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|Chapter #: 2|
Summary: The humiliations continue. Contains... a hell of a lot of various crazy stuff. Might as well read the chapter since its laundry list of transformations would be nearly as long.
Updated On: 08 February 2010 - Words Count: 3301 - Number of Reads: 0
Part II: Selling Surrender - Saturday
I should've gone to film school. I'd rather be making movies of this stuff. I hear you can do some amazing things with CGI nowadays. --littletrip
Part II: Selling Surrender - Saturday
Saturday, 12:00 AM
Shit gets real. The nightclub is quickly devolving into chaos as its patrons are increasingly infantilized and hypersexualized by the effects of some of the drug’s more potent strains.
Many teenagers find themselves oversized babies, everything about them save for their physical forms reduced to the status of one-year-olds. Others discover that they’ve retained their voracious sexual appetites and can be seen sitting on their asses, staring blankly ahead as they mindlessly masturbate through the flies of their wet pants. Boys find themselves being mothered by their girlfriends, who, after the young men had finished pooping in their underwear, sat down and held them across their laps, nursing them from breasts which had quickly developed the ability to produce milk. Infantilized girls find themselves doing the same. Petulant boys with clean butts are routinely stripped down and spanked in the laps of various girls and sometimes other boys, crying genuine, babylike wails of pain as they helplessly ejaculate onto the dance floor.
As they always seem to do, things get worse. A certain enterprising individual breaks into a storage closet and happens upon a vast stockpile of adult-sized (and, inexplicably, baby-sized) infant supplies Marcus had surreptitiously stowed there hours previously. The girls -- many of whom hadn’t even taken pills -- who found themselves suddenly feeling motherly towards their mentally-regressed boyfriends and girlfriends haul them into the club proper by the armload.
Boys are cleaned up, powdered, and diapered. Girls who had developed nasty drooling habits see their mouths plugged shut by the rubber nipples of large pink pacifiers. Young men awaken, cranky and fussy, from three-minute naps and are bottle-fed warm milk by their boyfriends, some of whom are dreamily wetting diapers of their own.
Couples wherein each of the partners had taken a certain variety of the pill are struggling to have sex on the dance floor, diaper-on-diaper. Boys and girls, boys and boys, girls and girls -- all grinding thick plastic-coated cotton against thick plastic-coated cotton, crinkling audibly and making out sloppily and trying to cum despite the obstructions. They often fail. When they succeed, many of them find themselves dumping loads into the backs of their diapers at the same time they’re blowing loads into the fronts.
Club security guards find the situation ironically uncontrollable. Mentally regressed early-twentysomething babies are too heavy to lift and too dumb to understand any form of speech. And one bouncer who broke policy (not to mention the law) by secretly purchasing a dose of his own finds himself hypnotized, locking each door in sequence in a dreamlike stupor as his cock leaks a full bladder of pee down the legs of his regulation black pants.
Marcus Halberstram watches from the elevated DJ room above the dance floor. Once in a while, he jerks off into a sock, but he spends most of his time laughing and admiring the fruits of his twisted genius.
Saturday, 12:25 AM
Jenny Jenkins, sober as a churchlady, watches in nervous horror as the eyes of her 20-year-old boyfriend Ricky take on a glassy, innocent glaze.
“Oh, no,” she moans to him. “You snuck off and bought some pills while I was in the bathroom, didn’t you?”
Ricky stumbles backwards, comes crashing to his ass, and pushes his thumb between his lips. He sucks it loudly and babbles baby-talk around it as he mindlessly soaks his blue jeans in warm pee. “Ga ga goo gee?” he asks, looking up at his girlfriend, before letting an out-of-nowhere giggle escape from around his thumb. Jenny looks downward and realizes the cause: Ricky has a throbbing erection straining against the fly of his newly-drenched pants.
Jenny sighs. “You’re lucky you have a responsible and competent girlfriend like me to take care of these little messes of yours.” She kneels down, removes Ricky’s shirt from over his head, and lays him on his back before proceeding to unzip his damp jeans and strip him of both those and the equally-soiled boxer-briefs beneath them.
