Lola`s Chapter (5)

Chapter 1
the first few days

Chapter Description: Part 1 of 3.

Boys, boys, boys... I love ya, but it’s incredible, the things you think you can get away with. Talking condescendingly about us behind our backs, for example, as if your words’ll never get back to us somehow. We network. We’re very good at that. Our eyes and ears are everywhere. But, please, go on talking...it amuses us.

Or lying about where you’re going, what you’re doing. Come on... don’t insult our intelligence. We know you’re going to McGillicuddy’s for Heineken and the opening kickoff, not participating in the Save the Children of Darfur symposium next door.

Or even - perish the thought! - infidelity. Think of us, collectively, as Big Sister. We’re watching you. Such good sport.

Sorry to have opened that way. I know it’s unorthodox, and I hope I didn’t offend. Let me begin again.

My name is Lola Trechlyn, and I am 23 years old. That name is the only real name you’ll get out of me. All the names I’ve written before - David, Eric, Charles, Travis, Tyler, Tate, and even Willowbrook High, from whence they (and I) came - have been changed to protect the guilty.

Oh, they’re real people, for sure. Real places and incidents, too. Incidents you’ll never hear about, of course. Nothing so glamorous as government conspiracy, I’m afraid, or intervention by the Centers for Disease Control. Just us girls. We’re damn good at what we do.

I’m afraid I can’t take responsibility for what happened to them. That was the handiwork of my closest friends, confidantes, fellow female graduates of the fine educational institution you all know as Willowbrook. I can only take responsibility for what happened to Jon. But, alas, we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

I am a writer by trade and hobby. Writing for the Age Regression Story Archive, of course, falls under the latter. It’s my pleasure. The idea began as a surprise - I had never expected to run into a community of people who fantasize about subject matter of which I, in fact, have first-hand experience. How cool is the Internet?

It is because of Heidegger’s fine website that I am able to share my adventures with you. And, while we’re on the subject, let me take a moment to thank all of you, my readers, for your time and for your feedback. I don’t stick around for my health. I’m here because of you.

With all of that said and done, I’m ready to tell my story. My fifth story posted to the Archive, for those among you keeping score - but my first story. The first one with that personal, Mommy Lola touch.

It’s the story of my relationship with my last boyfriend, Jon. Scatterbrained me, beginning at the middle - but I don’t think you’re here for my life story. You’re here to read about what I did to Jon. But, to read about that, you must first slog through a few words about what Jon did to me.

Clich?d, yes, predictable, yes... Jon cheated on me. Just once. If that’s all you need to know, feel free to skip ahead. But it’s a quick (and somewhat cute) story, how I found out about it.

See, Jon told me he was going with his guy friends to the opening showing of Grindhouse. Fair enough; I wasn’t all that interested. But he never went to see Grindhouse - this I know. You see, when I asked him what happened at the end, he made up some completely bullshit story, when he should have asked “At the end of which flick?” Because Grindhouse is actually a double-feature. I won’t bore you with the intricacies... long ramble short, Jon screwed up, I caught him in his lie, and, at a complete loss for a backup plan, he confessed to spending a blissful eve with another girl. And the rest, as they say, is my story.

I told Jon that the only way he could keep me on board as his girlfriend would be if he cooked me a romantic meal at our apartment. He thought he was getting away with murder.

And, I confess, he was. Jon’s a gorgeous guy and I’m not about to let a face and a body like that get away from me on account of one stupid mistake. But what Jon hadn’t planned on was my surreptitious slipping of a rather potent formula into the crock pot. A formula which afflicts only people with an X and a Y chromosome, natch.

The regression began subtly, as planned. A loss of nocturnal muscular control manifested itself as the very wet bed in which he and I awoke the following morning. I didn’t miss my chance to tease and berate Jon for pissing the bed.

“I...it...” he stammered, rather cutely, “it must have been the wine.” Of course. Many a warning label have I seen on a bottle of wine which read “CAUTION: Two glasses with dinner will cause you to piss the bed.” I don’t know how the vineyards manage to stay in business.

A couple more nights of that, and some well-acted frustration on my part, and Jon finally capitulated to my second ultimatum. Honestly - he could have had any girl he wanted.

“But he must really want me” was all I could think as I diapered him just before we fell asleep. Now, a lady spares the details - but hit CTRL-F and run a search for “lady” in the section during which I was introducing myself to you.

Didn’t think so.

Jon’s face was beet-red as I rubbed the lotion into his crotch. His cock was freshly wilted after a sensational round of lovemaking, but it returned to attention as I massaged the slippery substance into his balls and between his legs. And this made him blush even harder.

“Lola, don’t...” he said, and I tsk-tsked him as I brought the disposable diaper up between his legs. I held the waistband to his tummy and taped each side securely, dutifully tucking in the legbands with my fingertips as I had done on so many assorted babysitting stints prior. Only this baby was much, much bigger, and he seemed to have a much stronger grasp of the concept of shame.

I detected a tear creeping down his cheek, and I kissed it away.

Such good sport.

to be continued

questions? comments? commissions? lolatrec at hotmail dot com