Honeymoon's Over

Chapter 1
Honeymoon's Over

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Chapter Description: What happens when the AR is over and the magic wears off? (Complete story... and, altogether, my 30th ARchive story!)

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CHAPTER 1

DAWN OF A DAY

Ryan opened his eyes. Sunlight streaked his face, its warmly-bathing illumination interrupted only by the shadows cast by the bars of his crib. He grinned around his pacifier, revealing naught but the occasional crooked extrusion of a deciduous tooth.

The 17-year-old boy, rendered perfectly by supernatural intervention into the body he had inhabited at the age of 18 months, bit down around the rubber nipple and began to push into his diaper. He’d come to love the sensation... to savor it... to await it. And, as per always, it came.

Ryan couldn’t help but liberate a giggle as the stool spread his cheeks and started to spill into the disposable diaper wrapped securely around his hips. He clutched his stuffed dog tightly. The boy wiggled his toes and whined around his comfort object as he, bolstered by the energizing promise of the morning sun, dumped everything he had into his crinkling pants. The seat of his diaper ballooned outward and Ryan responded to the sensation by loosing a noise that straddled the line between mischievous laugh and ecstatic squeal.

He even gave it a few more deliberate pushes, though he had little more to evacuate. It was heaven. It was what he’d always wanted. Anywhere, anytime-- and it was no longer pretend.

Soon, the warm, sticky mass surrounding the teenager’s nether regions would be worth nothing outside of his private utopia. Soon, he’d be again as everyone saw him -- a squealing, poopy toddler, with a need for his thumb and his puppy, and with no desire for a change.

But they’d change him. They always did. He would be clean again. And it would be okay, because Ryan had no intention of growing up. There would always be more from whence that load had come.

Ryan clenched his eyes tightly. His parents hadn’t yet awakened. And he took the opportunity to relax his bladder, to flood the front of his diaper with a wet hot warmth. To merely close his eyes and sigh and piss wherever and whenever he damn well felt like it. Something he had never allowed himself to do as a physiological teenager, obviously, but something in which he reveled as a toddler.

The boy looked up at his mobile as his urine wicked from the front panel of his disposables to the padding that spread his thighs and along the fabric embracing his messy bottom. Ryan was destroying his diaper. And he loved it. He thrilled to being placed in his crib each night-- looking forward to little more than this very moment. Actualizing himself as a helpless little toddler with no apology or method. He wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

All it had taken was a little trip to the local flea market. One trip, and one preposterously impulsive purchase: an 18th-century pendant that, by its Latin inscription, promised vitality. It had been wedged unceremoniously between mold-smelling 1950s copies of Look magazine and translucent cat-shaped cookie jars. And when Ryan had picked it up, he nearly dropped it from the inexplicable heat it exuded.

Ryan had done his time as a teenager. He had discovered AR. And he wasn’t going to be anybody’s target again.

The toddler lifted his spinning head upward and began poking at the front of his diaper as soon as his penis had ceased to contribute to it. It squished, offering a pleasantly spongy resistance. He grinned around his pacifier again and kicked his tiny ankles as he mired himself in the sheer majesty of his station.

I had been a teenager. But now, I’m a baby. Again. And it’s everything I’d ever hoped it could have been...

--Ryan’s mother, cooing and effusing soothing platitudes, brought the teenager’s tiny body out from its crib and set it upon the changing table that had been set up in the nursery. Without hesitation, Mrs. Rendeau took to untaping her son’s diaper and revealing his latest “accomplishment.”

The 17-year-old smiled, off to the side, at a camera that wasn’t there.

“This is me getting my diaper changed,” he wanted to say to the phantom cameraman, to all the viewers watching at home, to all the readers held rapt by the transcript of the telecast.

“This is me not having to put up with any kind of bullshit ever again.”

“This is me.”

Ryan sighed in gratitude around his pacifier as his mother balled up his loaded diaper and deposited it into the nearby pail. He’d long ago gotten over any modesty or embarrassment caused by the concept of his mother cleaning her teenage son’s privates and preparing them for a new pair of Pampers. He had melted into his new life as cleanly and as easily as diapers and babyhood had melted into him.

The boy clenched his tiny toes as his mother rediapered him. As soon as her fingers had tucked in his legbands, Ryan knew it was time for the playpen. A playpen sitting directly in front of a cycling onslaught of Nick Jr. A playpen positively lousy with Duplo blocks.

