Pulchre Infans: An Infant Beautifully

Chapter 4
Chapters VIII / IX / X / E

///// written by lola trechlyn

/// story by Otacon29 //

/ characters by lola trechlyn

and Otacon29 ////

VIII ==--

Okay, Stephen thought. This night has officially gone from weird, to hot, to the COOLEST THING EVER.

Stephen giggled despite himself. He just loved his outfit way too much. When Marissa trained her watchful eye on the child for whom she was responsible that night, all she saw was a goofy little rascal whose bare feet hardly even made it over the edge of the couch. But what Stephen saw -- and felt -- was the body of a college student wearing the clothes of his wildest fantasies.

His feet were bare and he wiggled his toes gleefully. He was relieved to be out of confining shoes and socks for a while. Stephen was clad in a soft cotton baby-blue t-shirt; adorning them were colorful stitchings of the Pound Puppies, his favorite cartoon from childhood. The sheer sight of it, the indescribably familiar feel of the fabric, took him back to the days when he had little of interest to say about anything other than dogs.

But the t-shirt wasn’t even the best of it. Wrapped around his loins, spreading his thighs and raising his butt a half-inch above the couch cushion... was a pair of training pants. Single-thick, soft fabric insides, and the most adorable puppy dog motif patterned on the crotch, butt, and between the legs.

Stephen thought he was in heaven just 60 seconds prior. This... this was transcendent.

“So,” said Marissa, “whaddya wanna do now, kiddo?”

Stephen stopped poking at the crotch of his training pants for a second and looked up. “Huh? Oh. Hmm...”

“We can do whateeever it is you want.”

A guy could sooo get into this.

“Um, well... Hey! Let’s go see what’s in my room!”

“Sure,” Marissa smiled, rising to her feet. “Maybe there’s something in there you want to do!”

There was something in there Stephen wanted to do, all right. He wanted to be in it. He wanted to look around, and poke around, and toddle around in training pants, and feel the soft carpet between his toes, and play with anything and everything he remembers but assumed he would never, ever see again.

Stephen leapt off the couch and started leading Marissa to his bedroom. He had her by the hand, and he was just tugging her along. To Marissa, it was adorable-- the excited little boy without modesty, so excited to share his life with the babysitter he loved that he couldn’t drag her there fast enough. To Stephen, it was a fun and amusing sight-- a full-grown young man, about to turn 22, dressed in a Pound Puppies shirt and training pants thick enough to bunch up in the crotch, dragging an adorably condescending 14-year-old girl along on his quest to relive his childhood.

When they finally -- finally! -- arrived, Stephen felt as if he had ascended to a higher plane of existence. His childhood bedroom was exponentially more colorful, vibrant, and varied in appointment and treasure than even his most fanciful of dusty memories could devise. Posters positively covered the walls... everything from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, to Brewer baseball, to, of course, dogs. A Nintendo Entertainment System was plugged into the Stone (extended) family’s very first television... a black-and-white from the Nixon era. And a corner populated entirely by stuffed animals. Some of them weren’t even dogs.

Then there was the stuff that really set Stephen’s heart aflutter. Marissa thought it best to simply stand in the doorway, shaking her head with a smile of vicarious pride on her face, as Stephen literally bounded from attraction to attraction as quickly as his training pants could carry him. LEGOs. Hot Wheels. Mouse Trap. It was all too much, and it was never enough. Stephen’s heart was bursting. He could literally feel the positive, proud, utterly carefree vibes pump through his circulatory system and nourish every cell in his body. No worries. No responsibilities. No term papers, or girlfriends, or internships at dead-end companies. Just Nerf and Tiger Handhelds.

The whole experience was so emotionally overwhelming that all Stephen could think to do was to go to the center of the room, sit down on the floor, and simply take in all that surrounded him. All the memories. All the feelings. All the dreams.

So that’s exactly what he did.

“Well,” said Marissa, “if I go to your mom’s office next door and read a book for a little while, you’ll be okay in here, won’t you?” Stephen grinned and nodded happily from his perch on the carpet. Marissa nodded back, gave the kid a wink, and disappeared into the study.

