Sixteen years old and already Charles Burbank was a lost cause. This his mother knew for certain. A smart mouth, awful grades, a vandalism rap – without his father around to keep him in line, the blue-eyed sweetheart they’d called Charlie had grown into Chuck, a bitter and arrogant hellion.
That’s why Mrs. Burbank was so grateful for Dr. Tompkins’s hypnosis therapy. For an overworked, single mother, it was a lifesaver, the only thing that could keep Chuck in line and allow his mother an afternoon’s respite. A mental haze, a temporary change in consciousness, triggered by a phrase, then augmented and ensured through prescribed medication, the endgame of the suggestive process would render Chuck tranquil via a return to comfortable familiarity; during and after this, he would have access to all of his knowledge, memories, and emotions. But the boy would be so mercifully manageable.
That said, hypnosis is for home use, not school; and, in that regard, Friday afternoon was the last straw. Chuck had been sent to the principal’s office for stealing cigarettes from the teachers’ lounge and selling them on school grounds. This, combined with previous offenses, would lead into a weekend of telephone calls to superintendents and appeals against expulsion, pending a final decision from the Willowbrook School District.
The doorbell rang as Mrs. Burbank swallowed an Advil. She was relieved Chuck had kept his Friday night plans. Far be it from her to use medical treatment as punishment, and the effects always had been kept private. But oh, what a stressful workweek will do to a mother…
“Hi, Mrs. Burbank!”
“Good to see you again, Emily!” Mrs. Burbank leaned across the threshold and gave her son’s girlfriend a hug. “I’m glad you could make it. Chuck’s just upstairs. He’ll be down shortly.”
The woman and the 15-year-old girl walked through the foyer towards the kitchen.
“Your house is lovely,” said Emily.
“Well, aren’t you a sweetheart! I only wish we could’ve had you over sooner. Two months seeing him and you don’t even have a real picture of how Chuck truly lives.”
Emily laughed. “I do like him so far. I’m just glad I get to spend some time with the woman behind the magic.”
Mrs. Burbank shot Emily a smile as Chuck came bounding down the stairs.
“Hey, beautiful,” Chuck said as he put his arm around his girlfriend. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” replied Emily. “Your mom was just fixing us dinner.”
The boy groaned. “I hope it’s better than the shit she made last night.”
Emily’s face turned bright red. She turned to look at Chuck’s mother, who had already set her serving spoon down in quiet frustration. Emily was surprised to find the woman smiling.
“Chuck?” Mrs. Burbank asked. “Did you bring your books home from school today?”
The words sounded hollow and tinny to Chuck, as if he were listening to them through a tin can. A wisp of confusion flitted across his eyes.
“I asked you a question. Did you bring your books home from school today?”
The teenager snapped back to reality in an instant and nodded his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I always do, Mom.”
“Good,” Mrs. Burbank replied. “I’m proud of you.” She ladled out equal portions of chicken and broccoli casserole and set the plates around the kitchen table. The three sat down to dinner.
“I heard you got in trouble with Principal Kamen today,” said Emily. “What was the deal with that?”
Chuck shook his head as he talked through a mouthful of casserole. “There’s no fuckin’ way–”
Mrs. Burbank slapped her son across the face. “Language!”
Chuck took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Burbank nodded. “I’m sure it was all a misunderstanding, Emily. I’m working it out this weekend. Chuck will be at his desk and ready for his math test on Monday morning.”
“Right after Batman,” Chuck added.
Emily turned to her boyfriend. “Pardon?”
“Batman!” chirped the boy. “It comes on at 6:30? Hello?”
Emily was torn between chuckling and being taken aback. A genuine look of confusion crossed her face.
“I… I didn’t realize you were into Batman, Chuck,” Emily said.
“Pfft,” said the teen. He picked idly at his food with the tines of his fork. Eating was beginning to bore him. “It’s only the coolest show ever. I guess you wouldn’t understand 'cause you’re a girl.”
“Excuse me?” Emily replied with a laugh.
“Nothin’.” Chuck resumed eating, dancing his gaze along the ceiling as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“So, Emily,” said Mrs. Burbank, “what sort of things do you like to do?”
The girl set down her fork. “Well, I’m really into nature… if it’s sunny outside I like to go out and walk through the woods, maybe gather up some–”
“BOOORRR-RRRIIINNNG!” Chuck wailed, slamming his hand on the table. “I wanna talk more about Batman!”
“Charles Burbank!” his mother scolded. “You do not interrupt at the dinner table!”
The boy stuck his tongue out. Emily froze in place, her eyes dancing between her hosts. She had never seen her boyfriend act this way before. Sure, he could be a prick at times, but this was just–
“Ow!” Emily said as a chunk of broccoli hit her in the forehead and fell to her plate. Chuck grinned from across the table.
