Rattled

Chapter 3
Chapter 3

Chapter Description: Things get worse...

Chapter 3:

The days and weeks that followed for Walter were less and less like a normal ebb and flow and more like a highlight reel of his worst possible fears.
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Walter craned his neck as though doing so might cause his head to roll off the back of his shoulders.  Grimly, he mused that he might yet be so lucky.

“Open wide for the oatmeal!” Sarah said. “Open wide for Mommy!”

The captured Little did not protest that Sarah was not his ‘Mommy’.  Both because in a real and very legally binding sense she was, and also because the last time he tried to refute her, he got a mouth full of prune laced oatmeal.  “Mmmm. Mmmm.”

“Someone’s a fussy baby,” she cooed at him, not the least bit deterred by his refusal.  “But you’ll be a lot fussier if you can’t poop. Now open up. It’s nummy!”  In a demonstration, Sarah grabbed a separate spoon and dipped it into the oatmeal.  “See? Mommy likes it!”  She took a spoonful and put it into her mouth.  “See?” She winced. “Mommy made sure to stir in extra...extra...brown sugar. Mmmmm….so...much...sugar.”   

The giants’ distaste for sweets was inversely proportional to their love for spice.  That combined with his ex-neighbors flinching grimace, made Walter start to laugh. Wouldn’t it be funny, Walter thought, if macho Amazon dudebros munched on candy canes and pixie sticks the same way that some Littles did with spicy chicken nuggets?  The idea of a bunch of burly giants and giantesses having to psych themselves for the culinary flex of putting a sugar cube on their tongue like it was a ghost pepper was almost as absurd as a grown man sitting in a high chair.

The laugh wasn’t very big; Walter technically didn’t even open his mouth, but he let his guard down. His jaw unclenched just enough so that Sarah could take the opening and slide the rubber tipped spoon past his lips.  Much of the glob ended up smeared on his mouth and chin but enough made it inside.

“Noooooo!”  He pounded on the tray. Sarah just took that as an invitation to shovel more into Walter’s mouth.  Hunger beat humiliation and he swallowed the mushy stuff.

“See?” Sarah said. “It’s not so bad!”  She took another spoonful of the goop, the Amazonian equivalent of cutting themselves shaving so that the baby wouldn’t be afraid of their first haircut.

Of course it wasn’t “so bad” for her.  When that mush worked its way through her system, it wouldn’t end up in the back of her pants.  Technically, it’d only end up in the back of Walter’s pants if he was allowed to wear pants. His Mommy hadn’t covered his diaper in even a onesie since finalizing the adoption.  Presently he was in nothing but the Koddles he’d been changed into and a bib.

“I just want to go home,” Walter said as evenly as he could.  He wasn’t sure if using the bib would be more or less babyish, so his mouth remained coated with soggy oats.

“You are home, baby cakes.”  Sarah gave him another spoonful.  What was the point?  He accepted it and swallowed.  “Finish your breaky. I don’t want you getting constipated.”  If Amazons were as freaked out about changing diapers as Littles were about wearing them, Walter might have taken solace at the idea of dropping a load.  If Amazons were as freaked out about changing diapers as Littles were about wearing them, Walter might not be stuck in this situation.

“If you’re really good for Mommy, Wally,” Sarah said. “I’ll let you play with your rattle.”

“I don’t want my rattle!”  Walter almost drew blood from biting down on his tongue.  “It’s not my rattle! How many times do I have to tell you that?”
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“Awww, it’s not Wally’s rattle? He doesn’t like his widdle sunflower rattle anymore?”

“It’s. Not. Mine. I just found it.”  He found it.  And then she’d found him.  That’s why he wanted to bite his own tongue out.

“And I suppose this isn’t your diaper.”  She poked him beneath the feeding try.  “Or your bib.  Or your highchair. Or your oatmeal”  Walter was about to try to retort...or at least spit oatmeal in Sarah’s face.  “Or your footsie!”  He swallowed and barely suppressed a giggle.

“Or your widdle toes!” 

That tickled!

“Or your legs! Your tummy! Or your armpits!”  She started tickling him, scurrying her fingers along his tender hairless flesh, causing him to wriggle and tense up, laughing despite himself.  “Cootchie-cootchie-cootchie-cootchie-coo!”

Thankfully, he didn’t wet or mess just then.  Doing something so disgracefully infantile when he was trying his level best to be miserable and serious would have been too much for Walter.

“But okay.  No rattle for Wally.” 

Good.

Great. 

Awesome.

Wow.

