Pulchre Infans: An Infant Beautifully

Chapter 1
Chapters I / II / III

.--. ..- .-.. -.-. .... .-. . pulchre infans .. -. ..-. .- -. ...

.- -. / .. -. ..-. .- -. - an infant beautifully -... . .- ..- - .. ..-. ..- .-.. .-.. -.--

.-- .-. .. - - . -. / -... -.-- written by lola trechlyn .-.. --- .-.. .- / - .-. . -.-. .... .-.. -.-- -.

... - --- .-. -.-- / -... -.-- story by Otacon29 --- - .- -.-. --- -. ..--- ----.

-.-. .... .- .-. .- -.-. - . .-. ... / -... -.-- / .-.. --- .-.. .- characters by lola trechlyn and Otacon29 - .-. . -.-. .... .-.. -.-- -. / .- -. -.. / --- - .- -.-. --- -. ..--- ----.

I ==--

The things you don’t notice growing up, he thought with a smile and an amused shake of his head.

Stephen Stone’s mind was on the facile architecture of the neighborhood in which he was driving. Five years before his birth, it was still “morning in America,” all but the highest echelons of the economy collapsing into themselves as the Great Communicator’s Cold War capitalism helped cause dime store houses to be vomited up like black gold from untapped middle American ground. Then subdivisions, then entire neighborhoods. It was one such neighborhood to which Stephen was brought home from the hospital in the spring of 1989. And, as he drove through it almost 22 years to the day, he noticed the pre-fabricated trees brought in from sapling farms, placed unceremoniously as pillars on either side of lukewarm concrete walkways. He noted the bland, stucco walls blanketing the drywall skeletons inside--

Blanketing. Stephen played with the word in his mind like a lump of clay as he navigated the straight-arrow streets and cul-de-sacs of modern suburbia. Just like I’d been when I was brought home from the hospital... comfy, cozy, soft...

The young student’s arm, perched on the car door, was helping to bathe Stephen’s elbow in spring sunlight. His thumb was at his teeth, and he nibbled idly at its nail.

Stephen’s senior year in college seemed to be draining away just as quickly as the region’s wintry weather had. He had had an internship for the past three summers -- a mandate from his mother who intended not one bit for her child to boomerang back into full-time squatting in her home after college -- but Stephen wasn’t thinking about his future with the company. He wasn’t thinking about graduating in nine short weeks. He wasn’t even thinking about his 22nd birthday on Monday, conveniently scheduled for his spring break and the huge party he planned to hold come sunset on that day.

No-- he was still playing with that lump of clay. Rolling it around in his head, shaping it with memories, sensations sticking to its surface like bits of dust.

Stephen’s arm still spilled out the window, but now his thumb was in its mouth. He wasn’t sucking it. Rather, it pressed against the roof of his mouth, tiny rivulets of hot saliva streaking down its flesh and landing on the tongue below.

Comfy, cozy, and soft-- the words echoed in his head. Holding the steering wheel with his right hand, maintaining a safe 10 miles per hour on the perfectly-smoothed asphalt, Stephen draped his left index finger across the roof of his nose. It settled into a telltale ridge in the bone beneath, a side-effect of years of growing and developing with his finger hooked between his eyes, pressing downward, holding his thumb in place whenever he scored a private moment over the years. His front teeth, he thanked his luck, had been spared deformity.

The kind a guy could get, sucking his thumb all the time. At the crotch of his jeans, beneath the fabric of his boxer shorts, his penis stirred from its slumber, having awakened as soon as its owner had reentered the neighborhood of his youth.

All the time.

He was doing it. Stephen let a warm gust of wind from his nostrils as his lips formed an airtight seal around the firmness of his thumb. He blinked, his eyes opening slightly wider with glinting moisture. The sucking motion to which Stephen treated his thumb had not been lost over the years. It hadn’t changed a bit from his youngest days, his tongue undulating like moist velvet around his skin, pooling saliva leaving slurping sounds in its wake as it slid to the back of his throat.

Stephen felt the familiar-in-a-different-way touch of his fully-erect cock stretching across the top of his thigh. It had worked its way out of the fly of his boxers as it pulsed with gradual growth, but was pinned against the top of his leg by the denim of his blue jeans.

All. The. TIME.

