Personalias's Flash Fictions

Chapter 2
Unconventional

Chapter Description: You're at an ageplay convention, when everyone's headspace gets INCREDIBLY Deep

You fall off the spinning disk, giggling like an idiot on the floor, and dizzy as hell.  Thirty something rotations! New record!  You toss your hands up to the ceiling in celebration and your laughter redoubles in on itself when it hits you that you were actually pointing at the nearest wall.

This is the best convention ever!  Presently, you’re in the Nursery Playroom, where the littlest of the little ones like to play. That’s you right now. Definitely you.   People are playing on rocking horses the size of thoroughbreds, riding around on tricycles that are far too big, and bouncing in walkers that could double as flying saucers. And nobody is hiding their diapers.

Not fifteen minutes ago, you found yourself lying beneath a baby gym, in your t-shirt, and wet Alphagatorz, babbling to yourself and smacking around dangling jingly toys.  And it felt so gosh darn, wonderfully normal!

I belong here.  I really belong here.  I really do.

That’s what you thought. Somehow, it finally feels like you’ve come home.  Amazing!  But your attention has never been steady at the best of times, so you drifted over to this sick sit and spin and went to town until you could barely stand up straight.

A gurgle from your stomach reminds you that you’re not allowed to go full baby. No number two’s allowed in convention spaces. That bodily reminder snaps you right out of headspace. Shouldn’t have had those nachos last night. The spinning didn’t help either.  One way or another, something is about to exit you, and it’s probably out the back.

Oh well. Nothing to be done about it. Still dizzy, you stand up on unsteady legs; you’re legs locked while your torso wobbles.  You already know what you’re going to do: Waddle to the bathroom, drop the kids off at the pool, wipe, and then come back and play. Minimum interruption!  

On second thought, maybe you’ll go back to your hotel room for a few minutes.  Nothing about the rules says you can’t poop in there. It’d be more practical too, considering you’re already wet. Pooping in a toilet and then pulling up a wet Alphagatorz would feel…weird.  You’re not in Pull-Ups, you’re a BABY!  (That’s the headspace you’re looking for anyway).

As the last of the dizziness recedes, something catches your eye.  In the back corner of the play room is an adult sized changing table. Not a repurposed massage table like in the changing rooms, a full on changing table, hand crafted and painted to look just like something a baby might use.  

You pivot and face it. How long had that been there?  You swear you cased the room and examined each and every piece of oversized baby furniture as if it were an art exhibit when you first came in.

A wave of sadness washes over you and your knees bend slightly as you start to push. The feeling of your cheeks spreading makes you groan under your breath while you stare enviously at the prop.  A prop. That’s all it is.  The convention was also quite clear about public nudity.

Your next sigh comes out as a grunt.

Your feet are still planted, your knees bent more than before.  It still hasn’t occurred to your body that you could walk and get a closer look.  Attached to the side of the adult sized changing table are several little hooks. Each hook has a diaper bag hanging from it.  The shelves beneath the top are likewise packed with diaper bags.  It seems the littles who brought diaper bags for quick changes all stowed them there.

You wished you’d have brought a diaper bag.  Or someone to carry it for you.  Another sigh escapes your top, while your bottom feels warmer and your belly feels better.

To the right of the table is an unopened pack of Little Kings. Diaper bag be damned, someone just didn’t give a damn.  To the left is what appears to be a large diaper genie.  Wow. This place goes all out. Morbidly, you wonder if anyone has snuck a used diaper in there.

Oh yeah! Used diaper! You shake the cobwebs out of your head and stop sighing wistfully of what you can’t have.  Time to…

It finally hits you. That grunting and pushing you’ve been quietly doing and the meaning behind it. You’ve been messing this whole time, and inertia and gravity is carrying the last of your mess out of you beyond your control.

For the first time in decades, you’ve just pooped your pants.  In public. Without realizing it.

Your body tenses and you slap your thighs to keep from feeling the back of your diaper.  You need to get out of here. Now.  If you’re caught like this you’re sure to be banned!  You quickly start telling lies to yourself: It’s okay. It’s okay. No problem.  You just need to casually walk out of the play room, and find the nearest stairwell, then you’ll just go up five flights of stairs, take out the keycard in your lanyard, and slip into your hotel room for a change…maybe a shower too.  Point is that as long as you don’t dawdle or get trapped in a confined space, no one will be the wiser.

You pivot around to start walking towards the playroom entrance, quietly tensing with every step.  You can feel the mess shifting around. You look down at the floor and stare at the carpet so as not to draw any attention with your uncomfortable facial expressions.

This isn’t going to work. This isn’t going to work. You’re going to caught. Caught and banned.

You raise your head a little so that you don’t bump into anyone and are forced to stop dead in your tracks.  The double doors leading out into the wider convention area are now shut. You don’t remember them closing.  Your speed doubles and you power walk to the door.  Your heart leaps up into your throat when you grab the handle and find it locked.

Why the fuck is it locked?

“Oh honey!” A voice calls out.  “What are you doing?”

You turn around and press your back to the door.  “Nothing!” You say instinctively while your mess presses against you more tightly.  “Can I please get out?”

Coming towards you, is a woman in white sneakers, blue jeans, and a hot pink t-shirt with the conventions name on it.  Oh shit! (Poor choice of words!) A staff member!  Something seems familiar about her too.  Wasn’t she the receptionist at the front desk?  You thought the hotel was a separate entity from the convention for purposes of play…

“I’m sorry, sweetie, but you have to wait here,” she says.

