A Comedy of AR's

Chapter 94
Chapter 94: Naked Truths

Chapter Description: Janet makes herself more vulnerable and trusting to Clark. Something that may have disastrous consequences for him down the line.

Chapter 94: Naked Truths

Most of Friday was boring.  Beouf didn’t show up to school again. Zoge said that Beouf’s actual factual grandbaby was still sick.  Bullshit.  Beouf was scared of us and how we were destroying her morale and I let everyone who was worth letting listen to me know about it. 

So our class was well behaved that day. Zoge even thanked us as a group before she led us out to the bus loop that afternoon. Monday would be a new battlefield, however.  Mel didn’t have infinite sick days. She’d have to come back.  I’ be waiting

On the bright side, from what few glances I glimpsed of Tracy that day, she seemed more at ease.  Not less cautious, or less focused;  just that something in her could see some sort of finish line at the end of the race. There had to be more than I knew going on, but I felt that she was winning. She had the weekend to look forward to; a luxury I’d lacked.  It made Friday a lot better for me.  It wouldn’t make Beouf’s life any better, however. I was positive she’d had nothing to do with any mercy or respite my Tweener friend found.

Friday night, I sat in warm bathwater in the middle of the tub.  Janet had insisted on pouring bubbles into the mix while water was cascading into the basin.  “Bubbles are soap too,” she insisted. “I won’t have to wash you as much if you just soak in them.”

“Yeah. Sure.  Whatever.” 

That was good enough for her. She stripped me down out of that day’s romper on the bathroom counter while the tub filled up.  Ironically it reminded me of that scene in GhostHaunter’s Two where the bubble bath turns into a massive blob and tries to snatch up the Little right as his Mommy is getting him undressed.  Life imitating art as it were. 

No bath monster this time. Janet stripped me and plopped my naked body down into the rising tide of suds.  Being naked was becoming strange to me; not alien but foreign if that makes sense.  There was a time when in my own home I didn’t have to particularly pay attention to my nakedness.  Cassie and I could have walked around our house bare assed all day if we’d wanted to. That kind of freedom was an unexpected benefit of being a homeowner and an adult.  Privacy meant that I could determine how much or how little I covered myself while in my own house.

I wasn’t in my own house anymore, I had to remind myself. My old house didn’t exist anymore.  I was in Janet’s house, and I had no privacy whatsoever. I was naked from the waist down four to six times a day and almost always covered in something vile when it happened.  I was naked from the waist up only when someone bigger, stronger, and faster than me deemed it permissible or convenient, and I was completely naked only once a day (and sometimes not even once a day). That bit of ‘freedom’ was always measured against factors like how much hot water was left and how close it was to my assigned bedtime.

Obviously, I was never alone when I was unclothed.  My time unsupervised in Janet’s home felt directly inverse to how much clothing and freedom of movement I was allowed.  Janet bunched up my school clothes and tossed the wet diaper into the wastebasket next to the toilet.  I caught myself looking at the porcelain throne with its seat up and wondering if I could still muscle myself up to the rim and use it. I’d had a stool to climb for this very purpose back in the good old days.  Could I handle having a full bladder, still?  The only consistent time I had one was in the middle of the night or just before sunrise when the need to pee woke me up from a dreamless groggy slumber. 

‘Wee hours of the morning’ had taken on a much more literal meaning to me.

I shook that fantasy out of my head.  I wasn’t unpotty trained, yet. I wasn’t like Billy and Annie and Chaz who could just go in their pants without a second thought and move on.  I wasn’t like Mandy who sometimes whispered the words to herself while she was doing it, or Tommy who could tromp around a playground with his backend loaded and not care as long as he got to play for an extra ten minutes. I wasn’t sure if Sandra Lynn or Ivy noticed anymore.  At least everybody outside of those two asked to be changed, occasionally.

From the tub, I observed Janet dig a fluffy white towel out of the bathroom linen closet and put it on the counter where she’d just undressed me. I couldn’t make out the tune, but she was definitely humming something to herself.  She was getting less and less quiet again; comfortable. Too comfortable.  A cry session with Beof, me asking for a bottle, and choosing to pull a few punches by focusing righteous anger elsewhere was healing her up. Communing with her fellow piecemeal parents, with Beouf to reinforce things, probably improved her attitude, too.

Not great. Not typical, but not great.

None of my work was undone, per se. I wasn’t starting back from square one and my ex-friend was still twice shy now that she’d been bitten a couple of times.  She just didn’t seem particularly unhappy and it bothered me and it didn’t bother me at the same time. And THAT bothered me that it didn’t JUST bother me. 

Emotions are complicated. 

“Do you want a rubber ducky?” Janet asked  In reply I gathered bubble suds around me to act as a screen and glared at her.  Bitch knew better.  “I just noticed that you like to squeeze Lion a lot and was thinking you might want to squeeze something else since you can’t bring him in the tubby.” 

I bit into my tongue to keep myself from growling.  Leave it to an Amazon to see a stress response and completely infantilize it.  If I’d been a wall puncher she’d probably buy me one of those inflatable clowns that never fell down. Actually, that might be kind of cool…

“Same with your pacifier so you don’t have to get a sudzy thumb or chew on your tongue…”

I unclenched my jaw and gave the sides of my tongue a break.  How did she always know?

She plunged her arm into the warm bath water and swished around a washcloth.  She’d already changed out of her work clothes before dinner and into a more casual gray T-shirt and blue jeans. The short sleeves of her shirt were rolled all  the way up to her shoulders that she could dunk her arms in without getting anything else wet.

The shirt was an Oakshire Elementary School Spirit t-shirt. The kind that was given out to staff as an optional casual Friday garb and peddled to children around yearbook time so that they had something to show off in the spring and outgrow over the summer.  I’d have had a few myself, but I’d always opted out even though it would have been free for me. 

It would have been a bad idea as a Little teacher to wear anything that the children were also wearing, lest false equivalencies be made.  I focused on the shirt and pictured myself having to wear one, despite me not planning on being around long enough for this year’s batch to be on sale.

“Please don’t get me one of those shirts,” I blurted out without thinking.

Janet sat down on her knees, finished soaping up the washcloth, and took my arm.  She glided it over from my wrist all the way up to my shoulder, applying enough pressure that it felt nice. It was gentle massage pressure, not scrub raw pressure. It took a second for my rambling to register with her. 

She looked down at her chest. “Hm? Why not?”  She was so comfortable she’d forgotten what she was wearing.  Another luxury I’d lost. I almost always knew what I had or lacked around my body.  Impossible snaps and adhesives made it so I had no other choice.  “I thought you’d like something like a regular shirt to wear.”

“I don’t,” I said flatly.

She took my other arm and repeated the process, making sure to get into my armpit and doubling back for the one she’d missed.  “Okay. We’ll see.”  She dunked the washcloth back in the water and re-soaped it. 

‘We’ll see’?  Typical answer. Wrong answer!

I twisted my torso to the left, leaned the other direction sideways, cupped my hands together, and splashed a comparatively massive amount of water out of the tub and onto the front of Janet’s school t-shirt.

WHUUUUSH!

Janet gasped and looked down at her dripping wet chest. White suds dribbled down her front, the shape and outline of her bra was immediately more visible. Enough of the warm liquid landed in her lap so that if she were a Little, she’d be at risk of someone thinking she’d had an accident.  Her jaw dropped, and shocked little “Ah! Ah!” sounds stumbled out of her throat.

Bathtime over: Time for bad Little boys to get toweled off and put to an even earlier bed while their Mommies went and cried about it. 

“You…” she stammered.   “You Little brat!”  It almost sounded like laughter.  I smirked and crossed my arms over my body, daring her to retaliate, positive she wouldn’t. 

OOOOOOOOOSH!