Walter thought all of those things, but felt none of them. There was no sense of relief.  Just the intense thirst and a sense of sad regret  that an alcoholic feels after turning down a drink. 

He should hate that stupid rattle.  He did.  Yet he felt that he would miss it, too.


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A few nights later…

Contrary to how it looked from the outside, the Little was not trying to cause a big enough ruckus to bring down his Mommy’s wrath upon him. His nursery was close enough to her bedroom that he didn’t really need a baby monitor, after all. 

Sarah, he’d learned the hard way, wasn’t above spanking, either...

Walter wasn’t trying to break anything or fracture his skull or even be a massive pain in his Mommy’s ass.  None of that was on his mind.. What Walter was trying to do, oddly enough, was go to sleep.

Two days prior he’d tried grey rocking- deliberately to be boring so that he could be ignored. He didn’t move and did his best to not react; staring off into the middle distance while his Mommy fawned over him and tried to entice him and coo over him. Tickle him. Tease him. Humiliate him. Break him.

It had no effect on Sarah. Her resolve was strong.

“Does Wally want his nini rattle?”  She dangled it over him in his crib. Tauntingly. Temptingly.

“No!”

She gave it a little jingle.

He accidentally gave her a Little giggle.

She left.

He slept.

Yesterday, he took a more reactive approach. He didn’t watch any cartoons.  When the television came on, Walter’s eyes would slam shut and his hands would clap over his ears and hum tunelessly.  That hadn’t bothered his tormentor, either.  
“Does Wally want his nini rattle?”  Again, she dangled it like he was a kitten and the thing that had doomed him were a ball of yarn.

She taunted him.

She tempted him.

“No!”

She gave it a little jingle.

He gave her a Little giggle.

She left.

He slept.

Today, (or was it yesterday, now?)  he tore out a page from a book she’d been trying to read to him; something about being a ‘brat’ or a ‘baby’. It had been more Amazon propaganda to delegitimize his mistreatment.  “Brats get smacked tushies!”  No, his Mommy hadn’t been quoting from the book there.

No jingle.

No giggle.

Just a sore bottom.

She left.

Silence.

And now, without the bell in that stupid sunflower, Walter was having the damndest time passing out.  Passing out! It was the part of the day he looked forward to as soon as he woke up.  Only in unconsciousness could he escape this pastel hell.  Only in his dreams was he not being treated like a toddler.

He closed his eyes, and started counting sheep to himself.  And then? Then he heard the damn jingling of the bell. It was a drop of liquor on his tongue. It was the equivalent of barely a needle’s prick or a whiff of smoke in an opium den.  It was...it was...heavenly.

Walter opened his eyes, no Mommy dangling the wrist rattle over him.  No jingling. Nothing. Was he imagining it?  How messed up would that have been?

He couldn’t stop thinking about it.  Where had she hidden it?  Where had it gone? He’d refused, outright refused to wear it during the day. Where was it now?  He wasn’t going to shake it, but just knowing where it was, was...was...important?

Yeah. It would be good to know where it was. 

An intrusive thought: Was he...was he going through withdrawal?  Was that what this was like?  Was he jonesing over a friggin’ rattle?

“Sleep,” he whispered.  “I need sleep.” In the land of the sandman, he didn’t crinkle when he walked.  But after a whole day, multiple days, of doing nothing but conserving physical energy and bottling things up to the point of exploding, Walter couldn’t make himself rest.  He was fully charged.

Overloaded.

Jonesing

“I need to…” he whispered to himself.  “I need to...I need to….fuck!”

He was kind of right.  He needed that release of tension. That pulse pounding crescendo and that weary and tired, if relaxed, denouement..

Lying down on the mattress, Walter found out the hard (or not so hard) way that masturbation wasn’t going to work.  Still not allowed blankets, Walter was more dressed in bed than he was most mornings. He could barely feel himself through the mittened pajamas and the thick, dry padding. 

He rubbed harder, trying to ignore the hot sweat he was building, or the crinkling of his imprisoned posterior.  Tried to forget that to an Amazon he more closely resembled a two year old than an adult.  He tried to forget that it had been well over a week since anything had come out of him hadn’t been deposited directly in his pants.  Tried not to think about how even if he managed to cum, that would just end up in his Koddles.

It...wasn’t...working…

He started to go harder.  He planted his bootied feet and started  to thrust his hips and provide himself leverage from both ends; really grind into himself.

It felt like he was humping a pillow.  One that had cartoons on it. 

Nope.