Ricky finds himself in bliss, completely nude on the chaotic dance floor, looking up at the ceiling. He sucks on his thumb with idle enjoyment as his seven-inch erection sticks proudly into the air. It isn’t long before he feels it being cleaned with a cold wipe, covered in powder, and wrapped up in a double-thick disposable diaper just his size.
“Aww, is baby Wicky hungwy?” Jenny coos condescendingly to the boy, who happens to be one year her senior. He nods furiously around his thumb. “Wicky’s gonna hafta settle for milk from a ba-ba, I’m afraid. Mommy wasn’t naughty and didn’t put things in her mouth that didn’t belong there.”
Minutes later, baby Ricky finds himself seated across his new Mommy’s lap in only a diaper, happily slurping away from the rubber nipple of a baby bottle. His sexual need hasn’t abated and the underside of his cock strains needfully against the restrictive fabric of his diaper. Once in a while, Jenny humors him with a tight rub or two against the plastic, causing her boyfriend to quiver and moan weakly against the bottle’s nipple.
“Try to keep that diaper seat clean,” Jenny admonishes him as he finishes the bottle. “Mommy doesn’t want to have to be changing dirty gigantic dipees tonight.” No sooner is the nipple out of Ricky’s satisfied mouth than Jenny starts feeling the weight of a filling diaper pressing against her crotch. Ricky only giggles, wide-eyed, and returns his thumb to his mouth.
“Is Wicky a bad widdwe baby or what?” Jenny says to him, shaking her head in mock disappointment. She knows it was more or less inevitable. Ricky doesn’t respond; he just sucks his thumb, wiggles his toes, and smooshes the mess around a bit with his butt. Then he’s bucking his hips, fucking the inside of his diaper against the pressure of his Mommy’s hand with long, lustful strokes.
Jenny lets him, and even gets into it as she begins squeezing and massaging his most sensitive spots through the crinkling plastic. Ricky closes his eyes, sucks his thumb, and grinds, and grinds, and grinds.
He gasps around his thumb like a grown-up as she touches him just right. Ricky blows the biggest load of cum in his life, and he does it all against the soft inside of a diaper. Jet after jet of semen, wave after wave of pleasure.
When it’s over, Ricky needs a change more than ever. He falls back against his girlfriend’s lap and she rocks him as he basks in the afterglow.
“Shh, shh, it’s alright,” Jenny coos. “Mommy’s here.”
Ricky keeps his eyes closed as he’s rocked. He smiles around his thumb and sighs happily.
He decides to wait until the morning to tell Jenny he hadn’t actually taken any pills to begin with.
Saturday, 12:45 AM
It’s a quarter of one and the air in the nightclub is thick with the smell of babies, though there isn’t an actual baby to be found.
Then, they start popping up everywhere.
Robert is the first to fall victim. Already in just a wet diaper and nibbling on the tips of his toes, the 22-year-old whines impotently as the chemicals in his blood take hold of his other cells and begin rejuvenating them to a far earlier state. He becomes a teenager again, crawling around in a daze as he realizes his muscle mass is slipping away. He reenters puberty and, when his frame is no longer big enough to support its size, Robert is rendered nude as his diaper falls to the floor with a wet smack.
The naked 13-year-old is given a perfect view of his pubic hair sucking back into his crotch, revealing in all its glory his four-inch (then three-and-a-half-inch, then three-inch, then two-inch) cock. Now nine, beleaguered Robert starts crawling furiously towards the random girl who had taken care of him for the past 45 minutes, as he had arrived at Vices alone and single. Robert is four years old when he arrives at her outstretched arms.
And, by the time he’s hoisted up into and held in her arms, the one-year-old is wailing, shrieking, tears cascading down his cheeks one after the other as he squeals and kicks and gazes in horror at his tiny peepee. Though he had had the mind of an infant just minutes before, he still had the subconscious knowledge of who he had been and that it would probably only be a matter of hours before he was returned to that state. Now it would be a matter of 21 years.