Lightning quick, two giant palms scooped up water and suds on either side of me and cascaded them towards the middle. Two tiny tidal waves rose up and engulfed me, going over my head and practically dunking me despite my body remaining still.  I was sputtering soapy water and wiping at my eyes.  My now curly ketchup colored hair sagged in my face and over my ears. I must have looked like that cartoon sheepdog who was always having to lift up his hair so that you could see his eyes.

“You…” I shrieked. “You splashed me!”  I started combing the wet mop back away from my eyes.

“You splashed me first,” Janet said. I could barely see, but I could still hear her smile. Was this a fucking game to her?!

“But you splashed me!” I blinked away suds and squinted my eyes. Calling baby soap and shampoo ‘tear free’ was a massive case of there being no truth in advertising whatsoever; just below the idea that adult Littles and Amazon babies were functionally the same thing.

Janet leaned back in the narrow bathroom and snatched the towel from off the counter.  She handed me a corner so I could wipe and dab at my eyes.  “What? Mommies can’t roughhouse in the tub with their Little ones?”

“No!” I said. “They ca-...That’s not the point, Janet!”

“Oh?” she replied. “What is the point, then?”  I wanted to wipe the smugness right off her typical Amazon face. I wanted to hurt her again, but this time I wanted her to hurt because she understood; not because she didn’t.  And if she didn’t, I wanted to be angry about it.  I wanted fuel to scream into the baby monitor that night.

“I said that I didn’t want a shirt,” I answered,  “and you said ‘we’ll see’, instead of just ‘okay’. I can’t have anything unless you approve!”  I felt a meltdown threaten; what Amazons might call a tantrum, and what any sane person would call ‘losing it’.

“Well…yeah.”

“But you won’t let me have anything that wasn’t your idea first!” I accused her. “You won’t even just let me not wear a stupid t-shirt that you haven’t even bought yet unless I throw a tantrum about it!”  I pulled my knees up to my chest, and wrapped my arms around them.  I was turning back into a protective ball. “Now you’re probably thinking about getting me one so that I’ll see that it’s not so bad or something!  I don’t get choices that you don’t think of first!  I shouldn’t have even said anything and just let you wash me.”  That last part I said quietly, as if to myself, but I wanted Janet to hear it.

“Clark that’s not f…!” Janet stopped.  A dawning realization entered her eyes. Her mouth wiggled but no sound came out. Her nostrils flared and she huffed.  Her eyes were closed when she found the words.  “No, you’re right. I’m sorry baby.”

“I’m not a baby!” The acoustics of the bathroom made my impulse screaming sound even louder than usual.

She brought her hand up to her cheek, and opened her eyes. “Not what I meant. Sorry. Really sorry. Just…sorry. You’re right. You’re right. Sorry. That’s… Sorry. How can I make it up to you?”`

An open ended apology?  That was a rare delicacy indeed.  “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to splash me again and I not splash you back?”

Yes. But also no. “I don’t know.”

“I’m not going to dress you up in that shirt or that onesie I got for your baby shower. Do you want me to let you try washing yourself tonight?”

Yes.  Desperately.  “I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to wear something embarrassing this weekend? We’ve got a doctor’s checkup and shopping to do. Everyone could see me and laugh.  Would that be fair?”

That would be fantastic!  I hated it!  She was supposed to be fighting back! Why wasn’t she fighting back?!

“I don’t know.” I kept sulking. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.  Why do I still have to make a choice right now?”

“You don’t,” she promised. “I’m just….” She bit her lip and looked away so she wasn’t staring at me. “Let’s finish your bath and come back to this. The bubbles in the water should be good enough. Do you want out of the tub now? Or do you want me to keep washing you?  Or do you want me to leave you alone in the tub?  I’m not going to leave you alone, but I can stand in the doorway and look at my phone.  Give you time to soak.  Or any other options you can think of…?”

She was trying. Goddamnit she was really trying. That was what made her so frustrating to deal with.  In some ways I would have had an easier time with someone like Forrest or Ambrose as my Mommy. You could always know where you stood with the intentionally cruel ones.  I just couldn’t stand it

I unclenched my limbs and unwound myself from the ball.  “I just…” Admitting that anything about my current life was enjoyable was it’s own kind of torture.  “Wash me.  Rub my back and shoulders and arms and stuff.” I felt awkward. Really awkward. “Please.”

I could have sworn I saw her eyes get misty. “Okay. Sure. That’s a start.” But the threat of tears didn’t last.

What followed was as close to a spa day as I could remember. Tense muscles were gently massaged while the skin was cleansed.  Quiet instructions and warnings were given about where she’d touch me next, including embarrassing sensitive areas that weren’t normally given any such courtesy when I was only half-naked and lying down.

No humming of lullabies, or motherly mentioning about ‘filth behind my ears’ or a ‘dirt ring around my neck’ that I’d accumulated on the playground that afternoon. No talk of a light rash that might be coming back because the substitute had next to no sense of smell and Zoge was almost constantly on diaper duty with a long queue during the most inconvenient times.  Janet gave gentle, yet concerned hums that coincided when she likely observed these things, or so I assumed.

Commands like “stand up please, I want to wash your legs and penis,” happened. “Turn around so I can clean your back and bottom.  Thank you.”  I went with it and just did my best not to feel too much in the particularly sensitive areas.  No smiling or moaning when a damp but warm washcloth gingerly pressed up against my nethers.  No wincing when that same cloth was rinsed and dabbed between my cheeks, or me hissing through my teeth because yes, it did somehow feel like I was developing a mild sunburn in places where the sun never shined.

“Okay. You can sit down. I’d like to wash your hair, too.”  After her fingers massaged my scalp for an unnecessary (but pleasurable) amount of time, she turned the faucet back on and filled up a rinse cup.  “Close your eyes in three…two…one!”  The clean water fell over me in one big spout.

None of these things were completely novel since my Adoption, but for once I took the time to catalog them and actually appreciate them somewhat.  I’d hate myself for noticing later, I was sure.  In the moment it was alright.

“I think you need a haircut soon,” Janet said. “Curls are just getting tangled.” Surprisingly she included, “And tiny bits of white and gray are showing up again. Let me know when you want to go to the salon and we will.  Maybe after school sometime this week…?”

The warm, lavender scented water and the modicum of respect I was being given made me feel slightly drunk.  “What if I want to keep the grays?”

“Nobody wants to keep the grays.”

“What if I want to?”

I watched her bite her lip again and her eyes darted back and forth in conversation with herself.  “That’s something I’d like to talk about, then.”  That was the most honest answer that the crazy giantess could have given and have me still believe her.

“Alright,” I said. “Later.”  I touched my hair and moved the red clumps of hair on my forehead into my periphery.  Stupidly, I knew none of them would look gray at the tips, but I looked anyway.  A guy could hope though.

“Ready to get out?” she asked.  Her voice was still slightly on eggshells, right where it belonged. Not too baby crazy, not too walled off.

“Yeah.”

She hoisted me out and wrapped the towel around me. The terrible impulse of running away just to inconvenience her jolted into me. I knew how that would look to her, however. Plenty of kids couldn’t stand still long enough to get toweled off.  Just because Amazons saw Little behavior how they wanted to see it, didn’t mean I had to take uncalculated risks.  The urge was there,I’ll admit.  It didn’t feel right unless we were fighting.

There were no surprises for me when I was laid out on the nursery’s changing table, creamed, powdered, and stuffed into a particularly thick nighttime Monkeez.  I was surprised when Janet asked, “Is there anything you want to wear for jammies tonight?”  I eyed her suspiciously. “This doesn’t count for the shirt thing.”

“Nothing.” I said. “I want to wear as little as possible. Diaper only.”  I wanted to be buck naked, but I knew I’d only get so far. Like I said, calculated risks.

Amazingly, Janet didn’t argue.  She barely hesitated.  “Okay.” She picked me up and carried me over to the crib by the armpits so that my newly dried body didn’t press up against her soaked t-shirt.  “It’s getting cold at night. Let me get you some extra blankets just in case.” 

