb.

“It’s my graduation present to you, Scott,” Mrs. Danvers said. “When I was grading your portfolio, I got to thinking about how much I’m going to miss you. I wanted to express my gratitude to you for brightening my life and helping to make this job worth the trouble. So, I contacted my colleagues at the junior high, elementary, and pre-schools and asked them to help me assemble a little portfolio of my own - an accounting of some of your papers and projects that they’ve held onto over the years, assembled here for you to peruse whenever you want.”

Scott couldn’t contain his excitement, nor could he contain his bashful thankfulness. He grinned widely and flipped through the contents of the folder. The teenager was flattered that his favorite teacher had gone to the trouble of amassing what amounted to his life story as reflected in schoolwork. Memories flooded back as he glanced at history papers, book reports, and math assignments.

But something was different. Upon certain assignments, dating all the way back to Scott’s childhood, brand-new stickers had been placed. They were shaped like fruit, shiny, and unadulterated by age; for that reason, they seemed rather out-of-place.

And awkwardly childish.

“Uh, Mrs. Danvers?” Scott asked. “What’s with the new stickers?”

“Oh, those. Those are scratch-and-sniffs! I put them on the assignments which I thought were particularly cute or well-done. I hope you don’t mind.”

Scott smiled. “I don’t mind at all. Thanks.”

“Well, try one out!”

Scott chuckled and began rifling through the papers. Near the top of the stack, he found an English assignment he had written during his freshman year of high school: a review of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Affixed to the top of the front page was a sticker shaped like a grape.

“I love that play,” said Mrs. Danvers, “and your review of it was just outstanding. So comprehensive, and it really touched upon a lot of the most important themes.”

“Thank you,” Scott said, smiling.

“Go ahead. Scratch and sniff.” Mrs. Danvers shot the teenager a wink.

Scott rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay,” he said, and humored his favorite teacher with a cursory scratch of the grape sticker. Sight unseen to either of them, at the microscopic level, tiny scent capsules affixed to the surface of the sticker broke open and released the artificial aroma of grapes. Scott inhaled, felt a slight tingle, and chuckled.

“It’s grape, all right,” said the boy.

But something deep within himself was changing. He could feel it, like a wellspring of rejuvenation bubbling up from the recesses of his body. As the scents from the sticker wafted through Scott’s sinuses, into his bloodstream, and across the blood-brain barrier, a refreshing surge of controlled energy lit up the boy’s nerves. He felt as if he were high, or as if he were glowing.

Then, Scott began to shrink. It was subtle at first, but noticeable, as the teenager realized he had to adjust his field of vision to retrain his now-confused gaze onto Mrs. Danvers’s eyes. He shuddered as his skin tightened around dissolving muscles, as bones lost their calcium buildup, as his height receded by inches and his strength by years of forfeited gym class hours.

Mrs. Danvers smiled knowingly at the boy as the realization came to him - he was actually getting younger! Worse yet, Scott identified that the dumb haze of confusion which had begun to pump into his brain like a toxic cloud was, in fact, a manifestation of years of knowledge vanishing into the ether. The teenager’s eyes glazed over as he forgot the significance of the World Wars, lost the plot of Crime and Punishment, and realized with utmost horror that he no longer knew how to drive.

After all, one has to be sixteen years old to drive a car, and Scott wouldn’t be that old for another two years.

Mrs. Danvers hooted and clapped her hands. “Splendid. Splendid! It works!”

Scott cast a look of anger tempered with fear at his jubilant teacher. “W...What have you done to me?”

Mrs. Danvers looked upon the fourteen-year-old boy in front of her with awe and wonder. Not only had the chemical concoction sealed within the scent capsules of the sticker done its job to great effect, but the magical incantation she had imbued upon it as a corollary had succeeded, as well; Scott was no longer wearing the t-shirt and jeans in which he was clothed as an eighteen-year-old senior. In their place were a polo shirt and a pair of khakis - the exact outfit Scott had been wearing the very evening he had written his analysis of Hamlet.

“Now, now, Scott,” said the boy’s teacher, calmly, reassuringly. “Let’s not get upset. It’s part of my graduation present to you. We’re simply reliving years gone by. You do want to share some fond memories with your favorite teacher before you leave your childhood home for the ?real world,’ don’t you?”

The logical portion of Scott’s brain wanted to object, but he felt a smile coming on. He hadn’t counted on Mrs. Danvers making such good sense. She was so caring, loving, and trustworthy...

...the least I could do is show my thanks by playing along.