One thing that struck Stephen as interesting -- if not particularly convenient -- was that, when he sat his padded butt down on the carpeting, the soft fabric of his training pants, bunched up so thickly around his crotch, brushed up against the underside of his cock in such a way that it sprung almost immediately to life. While he enjoyed the sensation of his penis inflating in its toddlerlike cage, pressing against the very infantile fabric that had caused his station in the first place, Stephen took the most logical and inviting next step.

As he sucked his thumb, the young man became almost instantly hard. He was reminded of how he felt after his first transformation... that his most recent orgasm didn’t count, or that it vanished into history, or that all the cum he had worked so hard to shoot out of his balls somehow spirited its way back into them. On top of that, there was some sort of biological reaction, or psychological, or both -- the idea of age regression so aroused Stephen so consistently that the mere act of undergoing the transformation overloaded his sexual centers and kicked his testes into overdrive.

It almost felt like a punishment. It sounded preposterous to Stephen-- but the affliction was so strong, and the symptoms so powerful and crippling, that it seemed as if the phenomenon Stephen was experiencing had been very specifically assigned to him. By something that, for whatever reason, wanted him to learn a lesson about beating off, or about not doing it so often.

...Or someone.

“When will you ever grow up? Grow up and stop masturbating like a baby. Grow up and stop masturbating like a baby. ...like a baby. ...like a baby...”

Sonofabitch, Stephen thought. He had simply taken for granted that Marissa snapped something in the fabric of reality with her homemade birthday card and repeated exhortation to “grow down.” Coincidences can be so obfuscating.

Stephen shook his head, but he couldn’t evade a smile. I can’t believe it. Well, you always knew what was best for me, Mommy.

In any case, it was true, and it remained true, and it was getting worse. Stephen’s mind had already switched to one-track mode. Best take care of business before Marissa got bored of her book.

Stephen lifted his butt off the carpet, then chose a kneeling position.

Twenty-one minus seven equals fourteen. Fourteen minus seven equals seven. Seven minus seven equals... zero. ...Do I dare?

Fuck it.

Stephen plunged his open hand down the front of his training pants and wrapped his fist around the fully-erect dick inside. His pre-cum (which, incidentally, also appeared to be increasing in volume and frequency) served as the lube he needed to get off. The boy couldn’t help but moan as he savored the new and novel experience of jacking off while wearing baby pants as opposed to merely thinking about them.

Still on his knees, Stephen rested his butt on his lower legs. He rhythmically stroked his cock with his right hand while kneading his balls through the thick, beautiful fabric of his puppy-dog trainers with his left. The young man found it a wildly erotic combination. His only regret was that he didn’t have a third arm for thumbsucking. He wondered how nicely he’d have to ask Marissa to borrow hers...

“That’s inappropriate,” she’d tell me. “That’s inappropriate.” And she’d be right. Because she’s the grown-up. She’s fourteen. She knows what’s best for me. And, in return, she allows me to rely on her for everything. For permission. For food. For... changes...

It was that final thought that sent Stephen over the edge. He was savvy enough to try to keep the inevitable onslaught of cum within the confines of his training pants-- not only would it make for a more controlled explosion, but the idea of containing his boy juices safe and sound inside his baby pants, along with any other mess dictated by fate, excited Stephen to no end. He couldn’t wait to cum his diapers for the first time. He couldn’t wait to see which garments were adequate for the management of his hypersexual loads and which were leaky, overflowing disasters.

As his penis began to spasm, Stephen stopped massaging his balls and used that hand to grasp the front waistband of his training pants and try his best to pin it to his slender form, creating a makeshift roof to prevent geysers of semen from erupting out of the top and spoiling the boy’s infantile delusion. It seemed to work brilliantly. As usual, the first few jets of Stephen’s hot cream exploded violently from his cock and started coating the insides of his trainers. The garment set to work on absorbing the expulsions... but far too much volume was being shot, and far too quickly.

Still, Stephen held fast. His fourth and fifth shots of cum contributed to the massive pool of liquid in the front of his baby pants. It had already started filling the protective section between Stephen’s thighs and at the base of his ass. The boy was gasping and yelping in ecstasy as another eight jets of his juices filled up the bottom half of the seat of his training pants. The puppy-dog trainers were bulging comically, forming almost a perfect sphere, as Stephen’s genitals were fully immersed in his salty ejaculate. Three more shots, and his training pants were full, buttcrack and all.