She walked to the closet and came out with a thick comforter folded up in her arms.  She wasn’t dripping wet, so the comforter was in no real danger. 

“No swaddling!”  I blurted out without thinking.

“No swaddling,” she repeated. “Maybe if you’re sick. Or if you just feel you need a really good cuddle. But I don’t think your developmental plateau is at a level where full time swaddling is a thing.”

Just like that she went and ruined it. “Not. Funny. Janet.”

Her own voice cooled to match mine’s heat. “I wasn’t joking, Clark.”  The extra blanket came over the railing. It was a plain beige color that didn’t go with any of the childish bed sheets that regularly decorated my crib.  It kind of reminded me of the sheets that used to be on me and Cassie’s bed.  It certainly didn’t compliment the teddy bears on a playground fitted sheet around my mattress that night. “Lay down. Let me tuck you in.”

I obeyed, never breaking my gaze off of her as she leaned over to pull sheets and blankets over my almost naked form.  Speaking of form, with the t-shirt still clinging to her, I could see more of Janet’s figure.  She tended to prefer flattering, but not overly tight outfits; only skimpy by the standards of centuries past, but not the sexless smocks that Ambrose endorsed and forced Tracy into. I felt my eyes drawn to the near perfect outline of Janet’s chest, the points of her nipples concealed by her bra, and felt something.

It hadn’t yet been a full report card since I’d been adopted, but that’s a long time to go without certain thoughts.  None of the girls in my class were even allowed to wear bras, and there were far too many opportunities for me to see someone’s bare ass or junk on any given day. Be that as it may, certain uncomfortable thoughts were whispering in the back of my brain, even if the whispers weren’t fully formed. Certain questions combined with observations I’d taken for granted came burbling forth; a literal thought from my own stream of consciousness.

“Mo…?” No. This was a sincere question, so I had to address her sincerely. “Janet?” I said. “Why are you always wearing clothes around me?”

Janet stood back up, but kept her hands on the railing.  “Why wouldn’t I?”

I wriggled so that my arms could be over the heavy blankets. “Just…I dunno. You see me naked all the time. Every day.  I think I’ve seen you without a top in just your bra…once, maybe?”

I expected some bit of embarrassment or blush or revulsion or discomfort from my captor.  None of that happened. Curiosity was simply met with curiosity.  “Why do you want to see me naked?”

“I don’t,” I said. “Not necessarily.” I was doing my best to manage myself and not let any number of unhelpful emotions color my train of thought.  “I’m just curious. Like, you’ve handed me off so you can go to the bathroom, but held me till I peed.”

“That was a mistake with Forrest,” Janet said. “I’ve been going before I pick you up from the buses or holding it till we get home. You know that.” 

“Yeah. But like…why?  Why do you and everybody else get to see me like this all the time?”

“I don’t want to say something that will upset you, Clark. I think you know the reason.”

Fatigue and a small amount of goodwill she’d just earned kept the talk from devolving. The fact that I didn’t have school the next day gave her patience, too.  I could delay bedtime and genuinely probe into typical crazy for bonus points.

“I guess that’s not what I’m trying to ask.  I know where you stand on that.”

“Hm…” Janet seemed to take my response in stride. I’d given a diplomatic answer over a defiant or submissive one, and she’d picked up on it. “Is it me that needs to be naked or every other Grown-Up that loves you?  Mrs. Zoge and Mrs. B?”

My brain buzzed with equal parts admiration and indignation at that question. So much to unpack in that sentence and so many assumptions for me to unsuccessfully attempt to dismantle.  I could either take the bait on the implications and derail where my brain wanted to go, or I could not acknowledge the implications- thus giving credit to them- and steer the conversation further.

Also…Zoge and Beouf naked were things I could have died happy not visualizing.

“I don’t expect to see a teacher or a doctor or whatever naked,” I said. “That’s not their job.”

“But it’s mine?”

“No!” This was harder than I thought.  I was getting flustered and frustrated. “I hhhh….” I inhaled, kind of glad that the easiest way for me to verbally shoot myself in the foot wasn’t available to me.  I picked up my head just so I could slam the back of it against the pillow the one time.

“I’m a preschool teacher,” I explained. “Early childhood development. And an uncle.” That she didn’t interrupt me or remind me that those were legally past designations was a kindness that I didn’t miss. “I read parenting blogs and research all the time. I don’t know how many parents share way too much information in I.E.P. meetings and teacher conferences because I’ve lost count. Lots of parents go naked around their kids because they’re too young to remember or know the difference. Then they get more strict about clothes because they want to teach modesty and self care.  What do I need modesty anymore for?”

“You’re not too young to remember,” Janet said. “You know the difference.”

She wasn’t getting it.  Neither was I. It’s not that I wanted to see my ex-coworker in her underwear anymore than I wanted her to wipe my own ass for me or tote me around on her hip.  It’s just that, like the whole Maturosis bullshit and the treatment of Littles, there was something inherently wrong about it beyond the obvious, and it was so ingrained that it was totally and irrevocably typical to the point that everyone, Littles included, took it for granted.

I laid there in silence for what felt like a good five minutes.  Janet didn’t say anything and just kept leaning on the crib’s side, waiting for me to speak up.  “Is this because of the talk Mrs. Beouf had last night?” she asked.

I held my palms out in a massive stop gesture. “NO!  It’s just…it’s…just…”

“Just what?”

“You get to see me at my weakest and most vulnerable every single day. You talk like I’m your baby, like we’re family or something, like we’re going to be together for the rest of our lives. But I never see the same kind of vulnerability from you. You want me to be comfortable around you, but you don’t show the same level of comfort around me.  It doesn’t make me feel protected.  It just reminds me of how weak I really am. And that makes me feel angry.” I puffed my cheeks out. “Really really angry.”

For the second time that night, Janet seemed genuinely taken aback instead of hurt. “Clark. That might be the most emotionally mature thing I’ve ever heard from you since…ever!”

“Thanks.” I didn’t know how else to respond.

“I need to think about some things, but I’m not going to forget about this,” she promised. She kissed her fingertips and then pressed them into my forehead. “This is something I want to talk about later.”

She left, the light went out, and I felt oddly proud of myself. So proud of myself that I fell asleep instead of telling her how awful she was through the monitor.  It’d happened before. Good game.

No worries.

******************************************************************************************************

I thought about that oddly intimate conversation that Janet and I’d teased out of each other that Friday night as I laid on a paper covered exam table wearing just a diaper that Saturday morning. The Amazon nurse stripped me down, took my temperature, pulse, and blood pressure, while Janet looked on, fretting.  Weight was on a massive scale that I was laid down upon, and it was considered more efficient for me to fall prone and have this random stranger break out measuring tape.  Thank goodness they used forehead scanners for taking temperature.

“Don’t squirm, Clark,” Janet said. 

“It’s alright,” the nurse answered, Janet.  “I’m good at this.”

I couldn’t help but squirm. My gut had chosen the absolute worst time to start acting up. Janet had doubled down on the moderate to high fiber foods she’d fed me Thursday night, and had kept it going for dinner and breakfast. She’d suckered me in with a bowl of steaming hot oatmeal with cinnamon sugar and prunes. 

I’d only cooperated because she’d provided a massive spoon and a bib. I was allowed to feed myself at my own pace as long as I kept the bib on and used it as a napkin. It was just light enough, but for my size the spoon could have been its own bowl with a handle.  The bib was therefore necessary.

Back in the doctor’s office, I wanted to fart, but feared that might lead to something worse, and the pressure and pangs were building up inside me and I jittered lightly on the table near the end.

“Okay. I got it.” The nurse said. She tickled my tummy and I tensed up so as not to kick her in the face. “The doctor will see you shortly.” She helped me up onto a sitting position, and Janet was beside me before I was all the way up.

Janet had taken the t-shirt and pants she’d dressed me in after breakfast and carefully folded them in a pile at the foot of the exam table next to my discarded shoes and socks. “Can I get him dressed again?”  She asked.  She eyed me, nervously. “I don’t want him to catch cold.”