“Yeah, alright,” Scott replied, giving the floor a bashful kick. He was mildly surprised to hear his voice crack with pubescence.

“You know, Scott...” Mrs. Danvers said. She moved her ink pen to her mouth and rested it between her teeth. “I’m just now recalling how handsome you were, even at fourteen. Such an attractive young man you grew up to be.”

Scott smiled and accepted the compliment, but something was different this time. There was something about Mrs. Danvers’s tone of voice that signified a profound shift in the dynamic of their relationship; a magical resonance or timbre that bespoke an element vaguely romantic... almost sexual.

Mrs. Danvers stood up from her perch and approached the freshman. “And I’ve noticed that you sort of have a thing for me, too... don’t you, Scott?”

It was true. Scott was just entering puberty and his hormones were raging like a deluge of atomic warheads. He caught a gasp in his throat as he felt blood rush to his penis, gradually engorging it with adolescent arousal as his goddess of a teacher walked sultrily towards him. Scott tried to cover up the tent in his khakis, but felt pleasure at his own touch, and he pressed his palm against his throbbing cock beneath the fabric and gave it a gentle squeeze.

This isn’t right, Scott thought. But this feels... so... good.

He hungered for it. The young teen humped gently against his own hand, helplessly masturbating himself through his pants and in front of his amused teacher. He didn’t know whether it was the chemical, the magic, or the deep-seeded realities of his subconscious - but Scott wanted Mrs. Danvers, and in “that way,” and more than anything else in the world.

Scott groaned as his hard-on pressed achingly against his pants. He moved his hands to his belt and instinctively, reflexively, loosed himself from it. He slid his khakis down to his ankles and kicked his pants aside. The fourteen-year-old stood in front of his teacher in only his polo shirt and boxers, his pulsing erection poking through his fly and begging for attention, a translucent bead of pre-cum forming at the tip. His self-consciousness was overwhelmed by his horny adolescent lust.

“Stop, Scott,” Mrs. Danvers said - and the boy complied. “I’m flattered - really, I am - but I can’t take advantage of you this way. What do you say we look at just a couple more of your assignments, and you can be on your way?”

“I’m sorry!” Scott said, realizing that, in his possessed drive to make love to the teacher he so admired, he may have gone too far. His erection quickly began to dwindle and his pre-cum fell in a humiliating string to the tile floor. “I didn’t mean to!”

“No, no, don’t worry about it!” Mrs. Danvers replied. “I understand that young boys feel these things sometimes. It’s perfectly natural. You’re a healthy, fourteen-year-old little man. Let’s just move on. We’ll forget it ever happened.”

Scott was relieved. Forgiveness! He wiped his brow and felt his erection wilt between his lightly-hairy legs. The freshman was so overcome by the circumstances surrounding his situation that he didn’t even put his pants back on before returning to the manila folder resting upon Mrs. Danvers’s desk.

He selected his next assignment. The memories came flooding pleasantly back to Scott as he looked upon a journal entry he had written in a second-grade grammar class. Mrs. Danvers joined the boy in some good-natured chuckling over the crude drawings and fanatic ruminations over the adventures of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

“That one has a banana sticker,” Mrs. Danvers observed, pointing. “Do you want to try it out?”

Scott was apprehensive. He loved the scent of bananas, perhaps more than that of any other fruit, but he felt uneasy about the biological processes his body and mind were undergoing and hoped beyond all hope that the effects weren’t permanent. He concluded that Mrs. Danvers would never willfully put him in such a position, however, and, eager to please his altruistic mentor, the teenager scratched the banana-shaped sticker and inhaled the aromas and chemicals it released.

The changes occurred instantaneously. Scott gasped as he felt the increasingly-familiar energies permeate his body. As the boy left puberty, his frame changing shape and his shoulders losing their broadness to collapse into a childlike slouch, Scott looked down and found his boxers changing color and tightening. He realized that they were metamorphosing into a pair of Ninja Turtle briefs, just as he had made a habit of wearing when he was seven years old.

The fly of Scott’s boxers closed up and converted into white stitching. Leonardo, Donatello, Raphael, and Michaelangelo appeared along the fly of the boy’s briefs and around the back. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles logo appeared in repeated succession across the waistband. As Scott’s body shrank to fit his new briefs - and the Batman t-shirt he was wearing the day he had written his journal entry about the heroes in a half-shell - he whined with humiliation as his once-proud adolescent cock lost all semblance of manhood, his tufts of pubic hair retreating into his skin and becoming nonexistent beneath the white underwear, the shaft of his penis and the testicles below constricting into the laughable peanut of a small boy.