“I’m such a naughty baby!” he squealed between reflexive gasps. “So naughty and messy and Stevie’s havin’ a accy-dent RIGHT NOW!!” He certainly was. Cum began spilling from the legbands of his training pants. Lines of it worked their ways free one by one, tracing canals of sticky white liquid down the boy’s bare legs. By the time Stephen’s 30-second orgasm began to taper off, his knees were submerged in a puddle of hot semen... and any pressure applied to so much as a fingertip-sized area of his training pants would certainly cause a proportionate amount of cum to leak out the legbands or, as it had started to do towards the end, simply bubble out the top and run down the fabric of the boy’s trainers, front and back.

Stephen sucked his thumb, dizzy with afterglow, and waited the few moments it took for the catastrophic semen spill to disappear. He had no idea at what age Time would leave him, if he was indeed lucky enough to retain physical form at all. Arithmetic was not on his side.

After all, Stephen was rather confident that he could and would have been willing to spend the rest of his existence as a seven-year-old training-pants-bound pseudo-toddler. But he wasn’t making the decisions anymore. The playtoy between his legs had taken control.

IX ==--

To the world, little Stevie Stone was born in 2006. His fifth birthday was mere hours away. The boy-child’s mind wasn’t on the future, though; it was on admiring the awesome outfit in which he’d just found himself, kneeling in the center of his bedroom.

Stephen appreciated the unique novelty of his new shirt. It was a common staple of his time as a four-year-old, representative of the era during which his mother had the first word and the last word in everything he wore: the polo shirt. Instead of the trademark alligator patch, four alphabet blocks, combining to spell BABY, were stitched to the fabric. The young man also giggled at finding himself in Velcro sneakers and red-striped tube socks. The getup made him look like a total dork. He loved it.

His mouth fell agape, though, at the centerpiece of his outfit. He stood up on his Velcros to get a better look. Sesame Street training pants... but double-thick, bowing the boy’s legs out so far that he’d be best served by crawling in the event he had to make a quick getaway. An added protective covering meant that Stephen’s daytime underpants were, essentially, pull-up diapers. He reached down and gave his crotch a full-on squeeze.

So much padding... I can’t even feel my penis...

Stephen flushed and began to sweat. This was the first night in nearly two decades that he had the opportunity to wear something so outlandishly infantile -- in the company of a 14-year-old girl on whom he had a puppy-love crush, no less -- without any risks or negative social implications.

“I’m in... diapers,” Stephen said, to nobody in particular. His cock twitched reflexively at The D-Word. Sure, they weren’t the hourglass four-tape disposables that were the holy grail of all things infantilist age regression, but it was the next best thing. And Stephen had no intention whatsoever of squandering this opportunity.

When the first few drops squirted from his penis and absorbed into the fabric, Stephen let out a sigh of transcendence. He had years of (mostly successful) toilet training to override, and his need and desire for release were competing for his attention with the deafening thump of his sexually-charged heart.

He had to push to get it started, but when he did, Stephen Stone reached Nirvana. He stood straight up, separated his legs into a /\ shape, and at last attained a steady, uninterrupted stream of such force and necessity that he probably couldn’t have cut off the flow even if he wanted to. A creeping wet heat spread throughout the front of his diaper, radiating out in a circle and warming much of his crotch. When the rate of flow exceeded his diaper’s ability to absorb and wick away the urine quickly enough, Stephen was treated to the sensation of hot piss dripping down his wrapped testicles, settling in a small reservoir that had begun gathering between his thighs.

Stephen shoved his thumb into his mouth, hooked his index finger over his nose, and sucked with an intensity he’d never before known. He bathed his thumb in saliva and the loving stroke of his tongue as his pee showed no sign of abating. Stephen held the palm of his right hand against the front of his diaper and smiled at the sensation of warmth. He gave the saturated fabric a slight squish. The steaming piss he was so happily and willfully draining into his pants had begun to creep up the seat of his diaper. He slid his hand around, allowing it to bear witness to the gradual soaking of both the fabric and the butt it was covering. Stephen had never felt this babyish since the era during which he was, literally, a baby. Perhaps moreso. So he decided to lay it on thick, while his bladder still had some to give.

”I sink I habbin a accy-dent in my di-puh,” he slurred out around his tongue. He looked down, pushed the tip of his index finger against his crotch, and looked up again, nodding. “Uh huh.” Stephen closed his eyes and let out a quiet, sexual moan as he felt his bladder approach emptiness and his diaper approach total fullness, noting the sensation of warm wetness against his lower back.

