Loving Care: The Stories of Lola Trechlyn

Chapter 5
V - Lola's Chapter

Chapter Description: F on M, Mental AR, Physical AR. / Originally published on June 14th, 2007.

=THE FIRST FEW DAYS=

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.

=THE NEXT FEW WEEKS=

The next few weeks were equally pleasant. Jon had some paid time off squirreled away, and as long as I spent the time I wasn’t taking care of him on writing, we’d have no reason to worry about bills to pay or food to eat. Good thing, too; taking care of Jon had become a job all its own.

You see, 24 years old he may have been, but Jon was a little pants-wetter. This was partially my fault. I mean, it could have been all my fault, considering such was the natural progression of the formula, but who knows? I’m sure he had gotten drunk and pissed his jeans in college a buncha times. Maybe not while he was awake, but I’m trying to allow for all possibilities.

You should’ve seen the look on his face the first time it happened, too. It was priceless. I was cooking dinner (complete with the added ingredient that had led Jon to a spell of nightly self-consciousness), and the boy was just hanging around, drinking a beer, useful as ever...which is to say, not much. I heard a gasp, I turned around, and there he was, looking down in surprise and increasing horror as he helplessly emptied his bladder into his blue jeans. I failed at suppressing a giggle as I watched the dark stains streak down his pants’ legs and amass as puddles of water on the floor at his feet. He looked like an overgrown toddler, and when he glanced up again, our eyes met...and his face was beet-red.

“Beer goes right through you, doesn’t it, honey?”

A few more instances of this and I had had it. Jon agreed with me that maybe it was in the best interest of our security deposit (and his inexcusably expensive wardrobe) that he remain diapered throughout the day. And so it went, me with my writing, him with his TV-watching and video-game-playing and other petty male meanderings, taking time off every so often to waddle into my study, his soaked diaper dangling between his legs, and asking me to change him.

He could’ve changed himself, of course, but neither of us was willing to sacrifice the intimacy of the moment. Every time I changed my boyfriend’s diapers, it culminated in a sequence of lovemaking so intense that we started getting noise complaints. This whole episode had been the greatest thing to have happened to our love life since we had started dating.

All good things must come to an end, however; and, in the case of these ribald vignettes, the good things came to an end as soon as Jon started messing his diapers. He had been “going potty” perfectly well for an entire week, using his diapers only to “make peepee” (he hated my terminology... wink), when, one day, he came into the study asking for a change...and he doubled over, caught a startled gasp in his throat, and let out an audible groan as he grabbed his knees and forced the contents of his bowels into his already-saturated diaper.

I just sat there in my computer chair and watched. My boyfriend had always been so suave, dashing, independent, and just plain cool - that watching him helplessly fill his diapers in front of me was some sort of catharsis that had been far too long in coming. He whined - practically cried, the humiliation was so severe - as he just kept going and going, dumping in his didees as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him.

He squealed in shame when I swatted the loaded padding surrounding his butt and insisted he change himself. But, as all previous conditions had been, mine, at this point, was clear: Mommy Lola was to change Baby Jonny. And he would just have to deal with it.

He didn’t deal with it so well. Honestly, the way you boys act sometimes, I start to thinking that you aren’t in touch with your emotions whatsoever. Not Jonny. He cried and cried as I changed his messy diaper... not bawling, mind you, but a genuine, stilted sobbing. The tears flowed freely as he lay there on the bathroom floor, his girlfriend wiping the nasty poopies away from his widdle bum-bum, cleaning him up nice and good and putting him in a fresh, dry diaper without so much a jerk or two to satisfy his burgeoning libido. I mean, seriously... if you had gone through what I had just gone through, would you have felt the least bit sexually inclined? Huh-uh. Didn’t think so.

It was only a matter of a day or so before the next phase of the formula kicked in and Jonny began to lose his adult mind. This began manifesting itself innocuously enough; frequently I would turn on our television to find that it had been left on Nickelodeon rather than, say, Comedy Central or Showtime. Perhaps as a means of coming to terms with his humiliation and accepting his new condition, Jonny had taken to giggling and playing with his toes while I changed his diapers, and every so often he would blow a spit bubble just to see how big he could get it before it popped.

I was actually beginning to find him rather adorable.

The boy realized this, too, of course, and he began to use it to his advantage. It was getting hard to tell what was resultant from the formula and what was resultant from his trying to remain in my good graces.

“Mommy Looolaaa!” he would howl, giggling. “Me twied to use da big-boy potty dis time but me! didn’t! make! it!” And he’d bend over and look at me upside-down through his legs, his loaded diaper pointed skyward, and he’d blow a raspberry.

He liked his tickle tortures, and he liked all the soft, stuffed animals I bought for him (except the cats...he stuck his tongue out at them and swatted them aside), and he liked crawling around for Mommy wherever he went. Jonny made such a cute toddler that I often forgot that he was 24 years old... and when he made me proudest, like when he once managed to finish all his strained carrots without making a mess of his high chair, I forgot all about how he had cheated on me.

We were, once again, the perfect couple. Only the dynamic had changed, as these things so often do.