Scott shuddered as the regression slowed, then looked up at Mrs. Danvers, who was laughing. The seven-year-old couldn’t help but whine as the enormously beautiful lady examined him like a model’s judge. Scott stood firmly in position, dropping his journal entry to the floor as Mrs. Danvers sized up his small body, the tiny package in his Turtles briefs - and the shameful skid marks lining the back of the fabric.

“My goodness, Scotty!” Mrs. Danvers chastised. “Didn’t anybody teach you how to wipe your butt? You don’t do a very good job... what if you were to get in an accident? How embarrassing!”

She was right. Scott could feel it in his youthful bones. He was such an ashamed, scared little boy, and he felt his young emotions begin to well up within him.

No... NO! he thought. Don’t give in!

Scott brought his small hands to his eyes and brushed away the forming tears. He knew he was still a man inside, even though he had lost all of the knowledge and emotional control he had picked up throughout elementary and junior high school. He knew he was still a big boy! That mean old teacher couldn’t take that away from him - nuh-uh!

The little kid sniffled and opened his eyes to find that Mrs. Danvers was handing him another assignment. Scott’s curiosity got the better of him and he glanced at the paper to find that it merely contained the address of his childhood home, scrawled in blocky handwriting - hideous penmanship which conveyed almost no fine motor control.

I wrote this down when they were teaching me my address in pre-school!

“Scratch and sniff,” directed Mrs. Danvers. “It’s a pear. I know you like pears, little guy.”

Scott whined uncontrollably. He did like pears... and he had nothing to lose! Almost as if he had something to prove, Scott scratched the sticker with his tiny fingernails and took in all it had to offer.

The boy dropped the sheet of paper and stumbled backwards as he felt the magic flood through his body. He struggled to hold onto his mind and all the things he had had so much difficulty learning when he was a kid, but it was no use. As the shrinking child walked backwards, becoming six years old, then five, he forgot how to read, lost all but the most basic of math skills, and failed to understand why he was wearing Turtles underwear... when only the big kids got to wear real underwear.

He didn’t have to wonder for long, though. As the four-year-old Scott fell backwards, his butt colliding with the tile floor of the classroom, he was simultaneously relieved and horrified to discover that the impact had been a soft one. He looked between his legs and gasped as his Turtles underwear began to thicken into padding. Leonardo turned into Big Bird, Donatello became Oscar the Grouch, and Raphael melted into the image of Grover. Scott beat his fists on the floor and began to cry as his big-kid underwear puffed out into Sesame Street training pants, the thick padding between his legs teasing his tiny penis, mocking his current state and making him feel like a helpless toddler. And when the regression ceased and Scotty revisited his three-year-old self, he was doubly horrified to feel a warm wetness begin to pervade the fabric of his training pants.

Scott felt hot tears run down his cheeks as he helplessly peed his training pants in front of his gorgeous teacher. He rolled onto his back and pounded his heels on the floor, struggling to regain control, squeezing his muscles as much as he could - but it was to no avail. Warm urine continued to flow out of his penis, saturating the front panel of his training pants, flowing over his testicles and collecting underneath his bottom. The boy was so humiliated he could barely bring himself to open his eyes as the storm, at last, ebbed to a few final squirts.

“Aww,” Mrs. Danvers cooed, leaning down and brushing the fine, blonde hair away from Scott’s puffy eyes. “Did widdle Scotty have an accy-dent in hims twaining panties?”

Scott continued to bawl. He pushed his thumb into his mouth and began to suck. His cheeks moved inwards and outwards as an action long-forgotten took over his consciousness. He opened his eyes to see Mrs. Danvers gazing down upon him lovingly.

“That’s okay, my little angel,” said Mrs. Danvers. “That’s why little boys like you wear training pants. You’re too old for silly diapers, but only big boys who can hold their pee get to wear real, big-kid underwear. You do understand that, don’t you?”

Scott sucked his thumb and nodded. “Uh-huh.”

Mrs. Danvers beamed. “Such a smart boy you are! To show you how proud I am, I have one more thing to show you.”

Scott sat up, the saturated training pants between his legs making an embarrassing squishing noise. His teacher then presented to him a true relic: a sheet of paper bearing inky footprints. It was a memento the doctors had presented to Scott’s parents at the hospital the night the baby had been born.

And, above the footprints, was a sticker in the shape of an apple.

“NO!” Scott wailed. “No... pwease!!”