The stranger girl, now inextricably linked to Robby as his Mommy, finally realizes the necessity of the baby-sized supplies provided in the storage closet, and joins a few other sober girls in retrieving the more age-appropriate items.
Some have it worse. Paula, a girl who, until that point, had figured herself immune to the less savory aspects of the adulterated drug because she was still dressed as an adult and retained the full capacity of her adult mind -- even having volunteered to take care of a few of the fussier adult baby girls -- starts to sink into her younger years right there on the dance floor. She is 19 years old, then 16, then thirteen. It happens within a space of perhaps 10 seconds, and, for each of them, Paula suffers the horrifying experience of watching her big, proud tits melt away into training-bra fodder before disappearing completely.
She struggles out of her clothes so she won’t drown in them, and the naked 10-year-old starts screaming for somebody to do something. Nobody can do anything, and as she stands in the center of a circle of gawkers, shrieking impotently at the ceiling with an increasingly high-pitched voice, shrinking, and shrinking, and shrinking, Paula finally realizes the process is slowing to settle her at the age of four years old.
Having been late to perfect continence, the four-year-old girl squeals and pounds her fists against her hips as she uncontrollably pees all over the floor, the hot liquid hitting the woodwork in an embarrassingly loud cascade. The situation is made all the more humiliating for Paula because she retains her adult, 19-year-old mind; she gets to experience the very adult sexual humiliation of peeing, naked and as a child, in front of hundreds of people. When she finishes, she tearfully runs for the storage closet, evidently conscious of her very definite need for a pretty pink Pull-Up.
Saturday, 1:30 AM
The combinations are myriad. 21-year-old ladies with 21-year-old minds end up in 6-year-old bodies with 2-year-old minds, destined to lead teams of experts to wonder why the diaper-clad girls who should be attending first grade are instead shitting themselves in their cribs. Young men with the minds of one-year-olds find their mental ages restored, but only to 14; their physical ages are reduced to 24 months. For years they will suffer incredibly strong sexual desires, desperately clutching at the plastic of their wet diapers, then at the soft cotton of their Barney and then Superman underpants, and bursting into tears over their total inability to ejaculate.
Among the more humiliating permutations is the one suffered by 24-year-old playboy Steven, who retains his adult mind and body, but is forever doomed to act like a baby as soon as he starts a conversation with a member of the opposite sex. He’ll retain the comprehension of what’s happening at the time but lose any sense of control, fighting helplessly against a pathological compulsion to suck his thumb and empty a load into the seat of his underpants as soon as he asks a girl for her cell phone number. Then collapse into a tear-filled, knee-pounding tantrum when the smell hits her nose and she declines to give it to him.
Lana Ronson is reduced, mentally and physically, to the age of one year, but any attempt at potty training will be unsuccessful and she will spend her entire life confined to diapers. She won’t mind, though-- as she has gained a very serious fetish for them and, if she isn’t alone, masturbating inside them, she’ll be trying to find an excuse to get out of any social situation simply for the opportunity.
Nineteen-year-old Jerry keeps his body and mind but becomes an infantilist, forever turned on sexually by baby objects and behaviors. Which would, ordinarily, constitute getting off easily, were it not a constant, uncontrollable obsession. Jerry will realize the inconvenience of this when he starts nursing from a baby bottle during a job interview (“Naw fanks, I got me’s own”) or openly peeing his uncovered diapers on the city bus.
Whenever 23-year-old Stacy has an orgasm, she’ll spend the next hour of her life acting, quite convincingly, as an infant, for her mind will have regressed to that stage for exactly 60 minutes. She finds herself forced to balance her need for sexual gratification against her aversion to shitting the bed after sex.
Twenty-year-old Johnny finds himself with an insistent compulsion to dress in toddler girls’ clothes all the time. In fact, he sees himself as an adorable two-year-old girl in everything but anatomy. He’ll always wear the frilliest dress, sport the curliest hair, and wet the pinkest diapers.
Until last call at two o’clock, it’s as such left and right-- boys turning into physical babies with adult minds, girls thinking they’re babies despite their adult bodies, young men being driven to masturbate practically constantly, boys learning the pleasures of dressing like baby girls and being held by other boys.