This wasn’t happening.  How anyone could maintain any kind of arousal (pleasurable arousal) in a place like this was completely beyond Walter. Oh to dream the impossible dream.

Walter threw his head back and exhaled, pounding the mattress with his entire body.

That’s when he heard the little jingle.  Ever so faint, and muffled to boot.  It was a drop of blood in the ocean.  Walter was a shark.

His eyes opened up.  He rolled over and picked up the single pillow he was left with.  His heart fluttered when he heard the muffled sound coming from it.  Not under! But inside it!

He didn’t know how Mommy had managed to hide it there, or when she slipped it out before bed each night, but that’s where she’d hidden it. AND SHE’D FORGOTTEN IT!

Walter dug into the case and felt around, his hands clasping the rounded triangles that were the sunflower’s petals.  His pulse quickened, and he started panting as he pulled out the dreadful thing. His very skin danced, and his feet started lightly kicking the air.

“No…” he whispered.  “No.  Not gonna…”  Even as he said it, he started to strap the thing to his wrist. 

His rattle.

Just like old times when he was safe in his crib with no Amazons coming to take him or snatch him away from his Mommy and Daddy...

Just one shake.  Just one tiny shake and he’d get some of that pent up frustration, some of that anxiety, some of that existential crisis, out of his system.  Then he could sleep.  Then he could rest.

Then he could be a happy big boy in slumberland.

He held it in his hand. “One…” He took a deep breath.  “Two…”  He held it… “Three!”

And shook!

It was not one shake.  It was not a small one either.  When the first clinging bell came out, Walter felt his entire body spasm with joy.  From his forehead, down to the balls of his feet every part of him...well...there was a reason this toy was called a rattle.

To call the high pitched burbling noises that came out of Wally’s mouth “laughter” would be the result of charity. A seizure!  Wally was having a seizure...and loving it!  A happy seizure!  That’s what this was.  A happy seizure.  After so long with only a hint of happiness before bedtime he was accidentally overdosing!

Wonderful!

The wonder was cut short, not by his Mommy, or any outside interference, but by yet another shortcoming of his own body.  Spasming fingers made for a loose grip.  Flailing arms and legs, made for loose grips and hard pitches.  There was a reason the rattle came with a wrist band.

Wally finally caught his breath when the sunflower slipped out of his grasp and sailed in between the bars, clinking and clattering to the floor.  His pulse slowed with his breathing and his eyelids started to droop. 

It wasn’t cumming.  Not quite.  But it was good enough.

Walter closed his eyes, dreamed most pleasant dreams, and woke up wet.  When he came to, his Mommy was strapping the rattle back on his rest. “Good morning, my baby bed wetter!” she whispered sweetly to him.  “I’m glad you got that naughtiness out of your system.”

That was weird.

How’d she know he’d wet the bed?  He’d needed changing first thing in the morning before.  But he’d never done it in his sleep.

“Just give it a shake,” Mommy said, moving his forearm for him.  “Like this!”


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Another day..

“And the piggy goes oink oink, the cow goes moo” the stupid cartoon howled. “The doggy goes bow-wow how about you?  Everybody sing-a-along with Farmer Brown!”

Laying on a blanket in the middle of the living room, Walter did not open up his eyes.  He certainly didn’t sing along. Every Little knew about hypnotic toons.  The fact that he’d never heard of “Farmer Brown’s Barnyard Sing-A-Long” didn’t help his paranoia, either.  Littles who got regressed, didn’t talk much.

Laying back and not watching was his only defense, and it was far from foolproof.  Just listening to it was dangerous. It’s not like Amazons couldn’t weaponize sound.  The rattle was proof of that.  Walter tried to block out the songs by humming old melodies to himself...old melodies that inevitably sounded way too much like what was playing on the screen.

But Walter didn’t dare plug his ears.  He kept his arms flat on the floor and moved as little as possible, afraid of what sounds might tinkle out. Even the slightest jingle from his wrist might send him into fits...the best possible fits.

NO!

STOP IT!

Thinking about the addictive torture device strapped to his arm was like a toothache before bed.  He didn’t think about it until he did, and then he just couldn’t stop.

“Oh Wally,” Mommy cooed.  “I’ve got a present for you.”  He felt the giantess’s shadow loom over him.  “Open your eyes.”

“No…thank you…” Walter remembered his manners at the last moment.

She must have realized what he was afraid of.  The channel on the T.V. changed to something decidedly less animated. “You should know John, that I’m not really Marsha! I’m...her evil twin!”  Cheesy organ music punctuated the sentence.