“Here,” Mrs. Danvers said. “I’ll help you with this one.” And she scratched the sticker and held it to little Scotty’s nose.

The toddler held his breath. He held it, and held it, and held it until he turned blue. He felt so petulant, so pouty. But he had to fight back. He just had to.

He couldn’t. As Scott took a much needed breath, the scent of apples penetrated his brain, and he began to shrink.

Scott burst into tears anew as the names of numbers and colors escaped his mind. He loosed a babyish squeal and looked down to see the Sesame Street characters disappear, replaced with duckies and balloons. The training pants grew thicker still, pushing the boy’s tiny legs apart as Mrs. Danvers’s magic transmogrified the underwear into a double-thick disposable diaper. An outer covering of shiny plastic developed and a tight band of tape encircled Scott’s waist as he reentered the years of his infancy, becoming two years old, then eighteen months.

“Noooooo!” Scott bellowed. “Top dis! Dun do dis to baby Cotty!! Waaaaahh!!”

Scott’s t-shirt disappeared, leaving him in only his very wet diaper. He felt the last of his baby teeth recede up into his gums, and as he cried, a line of drool fell from Scott’s chin and streaked down the front of the plastic. He fell back to twelve months old and sucked his thumb in abject fear as a soft load of baby poop worked its way out of his butt and filled the back of his diaper. Lacking the strength to crawl or support his own weight in any way, the baby rolled onto his stomach and bellowed an infant wail and helplessly pushed his stinky mess into his diapers. It spread between his legs and covered his miniscule nub of a penis.

“My, what a stinky baby!” Mrs. Danvers called out over the rapture. Scott continued to kick his tiny legs in frustration as his age regressed to seven months, then six. He caught his breath, then squealed again, his wail piercing the air as he felt his testicles leave his scrotum and draw up into his abdomen. He felt so weak, and so ashamed, and so helpless - and the nauseating mess surrounding his crotch did nothing to allay his anxiety.

Scott rolled onto his back again and grabbed his foot. His mind was so lost and tormented that his only remaining defense mechanism was to bring his tiny toes to his mouth and suck on them. The baby’s eyes rolled back into his head as he became a three-month old.

Baby Cotty wuv tate of my toes. Baby Cot... bab... aba... bababa...

The adorable little infant sucked eagerly on his feet as the regression began to slow. Finally, his mind emptied and his diaper filled, Scott was, at last, just as he was the very afternoon during which he was born.

Gaaaaaawaaaaaaiiiiheheheeee!!

Baby Scotty giggled and felt Mrs. Danvers pick him up and set him upon her desk. As she diligently changed his dirty diaper, handing him a pacifier upon which to suck and wiping the nasty poop away, the infant used what was left of his mental faculties to remember the life he had built for himself, and what he had so recently become.

Truth be told, he liked the attention. He liked the love. He liked the feeling of Mrs. Danvers’s warm hands expertly moving over his penis and bottom, cleaning him, powdering him, and oiling him. He savored the feeling of tender loving care as she wrapped a thick, clean diaper around his most private areas.

Scott calmed down as he was held to Mrs. Danvers’s breast. He let his eyes fall shut and listened to her heartbeat and her warm, reassuring voice.

“That’s right, little baby Scotty,” she cooed. “It’s all better now. Everything’s okay. Mommy loves you, little one. You’re her favorite. And she’s going to raise you in this wonderful town all over again. She loves you so much, and you’re going to be hers forever. Would you like that, my sweet little angel?”

Scott sucked his tiny thumb, and without opening his eyes, he nodded with what little strength he had left. The last spark of intelligence faded away from his mind. He surrendered himself completely to the woman he loved. His mommy. Forever.

On the day of his birth, Scott learned a new feeling: that of euphoria. It comforted him as he drifted into his first slumber.

with love,

lola trechlyn

Retrospective

It took several public displays of my writing style before people started offering me money to adapt their ideas and fantasies into the Lola Trechlyn spirit. I charged well under market... I was self-aware enough to know I was a $40/story kinda talent, not the occasional reports you hear of $500 stories that pop up now and then. Since I was decently employed at the time, I’d usually just burn my fee at my favorite bar, bringing my laptop along, ordering up a lineup of IPAs and getting on with the writing for the sake of it.

Everyone else seemed to like it, as well (except Owlkeeper... LOL), and, as time went on, it became the second of my Value 3-Pack-- the sole three stories with which the lolatrec name became inextricably linked: "Lemonade Conundrum," "No Child Left Behind," and "In The End."

Thanks for reading. -lt