It appeared that our talk about vulnerability had stuck with her.

“Leave them off for now. The doctor will want to take a look at him.”  That was all there was to say about that, apparently. She walked to the door and left us to each other.

Janet went to the trouble of propping herself up on the exam table and letting her feet dangle next to mine.   “Do you want to sit in my lap?” she asked. “I could hug you and cover you up until the doctor gets here.”  She wore a black scoop neck top and a billowing lilac patterned skirt that I could have been tangled up in without her showing any skin whatsoever.

A cramp and I fidgeted in place. “No,” I grunted. “I’m fine.” Secretly, I was worried that there’d be enough space on her lap for my body to think I was on a toilet seat or something and start pushing against my will.  I kept my feet dangling over the edge and my rear planted on the flat surface.  I sat up straight so that all the weight was down on my tailbone. There was nothing to grip on or lean forward so I couldn’t accidentally raise my rump.  I was mindful not to lean back, either and fill my Monkeez with my legs raised to the sky. That would have been worse in my opinion.

I was going to poop soon.  That was inevitable. I’d lost count of how many times it’d happened to me, but I noticed every time. Adoption hadn’t left me with much agency in whether or not it happened, but the stitched together tatters of my pride wanted to have as much say in the when and where it happened as possible.

Messing isn’t the same as wetting. Diapers don’t absorb solid mass so quickly that you sometimes lose count of how often your body has failed you. They don’t contain the odor the same, or subtly sag and swell over time. There’s sounds beyond quiet hissing that only you hear so that you can’t ignore or pretend to yourself that didn’t happen.  Diapers never need poop indicators; that’s why eyes, ears, and noses were invented.

Janet positioned herself next to the fairly mature toddler clothing she'd dressed me in. I would have killed for that toddler clothing on my body.   The ‘Run! Francisco Run!’ shirt wasn’t that infantile, all things considered, and the pants were baggy enough that me carrying an extra pound or two in my back non-pocket would be hard to notice without scrutiny. 

Pooping your pants sucks, but any level of obfuscation of the inevitable is preferable to nothing: Baggy clothes that concealed lumps and sagging were lovely.  A quiet alcove to grunt in or a couch to hide behind while the deed was done could have helped. Highchairs and bouncers and such were still merciful because it was still a solid extra layer between your humiliation and somebody else’s eyes. Other Littles would do, sometimes; they could distract teachers and be suspected of dirty deeds themselves. Just not being the only person ‘known to need diapers’ was sometimes enough where dignity was concerned.

Anything to mask my diaper ballooning out the back of me was an unexpected kind of luxury. Anything to stop someone from watching me bend my knees, pop a squat, and remark “Uh oh. I know what that means!”.

Fuck my life that I now had serious opinions and feelings about these things.

“Janet?” I called. I caught her frown before it reached the bottom of her face. We were technically alone, but also technically in public. “Mommy?”

She gently rubbed my back and tried to pull me in for a side hug. I resisted because I felt a not-so-paranoid need to keep all my weight completely centered “Yes, Clark?”

How did I ask this and explain it to her?  ‘Put my pants back on so I can poop them like you want me too?’  No way were those words coming out of my mouth.  “I don’t feel so good.”

“Oh?” Janet felt my forehead even though my temperature had literally been taken less than two minutes prior. “We’re just here for a basic check up, but you can tell the doctor if you’re feeling icky.”

I didn’t have time to glower or sneer at her word choice.

“Can I…?” I tried not to groan. Maybe I could mess in the carseat on the ride back home or wherever our next stop was.  Doubtful, but maybe.  Did I really want to sit in my own filth for longer than I had to over misplaced dignity? 

“Can you…?” She was interrupted by a disgusting churning sound coming from my belly. My guts growled loud enough that even she heard it.  “Tummy trouble?”  Her hand went up over my shoulders and gently patted bare my knee.  “Do you need to throw up?”

My mouth contorted and my lip pouted out as I shook my head. 

“Oooooh!” She nodded as if she understood. “I get it. Let me know if you can and I’ll change you as soon as you poop.”  I wanted to claw eyes out; mine or hers. “I’ll change you before we go no matter what. That way you won’t have to sit in the car.  Even if we’re waiting in the parking lot.”

My stomach was punching me from the inside out, and my cheeks were trying to spread without my consent.  For Janet, for any Amazon, it was a good deal. Never let an Amazon offer you a good deal if you can get a better one.  “Do they have a bathroom here?”

“Yeah. I think they have changing tables, too.” The hand left my knee and found my waist band. “Nope. Not yet.”  A hidden Amazon skillset must be completely missing hints.

“Can I…” I whimpered and paused after another jerk from inside me. I hadn’t been terribly constipated but something inside me was really kicking in.  Maybe if I begged, just this once, I could get away with it instead of getting into an argument. It would be okay. No one was here but the two of us.  “Mommy, would it be okay if…if I…?”

Thud-Thud

Two swift knocks at the door and another Amazon poked his head inside. “Hey-hey!”  Dr. Milton said. “How’s my favorite patient?”

Paper lining and plastic backing rustled beneath me as I instinctively sat up straight and clenched my cheeks together.  Old King Quack was here. Broad shouldered, silver haired, but friendly-seeming and confident with a twinkle in his eye, he instantly gave off ‘New Grandpa’ vibes.  In actuality, he was arguably the biggest proponent of whatever theory Maturosis peddled itself as in Oakshire.  Bigger than even Beouf, if such a thing were possible.

Shit.

My vain and distant potty options were instantly flushed down the toilet. Maturosis was a cult, and it would have been foolish to so much as hope that blasphemy would go unchecked around him.  I was definitely going to have an accident here.  Probably in this room.  The only Little with two giants staring right at him.

Shit.

I folded my hands in my lap and clenched my jaw so tight that my teeth clicked.

“Hello, Doctor.”  Janet stood up and offered her hand out.

Dr. Milton shook hers and then held his hand out to me just like on my first visit. I did not take up the offer to shake it.  “Hmmm?” he said. “Favorite patient bit not working, sir?” He scratched the side of his head. “Oh yeah, I gotta say that you’re my favorite patient named Clark! That’s the part that I missed.”  Cartoonishly he turned around and made to walk away.  “I’ll come back in.”

“Spare me.”  Another tremor shook my gut and I tried to sit up even straighter somehow. I needed to move, but didn’t want a movement.

“He talks!” The doctor said, “Excellent! Wonderful to see you, sir! I hope you’re well.”

He was unfazed by nasty glares and distant stares alike. He would be.  He turned his back to me and Janet followed him around. “This is just a checkup, right? Nothing too bad going on?”

Janet folded her hands in front of her and shook her head, oddly mirroring me.  “No, Doctor. Not as far as health goes.”

“Good. No sickness or fever other than that one time you emailed me about after the fact?”

“Correct.”

My lips puckered like I’d been sucking a lemon. Mental disgust and internal discomfort were doing a number on me.  I wanted to bite my knuckle to distract myself from the pangs, but that would draw attention. I actually would have killed to have Lion in my lap, something with a nice fluffy brain to crush, but he was stuck with his head poking out of Janet’s diaper bag on the floor.  A pacifier would have made a decent groaning gag, too, and given the sides of my tongue and insides of my cheek a rest.

Fuck my life that these were now my earnest thoughts and options.

“Are all the basic fundamentals happening? He’s still eating, sleeping, burping, peeing, pooping?  Sometimes multiple at once, I bet?” His back was to me but I heard the knowing chuckle and pictured a corny grin all the same.

Janet did a poor job of stifling her own. “Yes, sir.”

Both Amazons were preoccupied with one another.  If I was going to degrade myself here and now, this was going to be the largest amount of privacy I could expect: shitting while they were looking at each other instead of examining me directly.