Marcus busts another load into one of the socks he’s brought and starts the process of shutting down the club for the night. As he had applied his considerable drug profits to the cause, he considers the night a celebration of his finally having acquired sole ownership of Vices. Marcus has big plans for the venue, and by the time that Saturday night rolls around, he wagers, its patrons will have become lifelong and loyal.
Saturday, 2:00 AM
I cannot fathom a single thing about my situation I’d ever see myself making peace with.
When I got to Vices tonight, I was an 18-year-old boy named Tyler. I came with my 19-year-old girlfriend, Beth, and we got a great deal on a couple of tabs of X. Now, I’m only 18-year-old Tyler in my mind. In every other way, I’m-- very much... not that.
As I helplessly empty my bladder into the pretty pink diaper taped tightly to my pussy, I wonder quite consciously whether I’ll have to wait the full 17 years to return to vestiges of my previous self. Somehow I think I will. And I wonder whether I’ll be given my cock back at any point during that process, given a reprieve in the processes of developing breasts and menstruating. Somehow I think I won’t.
I wasn’t even granted the relief of having the mind of teenage boy transformed into that of a baby girl. When I turn 19, my only birthday present will be bigger Pampers for Girls. When my brain reaches drinking age, playboy age, all I’ll be celebrating will be a handful of successful months on the potty and out of Pull-Ups. The constant parade of frilly pink cotton underwear and beauty-pageant dresses will serve as no celebration whatsoever.
The warm milk with which the tainted X had provided my girlfriend’s tits jets out onto my tiny tongue and down my throat as I suck rhythmically on her nipple. She sees herself as my mother now. When I regain the ability to say anything more advanced than “blaba googoo gee” she won’t believe a word of my plight. And I have no idea whether I will ever reconcile the fact that she is, in fact, my Mommy.
I kick my tiny legs involuntarily. The damp plastic crinkles and I feel a little sick at the sensation of it stroking my new, hairless genitalia. I miss my penis. I don’t like a thing about this vagina of mine. I don’t like a thing about its inability to keep itself from peeing without warning. I don’t like a thing about it being within close proximity to a weak little baby’s asshole with no ability hold back the flood of disgusting poop that’s certain to fill the seat of my girls’ diapers several times a day. This sentiment is only confirmed as I feel the seat of my diaper quickly expand with warmth and mushiness. I never felt it coming.
Beth “awwws” down at me. She coos and whispers sweet nothings and tickles my chin. I hate it. I start to cry silent tears, my mouth too occupied with breastfeeding. I wonder, since she’ll be raising me as her little girl and that’s the only life I’ll remember come puberty, if I’ll retain the same big-boy interests and sexual desires I’d enjoyed in my past life.
The situation looks dreary. Somewhere, in the back of my adult, contemplative mind, I’m already conjuring up images in my head of the uncontrolled slide into inevitability. By then, I’ll love shopping for girls’ clothing. I’ll have no idea or care for whether the Bears are a baseball team or a football team. As the hormones surge through my developing body, I’ll have very little time to think of anything other than my 7th-grade math homework and kissing boys. I’ll think of every erection I’m doomed to give them, giggle about it, and campaign to get my mouth around one as soon as the concept titillates me. All the cum I’ll have to swallow. All that’ll end up on my pretty, soft face and perfectly-formed breasts.
I pull off of Mommy’s nipple and start to cry, to scream, to wail, for all I’ve lost and all I’m doomed to gain. A need for dozens of diapers a week. Years of mind-numbing schooling I’ve already learned, of explaining to no avail what had actually happened to me to any adult willing to listen, of feeling my heart sink as they only laugh and congratulate me on my imagination. A lust for cocks when once I had one of my own.
Mommy is aware none of this. She stands me up in her lap, my diaper drooping between my weak, unsure legs, and burps me over her back. I take enough time off from crying to spit up before resuming almost immediately.
Part III: The Night Nursery - Saturday
Thanks for reading. -lt
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