Only one solitary stream managed to work itself free of the legbands and streak its way down Stephen’s leg. The diaper did an unbelievable job of handling the payload of a bladder Stephen literally hadn’t emptied since the drive home. He closed out his experience with what, strangely, had always been one of his favorite parts of the diaper experience: those last few muscle contractions, powerfully jetted into the front panel at the wearer’s leisure, a few concluding steps in the ballroom dance of the soaking.

In a show of good timing, it was then that Marissa reentered little Stevie’s bedroom. She looked the four -year-old up and down and smiled warmly. “Sooo, how’s my little champion been doing? Enjoying his playtime?”

Stephen stuck his thumb in his mouth and nodded. His room had changed again. The posters had become more educational (Ninja Turtles versus the ABCs), the toys had increased in size (LEGO versus Duplo), and the stuffed animal collection had changed (a lot of freakin’ dogs versus not quite as many dogs).

Suddenly, Stephen wanted to spend as much time idly playing with toys as possible.

“Aww, and what do we have here?” Marissa said. “Did summuns make a widdle peepee in hims big-boy pants while Mary was awaaay?”

His thumb still in his mouth, Stephen opened his eyes wide and innocently, and nodded in feigned shame.

“Well, that’s okay!” she reassured him. “It’s five minutes till bedtime anyway, champ. We need to change you out of those and into your real diaper.”

Suddenly, Stephen wanted to spend as little time idly playing with toys as possible.

X ==--

If, 12 hours ago, you had told Stephen Stone that he’d be spending the first evening of his final spring break as a four-year-old, getting cleaned and diapered by a 14-year-old girl he himself had babysat for the whole of his life... he would have driven home a lot more quickly.

Stephen laid on his twin-sized bed, atop a Winnie the Pooh comforter set and an absorbent changing pad, entirely naked except for the three pounds of saturated diaper still clinging to his waist. He found he just barely managed to fit on the kid-length bed, it being a mere 5’9” long. He kept his arms at his sides and his favorite stuffed dog in a free space next to his head.

Stephen lifted himself onto his elbows and looked downward. Past his happy trail, past the anticipatory erection he was already developing inside his wet diaper, past his Little Tikes plastic marker activity board... he gazed upon Marissa Alexander, her back turned to him, bending over to gather all the necessary supplies from Stephen’s bottom dresser drawer. He wasn’t looking at her body in a sexual manner -- the chronology of the evening had left him feeling, psychologically, a full decade younger than his smart, grown-up babysitter. Rather, he tried to make out the specifics as to what constituted “supplies.” He certainly had no recollection of what items were involved. He felt like a kid at six o’clock on Christmas morning.

Marissa stood up, turned around, and carried a small duffel bag filled with various items over to Stephen’s bed. A kind and loving smile spanned her face. She set eyes upon the little boy on the bed... Stevie, just shy of three and a half feet tall, bursting with love and a thirst for life, while noticeably focused on clinging to the life he already knows and loves. He doesn’t appear to care about social expectations regarding diapers and thumbsucking and playing with baby toys. He doesn’t seem all that interested in growing up.

It’s almost as if he did what all of us wish we could have done, Marissa thought. Proceeded to adolescence and adulthood, made mental note of all their difficulties and miseries, then gone back to our early childhoods, equipped with the knowledge we earned of how perfect it was then and how comparatively lousy it is now.

I’d be familiar with the so-called “grand scheme of things.” And, with that knowledge, I don’t think I’d give a damn about getting out of diapers any sooner than I had to, either.

It was with this pathos that Marissa resolved to give Stephen the brand of gentle and attentive diaper change that would accompany him as he drifted away into Dreamland.

-=-=-

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe this is actually happening!

I know I’ve got a big, goofy grin on my face, but I don’t care. I don’t care! Marissa Alexander is going to CHANGE MY DIAPER. And not that of the educated, logical, structured-to-a-fault 21-year-old Stephen Stone. She’s there with the REAL me. The little kid. The giggler, the thumbsucker, the toy-chucker, the walking smile.

She’s smiling, too. She doesn’t mind doing this. She really cares about how she makes me feel! That’s why she’s my favorite babysitter. I just love her so much.