The thing that gave me pause was that based on my positioning and red alert levels of urgency, I’d probably make it to my hands and knees before things started to empty themselves out. Thursday night with the Little brat who habitually pooped on all fours and how positively irate she’d been at being ratted out came to my imagination’s foregrand. That put a cork in that plan.

“Potty training or potty anxiety?”

“He still gets embarrassed sometimes that he’s lost his potty training,” Janet reported, “but overall I think he’s fine. Sometimes he’ll forget to ask for a change. I had to break out the rash cream last night.”

A big silver haired noggin bobbled in approval. “Good. Good. Not the rash, I mean, that he’s comfortable. We always want to ensure comfort and happiness where we can.”

“Mmmhmmm”

If Janet had been singing, the man would have been preaching to the choir.

“If he’d spent the last two months throwing a complete temper tantrum every time he’d had an accident, or constantly asking to use the toilet, I’d actually recommend potty training.”

“Oh no no no,” Janet said. “I don’t think he needs that.”

I didn’t need clothes to keep warm in that second. Lies. Such utter bullshit lies. If I’d been a steadfast whiner about what went on in my pants daily, I would have gone to time out, or be given impossibly thick diapers and pumped full of diuretics till I couldn’t tell the difference between wet and dry. 

The two instances I’d encountered in my life of a captured Little being allowed to toilet train were the Little who lived in my house before Cassie and I bought it and the one who’d been withdrawn from Beouf’s roster over the summer.

One was dead, and the other was as good as dead, assuming she was still at New Beginnings.  None of the A.L.L. or any of my other classmates had brought up what led to the girl getting training pants, but her causing a fuss would have surely come up. I was too scared to ask Beouf before and there’s no way she would tell me now.

This so-called doctor based his diagnosis on self-fulfilling prophecies after the fact when he’d already proven himself right. Typical. So, so, typical.

I breathed in and cut it short when an even more intense cramp racked me. My entire belly was on fire for a second. What was I eating that was causing this? I hadn’t felt this level of urgency since before all of my underwear had tapes on it.

How funny would it be, I mused, if this was how I found out my appendix was about to burst?  The pain subsided for a second and I shoved that nugget away from my thoughts; mostly because an even more frightened part of my gray matter dredged up the idea that I’d find my continence surgically undone while someone was rooting around there saving me.

“Breastfeeding yet?” The quack asked.

“No,” Janet and I said in unison. She sounded more embarrassed in her update; an Amazon who hadn’t broken her pet yet. I sounded more steadfast in my refusal and didn’t like that ‘yet’, at all.

His head went down to a clipboard he’d been keeping tucked under his arm. “Then why did you ask to…?”

“The prescription hasn’t kicked in yet,” Janet yelped.

“Prescription?” I called over. Suddenly my bowels didn’t hurt as much, but my padding was still pristine. Something more sinister sounding was just there to occupy my attention.  “What do you mean ‘prescription’?”

The conversation, along with the Amazons pivoted back over to me. “It’s for me, Clark. He wrote me a prescription a while back. It’s for my mood.”

“It’s true, good sir.” Doctor Milton said. “Not for Littles, but good for women who’ve recently Adopted.  You’d be surprised how much Adoptive parents have in common with biological counterparts.  It’s fascinating.  Helps the Littles indirectly, too.”  He tried giving me a conspiratorial wink. “I’d say something like ‘happy wife happy life’, but I haven’t figured anything out that rhymes with Mommy just yet.” 

Only he laughed at his joke.

“What’s it for?” I asked.

“Oxytocin,” Janet said.  “It helps me get oxytocin.”

I puzzled the word out. Where had I heard it before? It sounded vaguely familiar, but not in a way that came up in conversation.

The old titan plugged his stethoscope into his ears and started giving me the once over. “Let’s just make sure everything looks good on the inside, before we play Twenty Questions, yes?”  He breathed on the cold bit of metal at the end to warm it up and then held it up to my chest.

“Mmmhmmm.  Mmmmhmmm.”

Then my back. 

“Breathe deep. Thank you.”

Then my stomach.

“Mmmhmmm.  Mmmmhmmm.”

A light shined in my ears, eyes, and throat. “Say ah!”

“Aaaaah.”

“Very good, sir.  Very good.”  And then his focus returned to Janet. “Ms. Grange, Clark seems to be healthy but…”

Fear and concern clogged up Janet’s throat. “But?”

“I’m worried about his weight. He’s gained more than a little bit in just two months.” 

“He has?” Janet asked.

I had. 

Embarrassed. I was actually embarrassed. I peered down at my pot belly and frowned. Cafeteria food and baby slop was more caloric than breakfast shakes.  Most of my time was spent stewing and plotting instead of over exercise.  The only time I exercised was when it served a larger, meaner purpose.

I kept staring at my gut. Yet another side effect of having no privacy was that I never had time to explore myself or notice changes that weren’t drastically forced on me. Still… I hadn’t gained that much, had I? 

“Fifteen pounds in just a couple months is worrisome. He’s not in any danger, but I don’t want to see it continue, you understand.” My mouth went dry. I sat motionless as more pain filled my midsection. 

Fifteen pounds? How had I managed that?

Janet looked like a whipped dog. “Yes, Doctor.”

“Littles like sweet and fatty foods, but those experiencing Maturosis lack the impulse control to moderate consumption and the discipline to exercise. His brain might think he’s a baby, but his heart won’t know the difference. He’s all out of growth spurts and his metabolism won’t be speeding up.”

This was the most uncomfortable I’d seen another Amazon make Janet, and I absolutely hated it. I was being talked about like I was a fat old man and a useless baby at the same time. “Any suggestions, sir?”

“Did you try the at-home yoga like I advised? Or find a class?”

“No, sir. I…it’s been hectic, but that’s no excuse.  I’ll look into some resources.”

A finger pointed at me. “You could, you could.  Or you could just ask him. Can’t be that big a difference between adult yoga and kid’s yoga.  At least start him on the one while you research the other.”

More proof that I would never fully understand Amazons.

Janet continued to nod.  “Okay. Sure. Yeah.” She stopped and considered me. “Would you like that, Clark?”

I stopped jiggling my belly like it was a disgusting science experiment.  “Uh…yeah…?”

“You can do other things if you like,” the quack expounded. “Get a toddler leash and go on walks instead of strolls.  Sign up for Little League T-Ball or a dance class. Get him some playdates on the weekend.”  That prefaced another dirty old man wink. “Half an hour wandering around a playground is good, but it’s not enough.” 

Someone knew Beouf’s class schedule…

“His best friend is a crawler,” Janet said, defensively.

“So?” Dr. Milton replied. “Let him crawl on the floor with his buddy. Crawling burns calories, too.”  He might have a point there. Amy wasn’t fat.  “His best friend doesn’t have to be his only friend,” he added.  “The point is he’s never going to grow up at his age. He’s only going to grow out, and you have to keep that in mind because he can’t do it himself.”

I wanted to contradict him, but it’s hard to argue independence when you’re on the verge of unloading into your pants.  Having better cardio would serve me in the long run, anyways. So why not let Janet help engineer and fine tune my freedom?

“Yes, sir.” Janet said. “I can do that.”

“Good.” Dr Milton leaned up against his exam table. “Very good.  One thing I’ll add is that if I can get a stool sample, I can probably do some analysis.  Figure out if there’s any major deficiencies that need seeing to.  Do you have a dirty diaper like I suggested? Tanked him up on fiber for a few days?”

I locked eyes with Janet and silently begged her not to out me.  “What about a blood sample?” I volunteered. “I can handle a prick on the finger.”  Counterintuitively I stifled a pained moan and tacked on “I’m a big boy….” to taunt the man into proving me wrong.

The bigger giant stroked his chin.  “Maybe. Maybe. Not a big fan of that method, though. Unnecessary pain and not exactly what I’m looking for. You’d be surprised how much information can be found with a stool sample.”

