Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble…
Tracy left the bathroom, feeling the slow build up of pleasure invading her body and mind. She stopped to lean forward and pull her already tight jeans up even higher and tighter, until the denim curving over her crotch drummed with an almost metallic tautness. Sighing for release, but relishing in the denial, Tracy went to the kitchen and stood in a secret, favourite spot – at the corner of the table where the rounded timber corner of the table top happened to be at exactly the right height to press against her imprisoned, attention-demanding clitoris.
Tracy wondered if her sisters got quite the same sexual buzz out of babying Chris that she did.
‘Chris!’ she remembered suddenly, and hurried back to the bathroom.
She needn’t have worried. Chris was happily absorbed in some complicated game with the plastic toys, involving much movement among the bubbles. Chris looked up as Tracy came in.
‘Hullo, baby,’ Tracy said. ‘Time to get out before you’re all washed away!’
Chris looked up, still holding a plastic boat. He had bubbles on his head, and Tracy laughed. She approached the tub and looked down at Chris.
‘Time to get ready for the party,’ she said, wiping the little peak of bubbles from Chris’s head and pulling his face to her groin as she rubbed his wet hair… .
‘Wha’ parby?’ said Chris.
If only he was a bit older, Tracy found herself thinking, then she could take advantage of his face and tongue only millimetres from her cunt. Her thoughts became increasingly basic as she pulled Chris’s head hard into her groin.
‘Mmnnnggk!’ protested Chris, shaking Tracy from her primal activities.
Tracy looked down and laughed. Chris was still sucking his pacifier.
‘I’d better have that, sweetie,’ said Tracy.
Chris resisted her pull for a moment, then let go. He looked at Tracy with his lips quivering. Strange thoughts were swirling in his head. He wondered for a moment if Tracy was his mummy.
‘Look, baby,’ Tracy was saying, ‘I’m all wet.’
Tracy was pointing to her crotch, where Chris’s wet hair had turned the denim dark blue, and where Tracy’s own juices had soaked the thin panties beneath.
Tracy was breathing heavily, and finding it increasingly hard to control herself.
‘Look, baby,’ she said, roughly grabbing Chris’s hand and pressing his small fingers to her hard, flat crotch. ‘So wet.’
Chris was fighting his own demons. All his mind saw or felt was damp denim. All he wanted was the binkie this big woman had taken away from him. He caught his breath a couple of times, then began to cry. Softly at first, then with more vigour until he was bawling lustily.
‘Sshhh!’ said Tracy, lifting Chris from the bath.
Chris’s apparent regression, together with the strain of the wet denim across her vulva were too much for Tracy. She dragged Chris to the low changing table, dumped him on it face up and came with a low howl, her body shuddering and one hand clamped to her crotch. She looked pleadingly at Chris, and along his body at his limp, finger-sized organ. She grabbed the hairless little penis and the olive-sized testes beneath and squeezed as her orgasm reduced to a background vibration.
Chris’s crying diminished, and he looked up at Tracy.
‘Binkie,’ he said.
‘If only you were a man,’ she found herself thinking, as tears of her own rolled down her cheeks and her fingers stroked her crotch. She left the bathroom and its unhappy occupant to lie on her bed, wrenching down the zipper of her jeans and jamming one hand into the gap between her sticky panties and the hot little nub of her clitoris.
Tracy thought of her own husband. Like Candy’s husband Patrick, Peter had been the subject of the sister’s earlier, clumsier attempts at manipulation and domination, and now spent his days confined to his crib at a special centre. Unlike poor Patrick, who was aware of his condition, Peter spent each day as a new-born baby, his activities reduced to eating, sleeping, wetting, messing and wailing. His minimal engagement with the outside world, other than with his ‘mother’, had taught the three sisters a lesson: there was no point in reducing the responsibilities and status adult men to those of a nappy wearing toddler. The man/child had to retain reasonable or at least regular awareness of his new position. The chemicals the sisters had used on Patrick and Peter had proved too strong an agent for this. At least the dosages had. Once they had obtained the mysterious chemicals from their less than reputable source, the women had made the ill-advised decision to increase the dosages in the interest of speed. The results now sat babbling and dribbling in their cots.
Tracy’s excitement subsided after some minutes. It had been an interesting morning. At the least, she could now draw lines, short lines in fact, between a man reduced to toddlerhood, her own inner desires and her crotch. She pulled up her zipper and returned to the bathroom, where she found Chris still lying naked on the changing table, idly playing with his little willie and humming some meaningless song to himself.
Tracy stopped at the door, worried that she may have pushed her sister’s husband over some edge, never to return.
‘Chris?’ she said quietly.
Chris simultaneously dropped his hand, stopped humming and blushed with embarrassment. He then cupped both hands over his crotch.