Stephen sucked his thumb with renewed vigor, his index finger pressing harder against the flesh of his nose, as he turned onto his street. Willowbrook Avenue. Yet another one bound on both sides by perfectly-manicured lawns. He could still feel the blades of grass, freshly cut, tickling the soles of his feet as he had toddled across his family’s. The yard had seemed immensely huge. Little Stevie had never for a minute contemplated the idea of experiencing every adventure it could possibly provide.

An unremarkable steel mailbox with the word STONE on it appeared to his left. He drove the comfortable clunker of a Neon into the driveway, feeing an intense agony as he made himself slide his soaked, slightly wrinkled thumb from the comforting confines of his mouth. It had always been one of his least favorite moments of the package experience.

Stephen smelled his moist thumb as he twisted his keys out of the ignition. His thumb always had a very particular scent after he sucked it-- a blank scent to anybody else, one of spit and wet skin. But he had attached a very different value to that smell.

The things you DO notice, growing up. His smile had returned.

When he looked down at his lap, his eyes made contact with the huge, stiff line of meat. His dick had been fucking his thigh for two whole minutes and had leaked a telltale stain of warm fluid. Stephen had already pulled over to the side of the road once before on the short drive back to his hometown, so the secret of his pseudo-tryst with his leg was reasonably safe-- still, Stephen took a couple minutes to compose himself and allow his erection to abate to half-mast before exiting the car and reclaiming his suitcase from the trunk.

His balls weren’t letting him forget his unfinished business, though, and Stephen ambled rather uncomfortably through the front door, dragging his luggage in tow.

II ==--

Stephen’s mother was understandably thrilled to see him. At six feet even, she stood three inches taller than her son-- a woman of unusual stature, but Stephen had never given it all that much thought. His own height, from toddlerhood to the very end of puberty, had always been decidedly average.

But he had never felt like an average boy. Stephen’s mother was firm and imposed limits, true, but she had also spent the past 21 years (and change) showering her only child -- her one precious boy and twinkle of starlight in the universe -- with all the affections and encouragement she would have evenly distributed among multiple children. Her increased height, even while Stephen’s topped out as his adolescence came to a close, helped her son to feel perpetually watched after by her. Guided, guarded, loved, and fawned over.

There is a certain amount of babying a mother will always give to her son, even as he enters old age. The phenomenon begins at birth and perhaps only attenuates on the most conscious and outward plane. It multiplies when she is blessed with but a single child, and is exacerbated still further if she is a single mother with that single child. A psychologist might have identified the manner in which Miss Stone singlehandedly raised her son throughout development as one that encouraged a stunted growth process.

Maybe their relationship had, at least partially, contributed to Stephen’s comparatively slow social development. Of course, there was the thumbsucking; while she tsk-tsked it as he grew into older childhood and lost his baby teeth, it seemed more a concern for how Stephen would be seen by his friends than any true desire to watch him proceed to early adolescence. She enforced slight, mostly ceremonial discipline over it... but whenever she walked in on him scrawling away on his high school trigonometry homework with his right hand and practically sucking the skin off the thumb of his left, it didn’t bother her. At least, she had ceased to bring it up. Stephen would blush, of course, filling in beet red like a coloring book page as his eyes met those of his mother’s and he jerked out the sopping digit, responding instinctually to the teenage boy’s obsession to be seen as an adult. But when she left his room, Stephen was smelling the moist skin, allowing his eyes to fall shut and his dick to beat weakly inside his pants.

Little Stevie Stone was bathed by his mother. He continued to do so even as he began insisting on being called Steve. In fact, it wasn’t until his ninth birthday that Steve took the plunge into standing up and taking showers on his own. The first few tries, when he had been eight years old, didn’t quite work out; Steve stood in the corner of the tub, his naked body plastered against the far shower wall, his arms splayed out and feverishly clutching at his surroundings as he bawled baby tears at the feeling of warm water striking his penis like tiny needles and washing down his thighs as if he were having an accident. Thirteen-year-old Stephen would later find that assuming the same position -- and crying theatrically, as he had five years prior -- would bring him over the edge of orgasm as he soaped up his developing cock.

And Stephen, as a growing child, was certainly no stranger to that sensation of having an accident. His relationship with protective underwear designed for boys months (and eventually years) his junior was one he would carry for far longer than any of his friends. He would have positively died if any of them had found out. But, as for his mother, Stephen didn’t mind her knowing and caring for him in that way. Perhaps it had been her assurances that he was still a perfectly normal and wonderful little boy. Perhaps he simply savored it.