“Sorry,” Janet said. “I forgot. He usually has a bowel movement when he sleeps or first thing in the morning at school. No such luck today.”

Inwardly, I froze. Was Janet actually covering for me? Lying for me? About something objectively trivial, all things considered but of vital import to yours truly? For me?  Another mountain of evidence proving why I would never fully understand the maternal giant folk.

“Ah yes,” Dr. Milton said. “That is the downside of having Little patients.  If we could predict when they’d be able to produce for us, we probably wouldn’t need to have them in diapers to begin with.  Fortunately…”  He spun around and dug his fingers into my sides, an insane wide eyed smile on his wrinkling face. “COOCHIE COOCHIE COO!”

I tensed and fell back, screaming instead of laughing despite the rictus grin forming. My arms tucked in, and infinitely stronger hands took that as a cue to dig into my arm pits, and then dart over to my belly button.

I drew my knees up. That’s all that she wrote for those Monkeez. I started pushing and screaming as the mess made its way out of me far too easily. My diaper ballooned as fecal matter hit the back and kept going, each cramp now just a warning that I wasn’t done pushing.  After the initial lapse, it wasn’t even that I ‘had’ to push; it was just a reflex.  Warmth engulfed me top to bottom and the front of my padding started to discolor and bunch up while I practically bathed in my own urine.

I knew this would happen.  I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.  Knowing it didn’t make it any better.

As long as it felt, the whole terrible process took less than five seconds. My insides felt like they’d been greased and everything slipped right out.  It didn’t feel like diarrhea, just soft. I hadn’t felt this lack of control since I’d been poisoned by the training chocolate. This wasn’t training chocolate, though, because Raine’s goodies at least numbed things so that you couldn’t feel yourself going at times.

This just felt overwhelmingly natural and I hated it. Both giants were staring right at me while I did it, too.
 
“And there. We. Go.” The old trickster god said.  “Can’t get any fresher than that.”

I stayed laying down on the table with my knees pulled up close to my stomach. I buried my face in my hands and shoved the heel of my right palm over my mouth to stop me from screaming and crying. 

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. You’ve cried enough. Don’t let them see you cry.  Fuck them. Be strong. Don’t look! Don’t think!  This is nothing and you’re used to this.

Even though you shouldn’t be…

Janet was shushing me and gently running her fingers through my hair.  “Was that really necessary?” 

I didn’t see the doctor shrug. “His guts were going crazy. I’m a rip the bandaid off kind of guy.”  There was a prolonged silence.  Janet kept stroking my hair and shushing me.  I kept trying not to hyperventilate or scream bloody murder. “You can change him right here if you want. Just ball it up and I’ll have a nurse collect it.”

“If it’s okay with you,” Janet said, “I’d like to change him in the bathroom.” There was a massive edge to her words. “Get him dressed.”

“Sure sure.” He said, nonchalantly.  “If you choose the one right before you get to the checkout counter, you’ll find a cabinet between the changing station and the toilet. If you put the diaper in the cabinet and knock, one of the nurses will take it.” 

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Any time, Ms. Grange. Anytime.  See you both in a couple months.”

I heard the door open and shut. Then I heard her say, “We’ll see…”

The wait was too long for me, while Janet gathered up the diaper bag and my clothes.

“Change me,” I whimpered, pathetically. “Please. Just change me.” 

“I will, baby. Just a second.” 

I was blind back through the halls and to the restroom Janet had been directed to. I felt every shift and step. Nothing shifted in my pants, whatsoever. There was too much sticking to everything and not enough room for it to jostle around in.

My ears burned on full alert, picking up every footstep, cry, and bit of random dialogue. Things went nearly silent save for squeaky hinges on a wall mounted changing station. “Please,” I begged. “Just get me out of this. I don’t even care about the changing pad.”

The soft comforter-like texture of a changing pad still cushioned me. The familiar sensation of a restraint being threaded under my arms and over my chest followed. “It’s okay,” Janet whispered. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”  I finally took my hands out of my face to clutch Lion and hold onto him for dear life.

Janet was readying diapering supplies like she was a surgeon. “It’s okay. This is nothing. This is nothing. It’s not a big deal.” 

Tapes ripped and the diaper practically forced itself open. Stupidly I looked down myself and saw the disgusting results.  I laid my head back and counted ceiling tiles.  It was a good thing there were no mirrors on this ceiling. Beouf’s room would have killed me just then.

Janet wiped me down, furiously, shushing and whispering sweet nothings as she did. From as many wipes as she used, I'd quietly figured that the putrid stinking stuff had nearly reached my genitals. 

It wasn’t that putrid, though.  It was bad, mind you, still obviously feces, but it had a different stench to it. Less offensive, or so I thought. Everyone likes their own brand, as it were, but Janet showed no sign of irritation, either. 

“Almost done,” Janet promised. She just kept going at it, using wipe after wipe like a squeegee.  “You’re doing good, baby. You’re doing good.”

Lion got a chance to breathe when the last wipe caressed my penis and I finally heard the used diaper get balled up.  I saw the massive ball be toted right by me, and placed in a cabinet with a knock.  Back on the slab, Janet slipped a new diaper and dusted some powder over me.  “You’re doing so good.” Janet whispered. “I’m so proud of you.  I love you.”

“I…” I almost echoed the sentiment but Zoge’s conditioning hadn’t quite gotten a hold of me.  Everything untensed from my head to my tow, when the change was finally finished and I had a nice snug replacement taped over my hips.

The smile that followed when Janet started threading my legs through the pants was completely genuine. I hadn’t even had to ask or remind her and went so far as to boost my hips up to help.  Socks and shoes followed. Finally, I was allowed to sit up and get my shirt back on.

“Thank you,” I said. For once I buried my head into the nape of her neck and didn’t want to go for the jugular.

“Welcome,” she whispered, and set me down on my own two feet.  Surprised, I reached my hand up for her.  Maybe we were starting on light cardio right away. 

Janet didn’t take my hand.  “Hold on,” she told me. “I gotta go too.”

“Go?”

In answer to my question, she walked over to the single toilet, turned around, and dropped her lilac skirt and matching panties down to her ankles.  “Janet?” my voice bounced off the walls. “Mommy? What are you doing?”

The answer was a tinkling sound of liquid connecting with liquid, and Janet loudly sighing.  More than a hint of scarlet came to her cheeks. Stupidly, I turned around and used Lion to cover my face.  Watching just felt wrong; voyeuristic; gross. I knew exactly why she was doing it, but my brain couldn’t process that this was more than hypothetical.  The sound of tinkling paused and I held my breath, waiting for the flush.  A solid plunk of something solid punctuated the stillness and it actually made me jump.  The shuffling sounds of toilet paper being ripped added to the bathroom symphony and finally a flush.

When I turned back around, she was at the sink, washing her hands.

I gawked right up until the moment that she shouldered the diaper bag and picked me back up.

“What?” she asked, playfully. “You peep and poop in front of me all the time.”

“Yeah, but…but…but…”

“But what?”  Her eyes fluttered at me.  “What, baby?”

I nuzzled back into her. “Thank you,” I repeated myself. “Just…thank you.”

***********************************************************************************************

“Mommy’s going to take a shower,” Janet declared after she’d cleaned up for dinner. “Do you want to take one with me?”

I looked back over my shoulder towards the television as if maybe she’d been addressing the parents on the Koddles commercial.  “I beg your pardon?”

The rest of that Saturday had been eerily still.  Lovey-dovey baby crazy Janet had taken a back seat to preoccupied and quiet Janet. That had been fine. I’d needed time to process that morning. She’d needed it too. 

I took a bottle of goat’s milk in her lap right after lunch and I didn’t actively seek to antagonize her, but other than that I’d let Janet be.  I was feeling shades of that first not-completely miserable weekend right before I’d learned about Cassie and those parallels gave me all kinds of bad feelings.