“Why?”  you ask.  She’s close. Too close.  You wish you could just phase through this door, or sink into the center of the earth.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, baby,” she says soothingly.  “Those are just the rules. You get to play here while all the grown-ups play out there.”

If it weren’t for the crippling fear you’re currently experiencing, such talk would send you deep deep into headspace.  “I need to go to my hotel room!” You yelp.

“Awwww,” the stranger replies.  “You’ll get to go back to your hotel room, eventually.  Don’t worry.  Do you want to lie down somewhere?  I can make a space that’s nice and quiet for you?”

This lady isn’t getting it. She is far too committed to the bit.  “I need to go change!” You all but. scream.

“Oh?” she says. “Let me see?” Quick and casual as anything she kneels down and squeezes between your legs. You’re too shocked to react while she examines your diaper and sticks her fingers past the leak guards.  “Hmmm…you’re wet, but you’re not that wet.” She determines.  “Why don’t you let the grown-ups decide whether you need changing?” She stands up and thumbs back over her shoulder.  “Go play.”

“But…but…but…I want to see the rest of the convention!”  You have to get out of here.  Noses are sniffing and time is ticking!

The staff member waves your concern off.  “You don’t want to go out there. It’s all boring grown-up stuff.  Stay and play here until your Mommy or Daddy comes to pick you up.”

The sincerity in her voice throws you off.  “What?”

“This is a grown-up convention, baby,” she says. “You’re at the convention daycare so that your Mommy or Daddy can go do their grown-up stuff and know that your’e safe.”

Was that even a thing?  Not the point. “I don’t have a Mommy and Daddy!”  You’re single, but saying as much feels like a confession of a crime or an admission of guilt.”

“Mmmhmm…” The lady nods, clearly not believing you.  “I’m sure. You’re very big.”  She drags you out away from the door and swats you on the butt. “Now go play.”

You need to regroup. Need to get out and change. Need to avoid getting caught.

Too late.  “Hold it!”  You feel your diaper being pulled back. You freeze and hold your breath.  It wasn’t exactly fun while it lasted, but it’s over now.  “Hmmmm….guess I was wrong. You do need to be changed.”

Your jaw drops open.  Her hand clamps down on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being dragged to the back corner. It’s all you can do to keep your feet moving.  “Wait. Stop!” you try to say.  “What are you doing?”

“Changing you,” she says. “You need it!”

“Here?”  

“Yup.”:

“Everyone will see.”

“It’s okay. No need to be shy. You’re just a baby.”

All of your skin is tingling.  “No I’m not!”

“Okay, honey.”  So in command of the situation is she, that she boosts you off the ground and onto the changing table in one fell swoop. Your mess mashes against your backside.  “Then let’s change that big kid diaper.  Lie down.”

Your body lies down. There’s no disobeying. You try to sit up, but a hand on your chest is all that’s needed to keep you pinned while she roots around on the shelves beneath you.  She stands back up and looks at your convention name tag dangling from your lanyard.

“Rhonda?” she calls.Another woman in a similar uniform jogs up. You’re pretty sure you saw her vacuuming the hallway when you first checked into the hotel.   “I can’t find this one’s diaper bag.”
“What’s the name?” the other woman asks.

Then they say your name.  You’re real name.  The name you introduce yourself by outside of the scene.  You grip and grab at the nametag and read it.  It’s your name.  Picture too.  The badge wasn’t like that before.  You’re smiling in the picture. Your eyes look vacant.

Rhonda rifles through the bag.  “Hmm, I don’t see it either, Debbie”

Debbie frowns.  “Maybe Mom or Dad forgot to drop it off?”

“Maybe,” Rhonda shrugs. “But that’s why we have the emergency spares.”

“I’m sorry!” You babble.  “There’s been a mistake. I won’t do it again. Please just stop!”

Both strangers soften towards you.  “Awwww, that’s not what we mean. You’re not in trouble, pumpkin.  Your Mommy or Daddy just forgot to drop off your diaper bag.”  

Rhonda rips open the package of Little Kings.  “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.”

The tapes scritch scratch as your diaper is opened  and your soaked genitals and messy bottom is exposed to everyone. You scream and babble while these strangers touch you in ways you haven’t been touched in a long time.

“It’ll be alright.”

“It’s just a diaper change.”

“You’ll feel so much better when it’s over.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed or shy about.”

“You’ve had these all your life.”

“Don’t you want to be a good baby so we can tell your Mommy or Daddy when they get back?”

“Just a little more, and then you can go play. Promise.”

The other convention goers, the other littles, don’t take much notice.  They’re all trapped in their own world of blocks and bead mazes.  Right as your bottom is finished being wiped, and the Alphagaztorz is being balled up and tossed away in the very real diaper genie by your feet, you see another little stop crawling and puff their cheeks out while the back of their diaper expands.  

The fresh new diaper is slid underneath you and a torrent of powder rains down on your back and front.  The little you just witnessed shit themselves keeps crawling as if nothing happened.

“There we go!”  they chirp at you, finishing the change as quickly, efficiently, and sexlessly as one might an actually baby.  “All done.”

They help you off the changing table.  “Go play.”

You stumble about in a daze.  The fresh diaper is too stiff.  They always are at first, but usually you feel more connected to it because you’re the one who put it on.

You’re not kicked out.  They seem to think you’re a real baby.  They know your  real name. You don’t know what to do with this information.

Just as importantly:  Who’s going to pick you up at the end of the day?