Stephen learned to use the potty at age four, and even then, he wore double-thick training pants for new learners during the day. He would always make it to the potty to go poopies, as they had referred to it, and he would proudly call his mommy into the bafroom to wipe him afterward so he didn’t leave yucky stains in the butt of his trainers.

Stephen would also make it to the potty to do tinkles-- sometimes. But there were just as many instances when he would be doodling in his coloring book and sucking intently on his thumb, only to look down to inspect a new feeling of warm wetness around his peepee... and discover he was halfway through the process of soaking the crotch of his training pants. Stephen would simply let go and enjoy it, the warmth enveloping his tiny balls and soaking the skin of his butt. The training pants were double-thick, he reasoned, and Mommy would have to change them anyway.

But the potty was a daytime-exclusive phenomenon well into age six. At ni-nite, it was all diapers, all the time. Real baby diapers still fit upon his frame, and it was a bedtime ritual -- just before being tucked in and read a story -- for his mommy to remove his training pants, clean him up if he had wet them, and send little Stevie back to the Pampers he had worn since he was brought home from the hospital... just a little bigger.

The boy always met the morning sun to find his diaper soaked to the core. Mommy would similarly rouse him awake, change him out of his diapers, and graduate him to training pants for the duration of his waking hours. And Stephen would receive a midnight diaper change for those times he awoke, toddled to the potty, and used it to go poopies. He would awaken to attend to this heavier need.

...Sometimes.

From ages four onward, Stephen was okay with single-thick training pants during the day, and he graduated to Fruit of the Looms on his eighth birthday. As for nighttime, he held on to the double-thicks for ages six through twelve, and managed to consistently wake up in a dry bed (but wet single-thick trainers) well into puberty. It wasn’t as if he would awaken as a 16-year-old needing to go to the bathroom and intentionally soak himself. And he certainly wouldn’t smile around a sucked thumb as he massaged a midnight load out of his cock and into the wet fabric of his teen training pants.

...Usually.

III ==--

Stephen Stone would break the only taboo before sunset.

It was already past four o’clock when the visiting student and his doting mother finished their rounds of hors d’oeuvres, lemonade, and catching-up moments. Stephen was grateful, not only for the warmth and hospitality, but for the welcome distraction from the immediate physical need that had remained unmet since he disembarked. Mentally, however, he had spent the majority of their discussion elsewhere, thoughts of his childhood snowballing uncontrollably towards terminal velocity. His mind almost wanted to scream out like a boiling kettle by the time an appreciable lull in the conversation revealed itself.

“Thanks so much for this, Mom,” said Stephen, rising to retrieve his luggage. “Lemme clear this out for you.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” she replied. Miss Stone was already fussing with the crumb-speckled trays. “You go upstairs, get settled in. I’ll take care of this.”

Score, Stephen thought. Of course, experience had told him that he could have said pretty much anything and still been able to hightail it out of there. Just one of the benefits of being her baby.

Returning to his bedroom felt like slipping into an alternate dimension, one wherein everything remained frozen in time. It had been that way since he matriculated. Until his college dorm, Stephen had known no other bedroom over which he had complete dominion, and he had taken great pride in customizing it to his own aesthetic ever since he first attained the autonomy and opportunity.

The contents of Stephen’s bedroom were exactly as he had left them. His mother was as vigilant about dusting and vacuuming within these boundaries as she was in any other part of the house, but apart from that, the young man felt as if the fruits of his heart and soul persisted wholly unmolested. Posters of his favorite rock groups from the mid-2000s reflected soft light from wall to wall. A Nintendo Wii, of which the boy had felt too protective to risk toting to a dormitory, remained hooked up to a 17” plasma TV. A twin-sized bed sat -- lovingly made, and not by Stephen -- in the opposing corner. And, nestled comfortably beneath a westerly window on the wall facing the bedroom door, was Stephen’s computer desk-- more or less the centerpiece of his little kingdom ever since the Stones had signed up for broadband.

It was upon this very desk that Stephen set up the laptop he had dragged out of his suitcase. He closed his bedroom door and flipped the lock.

Finally.