“Gotchoo!” the teenager said, laughing. “Broccoli-face!”
Mrs. Burbank stood up. “CHARLES!”
“Broccoli-face! Broccoli-face! Em-i-ly’s a broccoli-face!” Chuck stuck his hand into the casserole and hurled a handful of food at his girlfriend. She jumped up from the table in revulsion and struggled to pick the chunks of chicken and sauce out of her hair.
“Mrs. Burbank,” Emily said, flustered, “I–”
“I am so sorry, dear,” the woman said, reaching for the paper towels. Chuck laughed uproariously in the background. “He’ll be fine in a second.”
“He’ll be fine.”
The laughter stopped.
Emily glanced up to see her boyfriend sucking his thumb and rocking in his chair, an expression of intense concentration on his face, as if he were chasing after a thought.
“He’s certainly a handful, isn’t he?” Mrs. Burbank asked, helping to remove the last of the food from Emily’s hair.
“Um, I guess,” the girl replied.
Mrs. Burbank turned to her son. “Charlie, are you ready for night-time?”
Those hollow, echoing words again. Inside, Chuck was screaming. He knew exactly what was going on. His private treatment – his deepest, most humiliating secret – was being put on display, exhibited for his girlfriend like a street parade. He wanted to slam on the brakes. He would do anything.
“Charlie, are you ready for night-time?”
He could do nothing.
A second switch flipped in Charlie’s head, and he spoke around his thumb. “Yeth, Mommy.”
Mrs. Burbank faced Emily and smiled warmly. “Now you’ll get to have a real picture of how Charlie truly lives,” she said. “Could you give me a hand with your boyfriend, dear?”
Emily put her filthy hair up into a scrunchie and smiled despite herself. “Absolutely.”
Charlie’s hands, t-shirt, and jeans were covered in casserole. His mother and girlfriend led him through the kitchen and to the bathroom as he toddled uneasily on his feet.
“Dear, would you grab his pants?”
Charlie stood on the bathroom tile, sucking his thumb and staring downward dumbly as his girlfriend unbuttoned and unzipped his blue jeans. The teenager’s head was clouded and slow-moving; he caught the occasional solid thought as a frog would a fly, but in general there was naught but a constant, heavy haze of humiliation and helplessness while his girlfriend undressed him in his mother’s view.
Emily slid Charlie’s jeans down to his feet and he stepped out of them, removing his shoes as well. His every helpful motion was guided by Dr. Tompkins’s post-hypnotic suggestions. The 16-year-old wanted to fight, to scream out as he helped his mother pull his t-shirt over his head and toss it aside, but he was so sedate, so willing, so controllable.
Relief washed over the ladies in an awesome wave.
Mrs. Burbank drew the water. “Charlie? Can you take your big-boy boxers off or do you need Emily’s help with that?”
Charlie pouted and pulled his thumb from his mouth. “I can take my pants off, Mommy.”
The boy placed his fingers upon the waistband and slid his boxers down to his feet, exposing himself in front of his mother and Emily. The blood rushed to his skin in a hot fire as he came to acknowledge his penis dangling limply between his legs in full and open view. When he settled into the warm, inviting water of the bathtub, he felt better, but not much.
“You see, Emily,” Mrs. Burbank began, “when babies get messy, you have to clean them up right away lest they get food all over your nice carpeting and upholstery.”
Emily nodded and soaped up a rag, sliding it along her boyfriend’s chest. “I see.”
Charlie seethed in humiliation, unable to act, as the two women ran a rag and a bar of soap over his body, along his abs and back, and down his legs. Mrs. Burbank dropped a blue, plastic tugboat into the water; this distracted the teenager long enough for his girlfriend to soap up his genitals. He giggled at her touch and developed an erection.
Charlie wanted to howl with rage. And he couldn’t, which made him want to howl even more. He struggled to fight the effects of the hypnosis and the drugs as his girlfriend inadvertently masturbated him in front of his mother. Finally, something was coming to him – control. He felt himself able to muster up ability to scream out, at last, from his mental prison.
“W—W—Whaaaaiiiieeee?” he whined, a tear rolling down each cheek. He was amazed he could provide as much resistance. If he kept working at it, he might be able to beat this thing. "Why you— "—he sniffled—“Why you tweatin’ Charwie wike a widdle baby?”
“Because that’s all you are right now, little Charlie,” his mother replied. “Don’t you remember? Mommy gives you food, clothing, and shelter, and you give her peace by helping her this way. And now Emily’s here to help, too.”
The boy’s heart sank into his stomach.
“Emily, will you get Charlie’s diapers ready while I let out the water?”