“Well I’m not really John. I’m...his evil twin!”  Even more organ music.

Oddly enough, Walter was getting more tempted to use the rattle than when he was listening to Farmer Brown…

NO!

STOP!

JUST STOP!

Walter shut the temptation out of his brain by opening his eyes.  Mommy...Sarah that is...still loomed over him, but she was the thing hovering closest to his face. Between him and his captor, tiny barn yard stuffies- pigs, cows, and dogs- hung just out of reach.  A portable mobile. The blanket he’d been laying on had just been converted into a play mat. “Do you like it?”

No.  No he did not.

“Go ahead, Wally,” She urged. “Try it!”

With one hand, the one that didn’t rattle, Wally reached up. The cow was just close enough to where he could bat at it.  Tentatively, he poked at it, holding his breath.

Nothing.  Nothing happened. No sound. No jingling.  No mind warping ringing.  Walter exhaled and smiled despite himself.

“Awww!” Mommy said to herself.  “He likes it!  He really likes it!”  She was practically bouncing. “I knew this would fit your emerging developmental plateau!  The crazy woman had mistaken his relief for pleasure.  She leaned over and booped him on the nose.  “Now, my baby boy can play here on the floor, and Mommy can watch her shows! It’s win-win!”

There was nothing more to be discussed, as far as she was concerned.  Walter rolled his eyes and arched his back enough to watch her take a spot on the couch.  Her gaze was instantly glued to the screen.

Spread out on the center of the floor as he was, there was no way Walter would be able to get away from under his Mommy’s watch. At least he wouldn’t have to listen to children’s songs so dumb that it could literally make him dumber.  At least his captor wasn’t constantly hovering over him.

At least he could find another way to entertain himself.  Slowly, like molasses, Walter switched hands. He put his free hand down on the floor and raised the other one down.  His eyes never left the sunflower buttoned around his wrist.

This could be a fun challenge.  Move slowly enough so that it didn’t ring and if it did...

NO!

He was making excuses and he knew it.  He was making justifications.  Lying to himself.

He wanted to fail.

He’d already failed.

In full frustration and anger at himself, Walter slammed his fist back down to the carpet.  That’s all it took to send jingling up his spine.  Pleasantly, he found that the mobile was wide and low enough so that he could kick at the stuffed animals as well as bat at them.

How nice! Full sensory engagement!

He reached up again and batted at a doggy, vaguely imagining that the dinging sounds coming from just beneath his palm were coming from the dog instead. “Cow goes ding ding, Piggy goes ding-a-ling.  Doggy goes dingy ding, how about you?”  That’s how the lyrics in Wally’s head went.

The only thing that stopped his play for the rest of that morning was his Mommy changing his diaper, which was odd, because he only vaguely remembered when he’d decided to go pee-pee.  

Decided?

Had he actually decided that?

Wally...Walter was having trouble remembering if he had.  The only thing he remembered was a feeling of relief that he wouldn’t have to stop playing.

“This is gonna be the last time,” Walter promised himself.  “Last time.”

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And another…


“So Monica said to Angela and Angela said to Nancy…” Mommy droned on.

Walter was on her hip just outside in the parking lot to their apartment complex.  Some giant friend of hers that he knew nothing about had called to them-to Mommy really-and stopped to talk.

They were good enough friends, apparently, for Mommy to stop and talk for upwards of ten minutes, but not enough to invite inside the apartment.  As the two Amazons gabbed to each other about friends and acquaintances and gossip, Walter did what he’d learned to do best when the big people started chatting:  He rolled his eyes, sighed, and zoned out.

Furtively, he looked down at his wrist. He’d had a pretty good day so far and had only used it a couple times.  Not even ten times had he used it and sent raw pleasure surging into his brain stem. 

That was pretty good, right?

Right.

He’d been really good.

“Why’s he looking like that?”  Mommy’s friend asked.

Mommy shifted him on her hip and slipped two fingers into his diaper. “He just peed,” Mommy said as if she were describing the weather.

“Oh,” her friend said.  “Do you need to go change him?”

“No,” Mommy said. “Wally’s not potty trained at all. Sometimes I think he likes being wet more than being dry, the widdle faucet!”

Wally’s blood ran cold.  He’d peed?  He’d wet his diaper? Without realizing it?  How had that happened? Why had that happened? When?

Wally wanted to cry; to scream; to claw his eyes out in anguish!  Mommy bounced him on her hip and he heard the little tinkling sound for the trouble.

He looked down at his arm.  Maybe under ten times wasn’t enough today…