Not 30 seconds later, Stephen was held in rapt attention-- and not by e-mail or online gaming. No. Today, the young man’s poison of choice, as it had been since he first shook hands with sexual maturation nine years prior, was the AR story. AR, which stood for “Age Regression,” lent itself as a literary trope to hundreds, if not thousands, of works of fiction, produced primarily by amateur authors. Though its focus was universal -- that of overriding the properties of time and sending one or more characters backward through various stages of physical and/or mental development -- its specifics were unique to each of its fans.

And Stephen’s preferences were quite specific.

After opening Chrome and visiting a website called the AR Archive, Stephen lined up four individual tabs, each opened to one of his longtime favorite stories. Their respective properties had much in common. Each featured a male protagonist, at or very near Stephen’s own age, relating in some social way to a female source of either romance or authority. Some supernatural element imposes upon the young man to regress in age. He reenters his adolescence, is alternately horrified or thrilled to lose his sexual maturity, and becomes a child. Sometimes he retains his adult mind; sometimes not. But by the time he’s back in diapers, having protested the entire time with varying degrees of verisimilitude, Stephen Stone is in the mind of his protagonist avatar. Stephen Stone is the big boy in the body (and often with the mind) of that baby, nursing from bottles, sucking his feet, and soiling thick, crinkly disposables.

He is all too wonderfully in the moment. Navigating the software with his left hand, Stephen uses his right to fish his painfully swelling cock out of the fly of his blue jeans. He wraps his fist around its pulsating firmness. The heft of Stephen’s seven-inch, well-maintained organ sits comfortably in the crooks of his fingers as its incredibly sensitive length flushes with anticipation.

Stephen centers the computer screen on his favorite part of his favorite story, pushes his knees together, and begins to pump.

When the character in the story gently kicks his legs in a futile attempt to fight off the effects of the regression, so does Stephen, swinging them helplessly beneath his computer desk. When the character begins to suck his thumb to calm himself down, Stephen pushes his own thumb between his lips, nursing on its salty skin. Stephen’s eyes fall halfway shut as his cock drools a drop of pre-cum onto his fingers, then another. He uses this as lubricant as he sucks his thumb and kicks his feet childishly.

The character proceeds to infancy and his shrinking cotton briefs puff out with padding, pushing his little legs farther and farther away from each other. Stephen moves his knees apart, opening his thighs, imagining quite convincingly that the warm material of an ever-thickening diaper is responsible. His cock twitches again. A protective layer of plastic, fastened together with Sesame Street tapes, flies around the character’s diaper, locking him in. Stephen is imprisoned.

Oh God, Stephen thinks, pumping faster and faster as he nurses on his thumb. Oh God...

Stephen imagines sucking on his toes and drooling down his chin, coating his chest and diaper in streaks of saliva. Stephen imagines having to learn everything over again, helplessly schooling alongside two-year-olds who know nothing about the college student bottle-feeding next to them. Stephen imagines every single diaper his girlfriend-turned-Mommy will have to change... every... single...

A voice from the doorway. “Stephen?”

It belonged to his mother.

“Jesus!” Stephen yelled. His eyes snapped wide open as he whiplashed back to reality. For reasons which weren’t entirely sensible to him, Stephen instinctively used his two split seconds to close his AR Archive window and whirl around to start feigning innocence.

Which would have been a lot easier to do were it not for his impossibly engorged cock jutting out the fly of his jeans, desperately needing to blow a load.

“Stephen!”

“Mom!” He wrestled to get his dick back into his pants so that he could zip up, but in its current state, the task proved impossible. Stephen settled for hiding it with his hands, feeling it already begin to shrink in fear and humiliation. “I locked the--”

“Been broken for a month,” she replied, a most dissatisfied look on her face. “What is it you think you’re doing?”

“I-- I... uh...”

“When will you ever grow up?” said Stephen’s mother, shaking her head. “Grow up and stop masturbating like a baby.”

Stephen remained silent. At last, he was able to stuff his penis beneath the fabric of his jeans and hide it with a quick and quiet zzzip.

“You know only babies fiddle around with their wee-wees when they can’t think of anything better to do.” It sounded like a line from one of Stephen’s stories, but it fell far, far short of arousing him. “Don’t let me catch you again.”

Stephen nodded. He wouldn’t. He thought he may have added a weak “yes, Mom” to his nod, but the volume at which his heart was beating in his ears prevented any sounds from his bone-dry throat from reaching them.

.....

 

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