=THE LAST FEW MONTHS=

The last few months have been quite peaceful. Baby Jonny has adapted to his new life with surprising willingness. And, though the work is physically strenuous, my heart enjoys the vacation from worrying about what (or whom) my boyfriend is doing. I’d much rather concern myself with ensuring that household poisons are kept out of his reach, seeing to it that his television privileges are limited to educational fare like Bob the Builder (he loves “twuckies”), and making sure he gets most of his nutrition from Mommy.

It was only a couple of weeks ago that I realized Jonny was enjoying his new state a little too much. I concluded that the formula, fed to him nightly in his bottle with his lanky, adult form sprawled across my lap, had worked its magic in atrophying Jonny’s mental and emotional processes to the respective capacities of a toddler. All of his book-learning - years and years, thousands of dollars in education - had vanished into the ether, replaced with a beautifully clean slate ready for filling. He knew he was still 24, of course, and he knew I was, ostensibly, his girlfriend, and he knew he had made a terrible, terrible mistake in bringing himself to this point. But he didn’t know his A-B-Cs very well. He’s getting better; last night, I taught him “G.”

“Guh-guh-guh,” he sputtered. “Guuuhhh... guh...geeeuuuhhh... gee! G!!” Jonny squealed and clapped his tiny hands.

Oh, my, did I get ahead of myself? I did!

Alright, please understand: When I realized Jonny’s mind had regressed to that of a baby, it had become far too much of a struggle for me to handle his constant, adult-sized “needs.” He would howl a loud, ear-piercing squeal whenever he was hungry... it would rattle the doorknobs and piss off the neighbors. He’d slap aside any food or toys he didn’t like; after his years of diligent visits to the local gym, the strength in his arms had left my walls and floors a complete disaster. And the loads he would proudly push into his diaper as he grinned up at Mommy, knowing this was his one and only infantile incarnation of evening the score, were huge and totally disgusting.

I hadn’t planned on using the last few doses of the formula I had gotten from the school... the formula that kept on giving, the formula that had treated my girlfriends so well in the past, as you’ve read in my stories.

But if Jonny was going to act like a baby, he was going to be a baby. For real.

I gave him the fateful dose the very afternoon I tendered Jonny’s resignation from his place of work. There he was, as he was every night, laying across my lap, clothed in only a very wet disposable diaper. His eyes were shut as he nursed from his bottle with the serenity of an angel. Jonny didn’t notice himself begin to regress physically until the tone he had built up at the gym over the past few years faded to limpness.

“Wha...whazz goin on, Mommy?” he mumbled around the nipple, biting it between words, his eyes glazing over in confusion and tempered with tranquility.

“Nothing, sweetheart,” I replied. “Mommy’s just making you her little champion forever.”

“Fowever...” he sighed, almost thankfully, his body loosing itself from adolescence, the whiskers on his face and the hair underneath his arms retracting into the follicles beneath his baby-soft skin. “...And evew.”

Jonny continued to nurse, squirming around to get more comfortable as his frame grew smaller and smaller. He left puberty for the second time, his Adam’s apple disappearing, his shoulders becoming more rounded and yielding. He was as he appeared when he was eleven years old, then ten, then nine.

My boyfriend opened his eyes again and looked up with me. All I could see was love. Love and gratitude.

“Me... me thowwy me made Mommy thad...” he whined around the nipple of the bottle.

I smiled down at him and brushed a lock of baby-blonde hair away from his eyes as he re-entered his sixth year. “It’s okay, baby. Mommy has forgiven you. Mommy loves you.”

Jonny giggled and blinked brightly as he became a toddler. Made gleeful by my acceptance of his apology, he kicked off his ridiculously oversized diaper and stared down at himself in unabashed awe. The years continued to peel away...he was three, then two. Baby fat began to roll out of his frame, filling up his skin in pudgy pockets. His teeth drew back up into his gums one by one, causing a tickling sensation that made him laugh out loud. Jonny flopped playfully around my lap as the regression slowed to months, then weeks, then days, until his body reflected what his mind truly was...the mind of an adorable little baby, smiling, giggling, dreaming of his first steps, and anxiously awaiting every possible moment at which he could make Mommy Lola proud.

These days, I take care of Baby Jonny whenever I can. I’m usually at home, working on novels for my publisher or, when I get the chance, whimsical little anecdotes for the AR Archive. I check my e-mail a couple of times a day and reply to those of you who have expressed your gratitude and support. A working mother appreciates it. I especially enjoy popping into the chat room now and again to speak with some of you personally; it makes me feel like I have friends, fellow caretakers, and yes...even babies-at-heart who truly understand what we do here.

If I could leave you with any thought, it would be this: Never underestimate the boundaries of reality. Art and life are two dancers caught in a tango immemorial. You never know what is fact and what is fiction. And you never know whether the next girl you meet is going to give you the love you think you want... or the love she knows you need.

Regards,

lola trechlyn

Retrospective

Four stories of increasing popularity gave me the confidence to do something completely different the fifth time around. And I knew that, if I didn’t do something at least somewhat unique, I’d lose everybody. Who wants to read the same basic plot over and over and over again? Other than Dan Brown fans?

(Oh, and it had to be a sardonic comedy.)

Jon was the name of an egomaniac I knew who I wanted to turn into a big adult baby, then a big infantile baby, then pretty much leave it at that. Like "Lemonade Conundrum," the plot came into the story pre-assembled as a fantasy in my filthy head.

Thanks for reading. -lt