Emily pulled her hands out of the tub. Charlie whined twofold—for losing the sensation of loving pleasure around his cock, and for the sudden realization that his girlfriend was going to be diapering him like a baby.
Please freak out, Emily. Please run away.
Emily dried off her hands. “Where are his diapers?”
“Down the hall, sweetie. His bedroom is the last door on the left.”
When Emily made it to her boyfriend’s room, her jaw dropped. Chuck Burbank, the meanest, toughest kid at Willowbrook High, the colossal prick, the cigarette salesman and vandal du année… lived in a nursery. There was a toy box, a diaper pail, and a playpen with blocks, rings, and Duplos. Bears with balloons bedecked the wallpaper and iridescent stars dotted the ceiling. A mobile hung over Charlie’s crib, next to which was a foot-high stack of thick, white, disposable diapers.
By the time Emily returned with them, Mrs. Burbank had already dried off her son and laid him on the bathmat. Emily, for her part, was finally piecing together why her boyfriend was always so smooth and shaved.
“Emiwy?” asked Charlie.
“Wet Mommy put me in dipees.”
Charlie burned with shame. He was jockeying for the lesser of two evils. But it wasn’t to be.
“Now, Charlie,” Mrs. Burbank said. “If Emily is going to be your girlfriend, we have to let her get some practice now, don’t we? Diapering a teenage boy is not the same thing as diapering a baby and she may as well know now for the times she has to change you.”
Emily nodded in agreement and Charlie started wailing. The teenage girl slid the double-thick diaper, white save for a blue band festooned with remote-control cars, underneath her boyfriend’s ass. Charlie squirmed and bawled, salty tears running down his face and moistening the bathmat, as Emily rubbed powder into the creases between his legs. Under Mrs. Burbank’s watchful eye she lubricated her hand with baby oil and slathered it over Charlie’s backside, eliciting a new round of whining cries from the teenager which crescendoed as he felt his girlfriend’s finger slide into his ass.
Charlie calmed down a bit as he felt Emily pull the thick diaper up between his legs and hold it to his tummy. He sucked his thumb – a counterintuitive way to allay his humiliation – as his girlfriend secured all four tapes and tucked in the legbands with her fingertips. Emily pronounced Charlie diapered and Mrs. Burbank voiced her approval.
Mrs. Burbank and Emily helped Charlie to his feet. The plastic of the thickly-padded, babyish diaper crinkled between the teenager’s legs.
Embarrassed beyond words, Charlie sucked his thumb earnestly as he toddled towards the living room, his awkward waddle supported by his mother and girlfriend, the sound of a rustling diaper echoing behind him.
Charlie felt like such a baby. Any semblance of the independent, tough-guy façade he conveyed around his mother was gone. Whatever respect and allure he had curried with Emily as the edgy, bad-boy boyfriend was locked away, never to be seen again, hidden behind a fortress of shame and the tapes a soft, white diaper.
“Me hungwy,” Charlie whined.
“Of course you are, dear,” his mother replied. “Half your food ended up on your pants and in your girlfriend’s hair. How are we supposed to feed you when you’re such a messy baby?”
Charlie, nearly naked as the sun, stood in the middle of the room and turned to face the girls. Pouting, his lower lip stuck outward, he clasped his hands together and hung them limply in front of his diaper.
NO! No, dammit!!
“Me wan’ ba-ba.”
Mrs. Burbank sighed. Emily put her hand to her mouth and failed at suppressing a giggle.
“Emily, be a sweetheart and get your boyfriend his ba-ba from the cupboard. You can feed him some warm milk for his dinner.”
Emily nodded and walked to the kitchen. Charlie fell to his knees in despair. Course grains of dignity, of control, slid through his fingers like sand and were gone.
And so it was that 16-year-old Chuck, now Charlie, lay on the couch, sprawled across his girlfriend’s lap, thickly and comfortably diapered, nursing a baby bottle of warm milk as his mother sat in her rocking chair, gazing on in approval.
Please let this end. Please send her home. Please don’t do this to me.
“So, what’s it like taking care of Baby Charlie during the weekends?” Emily asked, holding the bottle upright to encourage the flow of milk to her boyfriend’s mouth. Charlie twitched his toes in reflex.
“He’s really very little trouble at all,” Mrs. Burbank replied. “Usually he just sits around and plays with his blocks. Time and time again he’ll find a colorful show on the television; that’ll hold his attention for a few minutes. It’s so boring for him. So very boring and so very humiliating. You see, his mind’s still there–up in the attic, it’s still 16-year-old Chuck, big man on campus.”
Charlie whined around the nipple of the bottle as the warm milk slid down his throat. He could not conceive of a situation wherein he would feel more humiliated. His girlfriend continued to nurse him as she listened intently to Mrs. Burbank’s chronicle.
