Some New Disaster

Chapter 6
Lesson V: Spoonfeeding

Chapter Description: F/F mental AR

Many students -- those who passed and those who failed alike -- never ceased to be amazed at the quantity of esoteric equipment Miss Berdette seemed to have on hand in the supply closet. Baby-sized diapers and potty chairs seemed like no-brainers for a home ec class, as well as the plastic dolls of infants clearly meant to go with them. But adult diapers and potties fitted for teenagers? What practical use could they have possibly served? Most pupils concluded that Miss Berdette had planned this final-final exam well in advance and had deliberately left no stone unturned. If she’d ever done it before, surely they would have heard about it.

So it was of little surprise to anyone when Miss Berdette dragged a teen-sized high chair out of the closet and set it up at the front of the classroom, unfolding the hinges and snapping them safely into place. It was hardwood with a polymer tray. Even in the face of shrinking public school budgets, Miss Berdette obviously hadn’t a fear of plumbing her checking account.

“Babies need to be fed,” the teacher announced, as if it were some huge revelation. “Otherwise, they cry. Loudly. And a lot. Indeed, hunger, and the discomfort associated with it, is the one physiological sense that develops almost instantaneously in babies.”

Three F-students remained: Jody, Robert, and Tricia. All three of them were debating inside their heads whether they wanted to be involved in whatever humiliation was next on the docket. They had no idea as to if worse things were in the offing.

“And,” Miss Berdette continued, “if it weren’t for hunger and food, we wouldn’t have been treated to that fine performance Nick just gave us.”

Nick seethed back at his desk, wearing only his diaper, feeling the cum the garment hadn’t managed to absorb drip down his testicles. All of the previous participants, in fact, had been permitted to return to their desks. Stephanie had come back from the science lab with Ben’s freshly-disinfected potty chair, and Ben, in his t-shirt and “My Little Pony” underpants, gritted his teeth in fear and embarrassment, knowing it was only a matter of time before he’d have to ask his ex-girlfriend to set up his potty for him and wipe his ass after he took a crap in it. Kevin and Tara sat in just their shirts and training pants, tapping the erasers of their pencils upon their desktops; he had remained dry in his blue motorcycle undies, having emptied himself rather definitively before being put into them, but Tara had thoroughly soaked her pink-heart panties to the core. And Derek sat at his desk, idly jerking himself off through the fly of his jeans just out of view, though it was hard to hide shooting a load of cum onto the classroom floor every five minutes.

“Jody? Tricia?” asked Miss Berdette. “Would you come up here, please?”

The girls closed their eyes simultaneously. Somehow, they had known they would be the ones. Lovers. Ex-lovers. Until Jody had unceremoniously dumped Tricia... for Ben.

The sheer magnitude of calculation that had gone into in Miss Berdette’s lesson plan seemed borderline sociopathic.

“Now, please.”

The two 18-year-old girls approached Miss Berdette and the high chair with great reticence. Though their less-than-amicable breakup had precluded them from expressing any form of mutual affection or solidarity for an entire year, their emotional reflexes found their fingers wiggling in a tentative, subconscious desire to hold hands. The young ladies didn’t, though... and by the time they arrived at their designated location, their usual aim to detest each other was no longer being attenuated by the sheer uncertainty of the situation. In fact, each resolved to stand her ground against Miss Berdette-- and one another.

Their first resolution didn’t last very long at all.

Tricia was the girl to find herself in the high chair, and Jody was only too elated. The latter had simply assumed that her sordid liaisons were going to be the moral tipping point that led to her ultimate humiliation. The two-timer took a certain sadistic pleasure in following Miss Berdette’s every direction. Dark-haired Jody helped guide the far fairer Tricia up into the high chair, then made sure to make the most out of the acts of snapping her into place around the waist, between her jean-shorted legs, and clicking the kidney-shaped tray into place beneath her ex-girlfriend’s breasts.