‘Oh, hi Tracy, sorry, I was just, I was wondering where you were,’ he said.
Tracy smiled. He seemed to have forgotten what had happened over the last half hour, yet was still waiting for instructions as to what to do next.
‘Well, Chris,’ said Tracy, ‘Ange and Mandy are still at aerobics, so I’ll help you get ready.’
‘Ready?’ asked Chris, who had swung around and was now sitting on the changing table.
‘Yes, honey, it’s Tenille’s birthday today! She’s a big girl now, she’s four! And guess what, baby?’ Tracy asked Chris with a grin.
‘What?’ asked Chris.
The morning had been stressful for Chris, and he was feeling slightly slow.
‘She’s having a party! Isn’t that exciting! So we need to have you looking your best,’ said Tracy.
‘But, why would I…’ Chris said.
‘You’re invited, of course!’ said Tracy. ‘Candy will be there too,’ she added reassuringly, rubbing the top of Chris’s head.
‘Now, let’s get you dressed,’ Tracy said.
‘I can get dressed,’ said Chris.
He felt it was time he made a stand, and had decided to start with what he wore. He liked Tracy but she was bossy sometimes and he didn’t want to be pushed around by her anymore. He felt good thinking that. I won’t be pushed around, he said to himself and smiled.
Tracy came back to the bathroom holding what looked like Chris’s orange tracksuit. She put it down on the end of the changing table and sitting next to Chris she put her arm over his shoulder. It felt warm, Chris noticed.
Then Tracy pushed Chris gently backwards onto the changing table. Producing a container of baby powder, she sprinkled him liberally, turning him over then face up again.
‘Up please honey,’ she said quietly, slipping a very thick folded terry nappy under Chris’s bottom then in a practiced movement pinning the sides tightly around him.
Chris’s heart dropped through the floor.
‘N…n.nappy? But I only have one at night, I mean sometimes, you and Mandy don’t know,’ he stammered.
‘Oh, honey, no fibs please. I think you’ve been in nappies all the time we’ve been here, haven’t you baby?’ she said.
‘No!’ I don’t wear nappies!’ Chris squealed.
‘Honey, don’t lie, or I’ll get really cross. You had a nappy on when you were unloading boxes from my car, didn’t you? And since then? So don’t tell silly lies, baby, or you know what will happen, don’t you? Tell me what happens to little girls and boys who tell silly lies to grownups?’ Tracy said severely.
Chris was beaten in one blow. He honestly couldn’t remember not having a nappy on since they’d been here. Whether it was from his secret stash or one they’d put on him.
‘Well?’ said Tracy, tugging a pair of nursery print plastic pants over Chris’s bulky triple nappy.
‘We get spanked,’ said Chris quietly.
At least that wasn’t a lie.
‘That’s right, sweetie. And as you grow up, and learn how to behave better, you won’t be spanked any more. Ask Tenille,’ Tracy said.
‘Now, as I was saying, let’s get you into your party clothes,’ Tracy said, holding up the orange track suit, which, once she had helped Chris climb into it, turned out to be a pair of bright yellow shortalls.
Once Chris was dressed to Tracy’s satisfaction, she patted him on the bottom and pushed him away from the changing table.
‘You look adorable, sweetie,’ said Tracy. ‘I think you might even look prettier than the birthday girl! Go and have a look in the big mirror in Angela’s room, honey,’ she added.
Chris waddled out of the children’s bathroom. He tried to ignore the inference in ‘Angela’s room’. It was still his room too, even if he was in nappies. He was too. Tracy was right, he shouldn’t lie. He wore nappies. All the time. He was wetting now, he could feel it happening. He was crying too.
Standing in front of the big cheval mirror, Chris saw himself as he truly was. He saw a child dressed in a yellow corduroy shortall, with pinlk and red balloons appliquéd to the bib. The child was very obviously heavily nappied, with the nappy bulging beneath the corduroy and visible at the leg openings of the garment.
Shaking, Chris put his fingertips to the appliqué balloons, and then slid his hand slowly down the bib of the shortall to where his tummy turned into his legs. He spread his already wide stance a little wider, feeling for something between his legs that wasn’t there. He didn’t just feel like a toddler, he felt like a little girl.
‘Where are you, honeybunch? I want to finish your hair sweetie,’ called Tracy.
Before he could answer, Chris heard Angela talking to Mandy as they arrived back from aerobics, with Tenille’s excited voice interjecting.
Chris looked once more into the mirror. He stared for a moment in confusion and shock, then released his bladder. He stared for a minute at his fat yellow corduroy crotch, looking for the growing wet patch from the torrent of pee that he could not stop pouring into his nappy. There was nothing, not even a dot of dampness. Because I am wearing my nappy, Chris thought miserably. He sat down heavily and began to cry.
To be continued.