It was what he needed. Something his own speed.

And, as the teenager stared at the TV screen and dismissed a rivulet of drool down his chin, he slapped blankly at his blocks and giggled like an idiot.

This is me.

CHAPTER 2

CAN’T STOP THE SUN

Ryan opened his eyes. Sunlight caressed his face, noticeably attenuated by the pall cast by the draperies of his windows. He spat out his thumb in frustration.

The 17-year-old boy, shockingly, and for no reason immediately apparent to him, had been catapulted into an entirely different incarnation of his own body. He quickly returned his soggy digit to his mouth and suckled upon it with a fervor he’d never before known.

The fuck is this?

Ryan was five years old. It had only taken an overnight, and he could pinpoint no impetus for such a transformation, but the fact remained: The regression appeared to be finished. It had been savory, long-lasting, but ultimately finite. And Ryan was on his way back up. Quickly.

He didn’t care. Frustrated, burning with equal parts fury and fear, he didn’t care-- he was still an 18-month-old baby in his mind. They couldn’t take that away from him.

In that spirit, Ryan grunted and strained and shamelessly campaigned to press a load against the seat of the size-4 tighty-whities into which he’d been unfairly imprisoned. His wish came true. Log after log of his mess went spilling into his virgin-white briefs-- and clump after clump of his expulsion piled up along his thighs. They were followed quickly by all the pee he had stored up during the night; in jets and in rivers did it spew along his crotch and between his legs. Before he could even assess the enormity of his situation, Ryan came to three conclusions: The breadth of his horror had abducted him from the realm of reason, he had completely ruined his racecar bed, and it just wasn’t the same without those thick, white diapers wrapping him up in safety and security.

“Ryan! What have you DONE!?”

It was his mother. Having just walked into the bedroom during Ryan’s little display, a tableau wherein her young son seemed to have unapologetically pooped his own bed and capped off the show with a piss that showed no signs of stopping, the aghast woman raced to gather up towels and cleaning supplies and anything else she could conjure to make the next few hours of her day slightly more bearable.

Still, Ryan didn’t mind. He had been cheated. After the transcendent joys he had experienced for several months, he wasn’t about to surrender his second infancy to an unannounced acceleration of the passage of time.

He had been age-regressed. He had figured it out. Finally. And fuck if anything was going to get in his way.

Ryan nibbled upon the tips of his fingers with reticence bordering on shame as his mother attended to his sloppy privates. This time, he’d have to settle for Pull-Ups training pants, as he was on his way to Kindergarten.

Pull-Ups. Something he couldn’t mess. The realization pounded around the inside of the teenager’s heart like a half-dozen crickets on a meth binge.

Ryan would have to put his mind on something else, and he didn’t disappoint. Knowing that the following day held no absolute promise -- nor the day after that -- and was as random as David Hume would philosophize, in front of a school assembly did the kindergartner tear off his pants, leap atop the stage, and scream at the sky. His hands clasped behind the small of his back, the short frame of the anguished teenager squatting as best as he could manage in his foreign, uncoordinated body, he filled the seat of his Pull-Ups with everything he’d eaten that morning, and the entire school saw every moment.

He reveled in it. He didn’t know when this morbid twist of fate was going to loose its grip on his existence. If the cosmic slingshot was bringing him back to adolescence, well, he was going to fuck up what he could while there were still no genuine consequences of which to speak.

The elementary school body gaped at the kindergartner with the full load. Ryan only grinned.

The more I grow up, the more I deserve moments like this.

And it was with that theorem in mind that, after being changed by the school nurse, he spent the remaining few hours of his Kindergarten day gobbling down paste by the handful, dampening his fresh pair of Pull-Ups, and picking his nose with gleeful abandon.

CHAPTER 3

A DUSK LONG IN COMING

Ryan opened his eyes. Sunlight illuminated his face, striking him from two perpendicularly-positioned windows in what felt to the waking teenager like a militarized heat attack. He didn’t feel like pulling his thumb out of his mouth.

The 17-year-old boy knew there was news, and he knew it wouldn’t be good. Ryan was nine years old.

The fourth-grader struggled to maintain his composure. He couldn’t recall being more depressed at any point in his life.