Janet had put in a call to Beouf and left a voice message when I wasn’t supposed to be listening in.  Other than that she was on her phone or in her room all day.

She’d disappeared for almost an hour of dinner; giving me free reign of the house and uncharacteristically leaving the dishes in the sink. Presently, just before when she’d normally start trying to put me in bed, the Amazon stood barefoot in front of me with her gorgeous raven hair let down, and wearing nothing but a pink silk bathrobe tied off at the waist.

“Mommy’s going to take a shower,” she said again. “Do you want to take one with me?”

I was still in the toddler play clothes: Loose pants, velcro sneakers, t-shirt. Deduct fifty points for the Monkeez and I was still more dressed than her.  Wow. So this was about to be a thing. This was happening.  “Um…sure?  Yeah.”

“Okay.  Do you want to take a shower in your bathroom, or Mommy’s bathroom?”

Hearing the M-word spoken so frequently in a spot where it should have been forbidden left a bad taste in my ears.  “Janet, why are you-?”

“Clark,” she almost snapped at me. “I need to say this stuff. I need to be able to say these words. Call me whatever you want, but I need to be able to call myself ‘Mommy’ right now. Okay? I need it.”  Speaking of flashbacks, I hadn’t seen Janet like this since the first awful day where our relationship moved out of the friend-zone and into every Little’s worst nightmare. “Just…let me humor myself.”

Wow.  “Okay. Sure.  It’s your house. That’s fine.” She stood there, waiting for me. “Your shower, I guess.” 

Janet likely jerked her head towards her bedroom door and I waddled after her.  Two months Adopted and I’d seen where she slept a bare handful of times. It still had a kind of mysterious quality to me, like I was trespassing into a sorceress’s lair or something.

The bed was fully made and put together.  A military woman could flip a coin and no wrinkles would form. The fancy headboard with the drinking glasses was dusted, too. The side cot that she’d gotten as an impulse buy had yet to be unpacked, but other than that, the room was bizarrely clean, even for Janet. 

I twisted my head, wondering if she’d shoved old clothes or dropped something under the bed like a normal person, but Janet stopped my instinctive snooping.  “Come on,” she said. “Follow Mommy. We’re gonna get clean together.”  If she were going to hide anything it would have been in the massive closet, anyways.

She brought us into the small bathroom and took a knee on the fluffy floor mat.  Small of course, is a matter of comparison. The white tile was still tall and impressive with a high ceiling, even if including the shower, the space was only twice the size of Beouf’s classroom commode.   “Are you sure you’re not going to get scared?” she asked. “Mommy’s shower is very loud and there’s no bubbles to play with.”

“Janet you don’t need to talk to me like I’m-”

“Clark…” Janet cut me off again. “I’ve been reading those same blogs you told me about and then some all last night and this afternoon. Are you sure?’

I curled my lip and breathed deeply through my nose.  “Yes, Janet.  I’m sure.” 

She closed her eyes and smiled softly. Even without seeing her, I could see it reaching her eyes. This was happening. This was really happening. An Amazon was about to fully listen to me and give up some control.  And she was struggling but strangely okay with it.

“Okay. Arms up.”  She mimed like I didn’t know.  I obeyed.  “Now your shoes.  Now your pants.”  One leg at a time I stepped out.  She was going the extra mile to make it clear that I was still a baby to her and that old Clark Gibson was gone. Funnily enough, this was still one of the easier times that I’d been undressed by her.  I was expecting to have to look up at her from the fluffy bath mat.  “And your diaper.”

My last regular diaper of the day fell down between my ankles, Janet quickly balled it up and cursed. “Crud,” she said. “I forgot to get a new one for after.”

My own contrarian nature betrayed me. “My room is just across the house,” I said. “Even if I’m not potty trained, I think you can make it in time.”  All the struggling was actually helping me.

“True,” she said and stood up. “Good point. Maybe next time.”

Next time?

Janet wasted no further time disrobing. She’d taken Dr. Milton’s sentiment about bandaid ripping to heart, even if she’d been less than thrilled by his methods.  The belt was undone, and the silken thing was off her shoulders almost as fast as my heavy sodden underwear had been.

I could only stand there, awestruck and blushing, fighting myself from turning away. In all my life I’d only seen one woman completely nude; pictures, my imagination, and one mishap with an unlocked door didn’t count.  That made Janet the second.

I wasn’t sure what to say, or do. I’d proposed this- literally asked for it- but in no way did I honestly think on an intellectual or emotional level that Janet would follow through.  I’d been bluffing; playing chicken; and this woman had called my bluff.

I could only stand there, gaping, and trying not to drool.  Did I stare? Did I look away?  Wouldn’t that be against the point of this…whatever this was?  She’d seen me naked literally everyday for months. This was just returning the favor, so to speak.

Looking for something to latch onto, my eyes started analyzing her the way the killer nanny-bot did in those foreign horror movies Little parents would sometimes let their children watch: I took in the curves of her hips, and her thighs. I gazed at her belly button and the slight tummy that proportionately made my macaroni and cheese gut look bulbous. Her breasts somehow looked bigger without the extra layers, and left me transfixed; a shrew staring at a cobra’s sway. 

My gaze went beneath the belly button and confirmed that Janet didn’t dye her hair.

Looking at the size of Janet’s…everything, and my…everything else… I wondered how there could be any truth to the idea that Tweener’s had mixed ancestry. The physical mechanics alone were baffling.  The desire, however, was understandable; from an academic standpoint, of course.  It was possible to admit that someone was attractive while feeling no physical or emotional attraction whatsoever.

“It’s okay,” Janet said softly to me. “You can look.  I trust you.”  The verbal reminder that Janet was, in fact, a person made my eyes hone onto hers and refuse to look away.  This was about vulnerability, I reminded myself.  This was her trusting me with something.  This was Janet giving up a small sense of privacy in lieu of giving me my own.  It was the closest thing to compromise with a Little that her baby crazy brain could wrap itself around.

“So,” I said, feeling awkward. “What now?”

I was scooped up and propped over her shoulder. “We take a shower, silly. This is what you wanted.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re right.”

Janet held me with one hand and I wrapped my arms over her shoulder for balance. She used her free hand to open the class door to her shower and turn on the water.  A million focused drops of hot rain poured onto the floor, and she held me there on the precipice, waiting for the temperature to adjust. 

My heart thudded like a jackhammer, and every nerve ending in my body tingled. All tactile sensations felt magnified a thousand fold. I could feel the spaces between Janet’s fingers cupping my ass. I could feel the heat from her body and that her pulse was pounding just as much as mine was. My hands kept gently brushing over patches of skin, taking in the softness and textures of her. I wanted to reach up and pull her hair.

Simultaneously, in the back of my mind, I kept thinking about less innocent exploration; the urge to touch both out of curiosity, but also out of an impulse to provoke.  How did Amy do it so casually with her Mommy?  Meanwhile in the back of my mind, I kept worrying about my penis lightly brushing up against her body.  Thinking about it was probably not helping.

I wanted to touch everything.  I dared not touch anything. I was curious about being touched. I feared something happening upon touch.   “Temperature’s good,” Janet announced. Her reach was long enough to where she could test the water without stepping in. “Do you want a feel?”

“Yes, please.”

Gingerly, the giantess slid across into the shower holding me out like a certain animated feline.  I put my arm forward and jerked it back like I’d been struck.

“Too hot?” Janet asked.

“No,” I half-shouted over cascading water. “Too cold! Warmer please!”

Janet stepped inside, and twisted a dial. She pivoted so that her opposite shoulder was in the oncoming flow.  “You’re not getting sick again, are you?”

“Nuh-uh. I just like being in hot water.”

She cocked an eyebrow at me. “That explains a lot.”  We both looked like we didn’t know whether to laugh or not while the steam clouds slowly rose. “How about this?”  She pivoted so I could experiment.

“Much better.”