“But his volition… why, he has but the sentience of an infant. He plays with his stuffed animals, he drinks from his bottles, he eats his baby food from a high chair…”
The teenager’s face burned with shame. The bottle was almost finished. He couldn’t wait for this episode finally to be overwith.
“He even goes potty in his diapers.”
The words echoed in Charlie’s head. A hollow tintinnabulation. They ricocheted and repeated.
Charlie whined as he sucked the last droplet of milk from his bottle.
“Don’t you, sweetie?”
“What, Mommy?” Charlie asked, turning to face his mother.
“Don’t you go potty in your diapers?”
Charlie shook and shivered, struggling to grasp one modicum of control, to save one iota of face with his girlfriend, but his lips seemed to move on their own.
“Yeth, Mommy. Me go poddy im my dipees.”
Mrs. Burbank smiled. “Why don’t you show Emily what a big boy you are?”
With a sigh of resignation, Charlie stood up off of the couch and walked to the middle of the room. His virgin white diapers crinkled loudly around his bottom as he baby-stepped. Emily and Mrs. Burbank stood side-by-side in front of him, eager to coach him on his performance.
Please, Mom. Stop this. Don’t make me do this in front of Emily. I will never, ever fuck up again, if you just–
Charlie felt a tear roll down his cheek as the first warm spurt of urine soaked into his diaper. He tried to hold back, to fight, but between his immediate need and the post-hypnotic suggestion, there was no hope.
The 16-year-old shoved his thumb into his mouth and let go. Waves of warmth flowed over his cock and down his balls, settling into his diaper and creeping up its backside. Emily giggled as she watched the white exterior of Charlie’s diaper gradually change to its yellow hue. The teenager’s face burned furiously as he emptied his bladder, feeling the trickle coursing through the creases of his legs like warm, pallid fingers. He couldn’t stop even if he had wanted to.
Emily walked behind Charlie and sized up his diapered butt. The urine had wicked back and caused his diaper to puff out. A lone stream of pee worked its way out of the legband and settled into the carpet.
Oh God. I’m leaking. I’m leaking in my diapers in front of my girlfriend. Please make it stop.
When it finally did, Charlie squirted out a few more drops, and jerked his thumb from his mouth.
“EMMMIWYYY!” he whined, loudly and in falsetto. “Me jus wen peepee im my DIPEE!”
Emily busted out laughing. “My, you certainly did! What a big boy we have here, with such a full diaper!”
Charlie seethed. He loved Emily, but he hated what she was doing to him. He hated every coo, every word of baby-talk, every sycophantic concession to his mother. The young boy’s mind was a torrid jungle of conflicting emotions. There simply wasn’t enough room for them all, and Charlie began to cry. To bawl.
“No, no, Charlie!” said Emily. “Emiwy wuvs hew widdwe baby!”
That made it even worse.
Charlie collapsed to his knees, his soaking wet diaper hanging at his hips, as he let out a genuine wail of despair. It was so loud that the portraits on the fireplace mantle shook. A thin line of spit amassed on Charlie’s bottom lip and trickled down to the inside of his diaper as he cried for his mommy, his girlfriend – somebody to save him from this humiliation. Anybody.
“I wan’ my Mommy!”
Charlie fell to his stomach and started beating his fists on the carpet. He pounded his feet as well, throwing a considerable tantrum as the last of his inhibitions were whisked away. He squirmed, and wailed, and bellowed.
“Pwease do not do dis to me! Pwease! Me be goo boy! Me be goo! Me pwomise!”
The teenager felt as if he were possessed. Small juts of pain struck through him as his toes pounded the carpeting.
“Pwease dun do dis to Baby Chawie!”
Emily and Mrs. Burbank took pity on the boy and sought to calm him down. They nestled beside him and wiped the tears from his eyes.
“Is my baby going to be okay?” Emily asked.
Charlie struggled to catch his breath. He sucked his thumb as hard as he could for several seconds.
“Yeth, Mommy,” he replied.
Mrs. Burbank brushed the hair away from her eyes. “Charlie, are you calm?”
“Charlie, I need you to be a big boy for Mommy. Can you do that?”
Reassured, the women stood up and contemplated how to get their 16-year-old baby to his crib.
Mrs. Burbank sighed. “Ni-ni, Charlie?”
The teenager didn’t answer. He simply rolled over, his muscles weakened by the mere power of suggestion, and rose to his knees and the palms of his hands. His diaper sagging heavily between his legs, Charlie began the long, shameful crawl to his nursery.
And Emily was there every step of the way, making sure he didn’t fall over, and giving him but one consolatory kiss when he did.