When the regression had first started, a year to the day current-Ryan had suddenly aged to five years old, the teenager was riddled with apprehension. Was he truly prepared, spiritually, emotionally, and intellectually, to push the rewind button on his life? Was he willing to sacrifice all the friends he had made and all the promises he had registered with his future? Most importantly, could his famous impatience tolerate the Sartresque inevitability of having to sit through class after class of things he’d already learned, each day bringing him a slew of simpler, more insipid subject matter?

By the time Ryan had regressed to the second grade, he was bored to tears, churning out worksheet after worksheet of rows of coins appended with a blank line upon which he was intended to write their cumulative value.

But there were good sides to the second grade, too. Recess. Kickball. Water pistol fights. As it was 2011 at the time, Ryan couldn’t readily relate to the modern children on levels of popular culture he himself had indulged in the late 1990s, but it didn’t matter. The regression grew on him.

Best of all was the surety that nothing Ryan did on one day would ruin the one to follow. The boy was getting younger. The world stayed the same, and nobody paid it a second thought.

As Ryan’s responsibilities dwindled and dwindled over the course of the year, the 17-year-old couldn’t help but think of how much better life was getting. How much easier-- how much simpler. Homework had become a half-hour affair, and then it was off to the 360 for some of the E-rated games he was permitted to play. Eventually, he had to stop bathing himself, and the loss of dignity incurred by his own mother washing his privates was nothing compared to the convenience and affection Ryan had come to embrace.

Coin-counting gave way to letter identification. Letter identification gave way to color recognition. Ryan became increasingly enamored by his inexorable slide towards infancy. He didn’t know whether it had been a latent infantilism bubbling beneath the surface all his life, or the undeniable luxury of having all his needs attended to... but Ryan didn’t mind growing down.

He didn’t mind the day he found himself wearing Pull-Ups to bed at night. He looked forward to the day the Pull-Ups were shifted to the daylight hours and he was thickly diapered, four-tapes and all, for an early bedtime. And when little Ryan -- all 17 years of him -- found himself diapered 24 hours a day, seven days a week? He knew that, in a just universe, the capriciousness of time would freeze, granting him a permanent mercy.

Nothing lasts forever, a morose Ryan thought to himself, as he slogged his agonized, aching mind through another 50-minute geography lesson from Mrs. Wolkis. Ryan had hated the fourth grade. It was a time of awkward transition-- one during which no kid thought he was a kid, but any adult would find such an insistence little more than adorable. Geography was boring. Neverending moments like these were exactly why Ryan sometimes hoped he had lost all his knowledge along with his pubescence and toilet training.

“Mr. Rendeau?” called Mrs. Wolkis. “Ryan Rendeau!”

“Yes!” Ryan said, snapping to attention. “Yes.”

“Yes is not the correct answer,” Wolkis scowled. “South America is not north of North America.”

The tittering in the classroom burned Ryan’s already sensitive nine-year-old ears. Though his regression hadn’t forcibly stripped him of his emotional maturity, he had allowed it to atrophy for an entire year. So he went with his gut and began to cry, the guffaws of his classmates crescendoing into an unadulterated laughter.

Fuck it, Ryan thought to himself, and stuck his thumb in his mouth. I won’t know any of these people tomorrow, anyway.

CHAPTER 4

THE INEVITABLE TWILIGHT

Ryan opened his eyes. Sunlight blanketed his face. His bleary gaze, adjusting to the sudden onslaught of luminescence, danced around his bedroom from the boy’s vantage point beneath the covers of a standard twin-sized bed. Long gone were the posters of cartoon characters and superheroes, replaced instead by those of rock bands and sports teams. An unwelcome smell struck Ryan’s nostrils-- even after so many months of shuffling about his living quarters as a child and then a pants-shitter, there was no mistaking the terrible funk of an adolescent guy’s bedroom.

The 17-year-old boy had a throbbing, painfully hard erection. When he slid his right hand beneath the covers and wrapped it around the rod poking through the fly of his boxer-briefs, he knew he was missing a couple of inches. He was gripping the dick of a 13-year-old.

Well, the math works out, Ryan thought.

At once did he take to masturbating. Some facts remained fresh in his mind: He’d be irritable for the rest of the day if he didn’t get his rocks off, he knew just the right spots to hit and when to hit them, and he had fresh material about which to fantasize.