“Good.”  She turned so that almost all of me was in the gentle torrent.  The water pouring down us felt amazingly therapeutic, tiny water massages pelting me clean instead of a big bubbly blanket that secretly wanted to drown me.  And this time I didn't have to be sick as a dog to get it.  Oddly enough, the extra sensory input of the steam, water, and white noise from the shower helped make other sensations not so extreme as to be worrisome.

It was a tight fit in that shower. Two full grown Amazons probably wouldn’t have had enough room to get clean, (or do much of anything but stand there).  Like with Beouf’s cramped bathroom made even more cramped by a thick changing table, there was just enough room for the two of us together. 

Janet had a hanging shelf with liquid soaps and body washes. Since I was keeping one arm constantly occupied with my body, she would just squirt dabs onto us and gently work it in with her fingers.  Like the night before, she would warn me whenever she was about to touch me or shift me around or switch arms.  It was even better than the last time.

And she developed a kind of gentle swaying motion that took us in and out of the showerhead’s path like a slow waltz. 

The actual bathing part was over far too quickly for me. At least half of the usual bathtime ritual was waiting for the tub to fill and for a moment I worried that it might end after every conceivable part of us had been soaped up and sprayed off. I peered far down below at the drain where the white flecks of soap vanished as soon as they dribbled off our bodies. 

There were no bath toys to offer, or bubbles to play with, and no place for Janet to sit and stare at me and pretend that I was the Little she’d always dreamed of but would never get.  I didn’t say anything to her when the last of the body wash was gone. She’d held up her end of the bargain and had every right to stop.

She didn’t though. All that happened was that she gave herself greater freedom of movement, and cradled me in both arms, rocking me gently in the same way that we’d danced together.

“My baby takes the morning train,
He works from nine to five and then,

He takes another home again,

To find me waitin’ for him.”

Now cradled, I stared up in a quiet wonder at her. Janet had sung to me before; more times that I care to write down.  But before this moment, her kiddie songs had always had a kind of annoying, cutesy, chirpy, nasally, singing-without-really singing quality.  An adult trying to sing like a child; that is to say ‘poorly’.

“He takes me to a movie or to a restaurant
To go slow dancing, anything I want,

Only when he’s with me, I catch light,
Only when he gives me, makes me feel alright.”


This voice was deeper; throatier; louder and full chested; contralto to the point to where it might have been able to sing baritone, but still undeniably feminine. Undeniably Janet.  And she’d been singing a song I didn’t know, but the way she sang it, it sounded comforting and happy and simple; genuinely something that I might have hummed to myself on my scooter after a long day at work but having enough energy to do something beyond crash and veg out. 

“My baby takes the morning train,
He works from nine to five and then,

He takes another home again,

To find me waiting for him.”

More intriguing, the Amazon was singing a song with ‘baby’ distinctly in the lyrics, but nothing else to indicate that it was about a Little. No talks of maturity, or bottles, or butterfly kisses.  If anything, this ‘baby’ sounded like a partner and provider, over a dependant or a doll.  In the context of the melody, ‘baby’ was a term of affection, not domination or smothering cosseting obsession. 

“What’s that song?” I called over the pouring water and Janet’s own melody. Why didn’t she sing like that more often?

Janet looked down at me as if she’d forgotten I was there. She’d entranced herself.  “I don’t remember. It’s something I learned in highschool; part of a dumb talent show competition.” A moment passed.  “I like to sing in the shower. Sorry.  I’ll stop.”

“No, no,” I said. “I’m just curious. How’s the rest go?”

“I don’t remember,” she admitted. “Just that one verse and the chorus.”

“Do you want to sing it again?” I offered. Then, I admitted, “I like it.”

Eyes sparkled back and a switch flipped back on. “Really?  You like it when Mommy sings?”

I balled up a fist and rubbed my eyes so that I wouldn’t roll them. “Yes,  Janet.  I like it when you sing.”

Mercifully, that was enough for her.

She kept swaying and gently rocking me, taking our naked bodies in and out of the stream, singing the same two parts of a mostly forgotten song over and over again. The world outside of our immediate bubble went numb to me and ceased to exist as far as I cared. The only two things that had my attention were Janet’s singing and face gently smiling down on me, and how pleasantly heavy my eyelids were beginning to feel.

“Okay,” Janet said. “I think it’s time to get you to bed, honey.”

“Hmm?” I stirred and startled at the sound of her voice not sinking. I’d genuinely drifted off in the massive woman’s arms. She was blushing like crazy and holding me wrapped up in a towel.  

“Hey!” I whined. “No swaddling!”

The bathroom ceiling shifted to the bedroom ceiling and quickly into the main part of the house.  “Don’t worry,” Janet said. “This is just the quickest way to dry you off, silly.”  She herself was still dripping wet.

I suppressed a groggy snarl.  “Promise?”

“Promise, sweetie. Mommy promises.”

Honey. Silly. Sweetie. All these nicknames were seriously toeing a line, and Janet knew it. I let her call herself ‘Mommy’ and she was already testing new boundaries. I tried to not allow my eyes to close again, not wanting to be so sleepy, no matter how good the experience had been.

Lightly squirming in Janet’s grasp, I tried to free my arms without her dropping me. There was something so unpleasantly confining about it. How did real babies sleep with their arms bound so tight?  There was probably a reason why it wasn’t common past a certain age.

Trying to get out of the swaddle while Janet was moving was no easy task. It would have been simpler to trust her to carry me, but all of the baby talk she was piling on deserved at least a physical rebuttal to discourage it.

“Almost there, baby,” Janet said. “Almost to your nursery. Then we’ll put you in a nice dry diaper and some jammies and you can go back to sleep.  How does that sound?” 

Oh enough already!  “It sounds-”  My hand brushed past my penis and I froze. I wasn’t fully erect…yet. When did that happen? It didn’t take a master detective to figure out. A better phrase to describe my condition was ‘I wasn’t fully erect…anymore.’ Janet’s sudden heaping of baby talk was taking on a new context.  She was unsettled, discomforted, and trying to ‘help’ me.

Beouf giving a pep talk about Adopted Littles maintaining certain urges was fine in theory.  Practice was another matter. For both of us.

“Yes Mommy.” I said. “I think I’m sleepy, yes. Can I please go night-night?”

Janet looked positively relieved. “Of course, baby boy. But first we have to get you ready for bed. Can’t have you going night-night all nakied!” The vocabulary was really doing it for me, by which I meant not doing it at all. As intended.

Completely naked and dripping, Janet got me redressed, all while narrating every single excruciating detail. 

“Now that we’ve had our shower together, let’s slip the fresh diaper underneath you.  We want a nice nighttime diaper, too, so you don’t leak all over your crib.  And you’re still pretty rashy, Clark, so I think some cream on your bum-bum will help you sleep good.  Can’t forget the baby powder. That’ll dry you out and help you feel nice and cool.

“Here, let Mommy rub it in on your tummy, too.  We’re gonna start feeding you more yummy veggies though so don’t get used to seeing Mr. Tum-Tum!  Almost done, almost done. Let’s count the tapes.  One! Two! Now let’s get your jammies on. Blue’s a good color! Right?  Yes it is! Yes it is!  It’s a pretty color for my precious baby boy!

“Let’s get your arms, head, and legs in there. Good baby! Now let’s count the snaps. One. Two. Three. Four. Five! Wow! You did it!  Oh and here’s your paci in case you need a suckle.  And here’s Lion to keep you company.”

Throughout it, her voice took on the same cooing, whiny, nasally tone it did when she was trying to do any of the Little Voices exercises.  I resisted and complained about absolutely none of it.  Was thankful, for it in fact. 

She gently put me down in the crib and that was alright. She forgot to kiss me in any way shape or form and that was alright, too.  “Night night, Clark. I love you. Mommy’s gonna go dry off.”

I laid there, completely mortified and quivering. In the darkness, I turned my head and looked at Lion. His glassy unmoving eyes stared at me, judging me for any number of things. 

“Shut up!”