Miss Berdette carried a cafeteria tray from her desk to the high chair. Atop it sat a half-dozen jars of baby food, each with its lid removed, each equipped with its own individual miniature plastic spoon. As the teacher set them, one by one, onto the high chair tray, Tricia examined their labels with increasing disgust. Carrots. Squash. Prunes. Vegetab-- veg--

“Oh, and I forgot to mention,” interjected Miss Berdette, “This high chair has some rather special properties of mental regression. After about 20 or so seconds of being clicked into place, its occupant will have the mind, emotions, and physical coordination of a six-month-old. It would be kind of hard to teach the proper feeding of infants if Tricia was already capable of dining at the Rainbow Room, wouldn’t it?”

That one got a laugh.

The teacher rattled off the realities of Tricia’s plight with such nonchalance that the girl screwed up her face into a killer stare-- one which melted away when she returned her gaze to the words on the labels of the tiny jars and realized that they weren’t words at all, but something more akin to hieroglyphics. The teenager’s mind grew increasingly hazy. She blinked. She recognized the people around her... they had something to do with what was going on. A line of drool dripped from her bottom lip and connected with the high chair’s tray. It was several seconds before it broke. Tricia knew the sound all the other big boys and girls in front of her were making. It was the same sound she made when she crawled through freshly-cut grass, chasing uselessly after tiny, delicate, flying things.

Then, something was shoved into her mouth. Something hard and flavorless on the bottom, but mushy and repulsive on top. Attached to the other end of the plastic tool was Jody’s hand-- a girl Tricia acknowledged as one who shared only her size... and was much, much smarter than she. Jody was, after all, a big girl.

The slop that slid over Tricia’s tongue made her want to gag, to spit it out, but before she could even connect her brain’s desire to her mouth’s actions, another spoonful of revolting, unidentifiable “produce” was already past her lips.

“Now, class,” Miss Berdette announced, “you’re going to want to be a little more conservative than Jody here with regard to the rate at which you feed your child.”

Jody shoveled spoonful after spoonful of goop into her ex-girlfriend’s mouth. Tricia had a world of trouble keeping up. Two consecutive mouthfuls of mushy carrots ended up falling from her limp, useless tongue and onto her halter top. Feeling every bit the six-month-old into which the magic of the high chair had transformed her mind, Tricia bashed the heels of her hands atop the plastic tray and started to cry. A corner of her consciousness fully grasped the implications of what was happening-- and that corner tortured her mercilessly as she alternated between swallowing down wretchedly sweet prunes and drooling pureed squash down her chin and into her cleavage.

Tricia felt like such a baby. So much so that the sound of water splashing onto the classroom’s tile floor was her only indication that she had completely soaked herself, her panties, her jean shorts, the high chair. She didn’t know what else she could have done. Jody forced another small spoonful of carrots into Tricia’s mouth and the girl swallowed between sobs. The corner of her mind that was still focused on reality led Tricia to wonder... where was her diaper? Why was she wearing big-girl clothes, and peeing in front of all these people, when, obviously, she had no control over it? She didn’t feel taken care of, and that conclusion made her bawl still harder.

“That’s enough, Jody,” said the teacher.

Jody pouted, but set down the jar she was holding and loosed the miniature spoon from her grasp. Tricia was still crying loudly, relentlessly, as she finished pissing her pants and spitting drool and bits of food out over her bottom lip and onto her chin. Among her salty tears, the spilled food, and the mess in her panties, Tricia knew it would be two or three bathtimes before she would feel like a pretty little girl again.

Miss Berdette pulled the polymer tray away from the despairing teenager and unsnapped her from the high chair. As soon as Tricia was loose, all of her adult intelligence, mental constitution, and physiological control returned to her in an awesome rush. Tricia was Tricia again.

“You fucking bitch,” she hissed at Jody, who was still smiling goofily.

“Tricia!” Miss Berdette scolded. “In this classroom, we give our peers respect.” The irony of her statement’s implications was not lost on the instructor, and she liberated a smile from her face. She was beginning to have a good time.

“Besides,” the teacher continued, “Tricia-- I think you’ll be happy to know that that was only half of the exercise.”