She’s pulling apart the sides of my training pants. I know I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. Not even close. I think tha-- HOOOO, that’s a chill. That’s some cool air right there.

Feels so good to get that diaper off. Much as I love ‘em, I could tell that one was about to launch into full-on Itch Mode.

Uh-oh... I’ve heard about this part. I’ve heard that HOOOOOLY JEEEEEZ THAT IS COLD. HOOOOO MY GOD. She get the wipes out of the freezer, or what? At least my body’s warming it up a little.

Now it feels... really good. Really, really good. Ho man. Now I’m getting hard. OF course. Gotta show my tiny hardon to this supercute teenage girl. Why not? ...Did she really just say that? Did she say something about... my cute little stiffie? That... is awesome.

Look at that diaper she’s unfolding! It’s sooo thick. It’s got Pound Puppies on the tapes. Too cool. Just way too cool. And when I lift my butt so she can get it under there, she gets it perfect the first try. It’s such a wonderful feeling. It’s like my butt’s got its own pillow.

Hahaha! There’s powder everywhere! Think you got enough there, Miss Mary? Yes, I’m giggling, thanks for asking. Boys can do that. S’not a crime.

When she folds that diaper up between my thighs, I’m gone. I just completely melt away. It feels so erotic, but also so innocent. I’m beginning to conflate the two.

It’s when Marissa holds the diaper against my tummy that I feel at my most babylike. I know she’s about to tape it up, to secure it around my waist so it can’t slide off or fall off or untape or ANYTHING. No matter how much I make accident tinkles tonight, it won’t matter. Cuz Mommy will change me in the morning.

I feel so little, I have to suck my thumb. And that makes me feel littler still. Sucking my thumb makes me feel almost as safe as Mommy or Marissa do. It’s like... a natural painkiller you have attached to you all the time.

There’s one tape, then another. As she tapes me up, she holds the front panel of the diaper tautly around me so every new tape makes the fit a little tighter, a little more reliable. Afterwards, she tucks in the elastic of the legbands, just to make my diaper as leak-proof and secure as can be. It may as well be a part of my body, an extension of the self. Often I believe diapers are just that.

HAHAHAHAHAHA!! Stop it! Stop it! She gave me a raspberry! Guys, Miss Mary blew a raspberry on my tummy! Hahahaha!

Marissa takes the changing pad away and pulls the sheets and blanket and comforter up to my chin. She tucks the whole lot underneath my chest, leaving my thumbsucking arm and my dog-cuddling arm open and free.

She says goodnight to me and I say goodnight back. I reply to her that, yes, I will try to sleep tight. I reply to her that, no, I won’t let the bedbugs bite. Marissa asks me to have sweet dreams. I smile and tell her I know I will.

Marissa nestles my doggy into the crook of my arm and I snuggle with him. She gives me a kiss on the forehead and I smile around my thumb before reforming my patented airtight seal.

As she heads for the door, I tell Marissa I love her. She tells me she loves me, too. Then I ask “Marissa? Could you--”

“Turn the nightlight on for you?”

“Yeah.”

And she does, so that when she leaves and closes my bedroom door behind her, my world won’t be so dark.

epilogue ==--

In two hours, Stephen Stone will officially be 22 years old. The adult world around him will go on, even if he might not get a proper chance to return to it just yet. His professors will give their final exams, his college will hold its graduation ceremony, and his internship will be filled, Nobody will ask any questions about the “missing” 22-year-old Stephen Stone, because there has never been such a person. Not as far as this world is concerned.

No-- at this time, Stephen Stone is four years old, diapered and sucking his thumb in a bedroom not too far from the college he used to attend.

Tomorrow is Stephen’s birthday party. His mother is going to throw it and a lot of people are slated to attend. Is it going to be his fifth birthday party? His third? His first?

As with everything else in time and space, it can’t be said for certain yet.

Stephen smiles around thumb. He’d like to think he has at least some influence over something like that.

He hears the front door open and close. In minutes, Marissa is back in her home, and Stephen’s mother is hanging up her coat in the downstairs closet. Soon she will be climbing the stairs to her son’s room so that she can check on the little sweetheart who’s waiting for her there.

Stephen moves his hand down to his diaper. He traces a lazy circle on its crinkly front panel with the tip of his index finger.

He thinks for a moment, then nods to himself.

...roll credits

thanks for reading. -lt

 

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