He fantasized about just a few months ago, when he built sandcastles on the beach and squealed and clapped when the incoming tide rendered his lovingly-crafted parapets mere nautilus-dotted mounds. He fantasized about just a few weeks ago, when his daytime Pull-Ups just couldn’t handle the 32 ounces of Coke he’d inhaled, and navy streaks of urine broke free from his padded protection and streaked down the legs of his blue jeans and toward his Spongebob tennis shoes. And he fantasized about a mere three days ago, when he woke up with his all-time favorite ritual: loading up a diaper, saturating its front, and leaving the hazmat to someone else.

Ryan was sweating and his penis was leaking pre-cum at a rather furious rate by this point. Recalling that it was Saturday, the teenager leapt out of bed, made for his dresser, and pulled another seven pairs of boxer-briefs out of the top shelf. One by one, he slid each pair up his slender, hairless legs, layering them atop one another until all eight flared outward well over an inch. Were he to put on blue jeans, any observer would conclude that he was wearing a disposable diaper.

But he wasn’t wearing a disposable diaper. And he certainly wasn’t about to put on his jeans.

Already on the verge of orgasm, the 17-year-old in the 13-year-old’s body put his hands on his knees and squatted. He snapped his eyes shut and bit his bottom lip. With less of a groan than a whimper, he began forcing his morning load into the seat of his underwear, channeling all the muscular strength he could muster into pushing the contents of his bowels out into the tight, makeshift cloth diaper he had constructed out of pants far more appropriate to teenage boys who had long since abandoned such infantile acts and forgotten the indescribable feelings they provide.

Ryan turned his head to look at himself in the mirror as he shit his pants. He was almost shocked to see his early-teenage self staring back at him. But the look on that 13-year-old’s face was one of innocent bliss, something scarcely of this world, a smile that could not be acted nor manufactured but only brought out of the aether by the communion of soul and reality. A childlike giggle erupted from between Ryan’s grinning teeth as his warm, heavy load started to drag his octet of boxer-briefs down his bony hips.

Suddenly, his knees buckled, and Ryan’s pulsing cock proceeded to cough up long ribbons of hot, salty cum, arcs of white juice breaking free from the top of the teenager’s drooping briefs and painting his slender abdomen with young semen. Ryan exhaled loudly and struggled to suck in air as his balls emptied themselves. Having lost his balance, the boy tumbled to his knees, the loaded-up seat of his underwear colliding with the heels of his feet with an audible squish. It was a few seconds before Ryan allowed himself to fall flat on his face, and still another several minutes before he jammed his thumb into his mouth and resolved to spend some time enjoying the messes he had made for himself.

The boy had become an infantilist. Time might have given it to him, but Ryan wasn’t about to let age take it away.

CHAPTER 5

A STARLIGHT OF TWO

Ryan opened his eyes. Sunlight smothered his face.

The 17-year-old boy went to the skate park on that breezy Sunday morning. There, he met up with Justin, a lifelong friend of his-- and a similarly-charged soul with whom Ryan had spent untold hours over the years. Until, of course, Mr. Rendeau’s timeline became a little... skewed.

“Holy shit, Ryan!” hollered the skateboarder. “I haven’t seen you in a goddamn year! Where the hell have you been?”

Ryan shrugged. “Just going over some things. Again.”

Justin kicked his board up into his hand. “Still graduating this spring, though, right?”

“It certainly would appear so,” Ryan said with a sigh that betrayed his unfathomable disappointment.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” conceded Justin, even though he really didn’t. “I’d give anything for just another year of this town. Of having the freedom to not give a damn.”

Ryan thought for a moment. From the pocket of his blue jeans, he removed an antique pendant, one which had become cold to Ryan’s touch. When he placed it into Justin’s hand, the temperature of the pendant increased with remarkable speed. Of course, neither teen noticed the shift.

“What’s this?” asked Justin.

“Just a token of our friendship.”

“‘Vitality,’” Justin read aloud from the pendant.

“You remember your Latin. I’m impressed.” Ryan gave Justin a friendly pat on the back and turned to leave.

“Hey!” Justin called out after him. “Where’re you goin’? Ya just got here!”

Ryan looked over his shoulder and smiled at his friend. “I’ll be seeing you again. I promise.”

Justin shrugged and hopped back onto his deck, disappearing into a half-pipe several yards across.

Ryan, meanwhile, made tracks for the pharmacy, at which he intended on picking up some diapers, pacifiers, and other paraphernalia seared into his mind as recently as four days prior.

He had, at last, truly opened his eyes.

THE END

thanks for reading. -lt

 

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