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Pamper Probation: Chapter 2 - A Messy Start

Link to Chapter 1

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Regression Adjustment Pathways Initiative Sitter: Danielle Monroe Assigned Participant: Corey (Level Two) Hours Remaining: 492

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Danielle pressed her badge to the scanner outside Nursery D. The light blinked green, and so did the one on her ankle monitor. The latch on the door clicked.

She let out a hefty sigh. Day two. Only day two.

The door creaked open, and the scent hit her immediately. Faint antiseptic layered beneath synthetic lavendar. Like the room had been Febreezed to death. Muffled classical music played overhead.

She stepped inside. The lights were dimmed to “waking” mode. Corey lay in the crib, curled around that stupid stuffed giraffe with a tiny blanket bunched at his knees. He looked peaceful. Too peaceful. A pacifier was still bobbing in his mouth. Did he really sleep with that in the whole night? Why not just spit it out when no one was around?

Danielle hesitated, not really knowing what to do first. There were instructions about this sort of thing, right? Morning protocol...crib release...tone of voice.

“Uh…good morning,” she said, louder than intended.

He stirred. The plastic mattress crinkled noisily when he shifted, the sound crackly and artificial. A sharp breath whistling through the shield of the pacifier as his eyes blinked open, then landed on her.

“Oh,” he said, voice dry and groggy, letting the pacifier fall as if embarrassed. “Uh…hi...”

“You were out cold,” she said, not bothering to soften her tone. The crib, even though it was larger than any crib she’d ever seen, still wasn’t long enough to allow him to extend his legs fully. His little blankie was more like a decorative towel than a comforter, and the lullabies pumping softly through the speakers would drive her insane. “Are you really able to sleep in here?”

He gave a tired shrug. “You kind of get used to it..”

She moved to the side of the crib, found the latch, and fumbled with it until the rail finally dropped down. She let her gaze drift between his legs. She couldn’t help it, there was constantly a very white, fluffy elephant in the room. The front of his diaper was visibly swollen, puffy with a faint yellow tint, but not sagging like the night before. Definitely wet though.

Corey followed her eyes and winced. “I didn’t leak,” he offered quickly, as if that salvaged something. “It’s not bad.”

“Oh, well then,” Danielle said dryly. “Let me run and get you a medal for being such a big boy!”

He started to pull the blanket back up, and that’s when she noticed how he moved. Hasty. Defensive. Suddenly trying to cover more than just his dignity.

Danielle narrowed her eyes.

“Ohhh,” she drawled. “Did someone get a visit from the stiffy fairy this morning?”

Corey flushed instantly. “I….I didn’t…” He yanked the blanket over his lap.”It’s not what it looks like! I wasn’t trying to–”

“Save it,” she snapped. “I’m sure it’s totally normal, right? Just your body doing its thing?”

He pulled the blanket up tighter, almost to his chest.

“Well, I’m not changing you while you’re like that,” she snapped. “So…figure it out.”

He stared at her, wide-eyed, whimpering softly.

“You heard me,” she said. “Get it under control, or you can sit in it till lunch.”

She stepped back, shaking her head in disgust.

No one had warned her about this. There was nothing in the orientation about how to handle erections in oversized diapers. Nothing about how some of the Littles, like this one, might actually enjoy it. Might want to be here. Surely that could never be the case though. No grown man would actually want this type of treatment. He was being punished for his sins just like her and every other subject in this fucked up place.

She didn’t know if she was supposed to log it or flag his little erection, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to touch it.

Still fuming, she crossed to the charting station, eyes scanning the screen, but not really absorbing anything.

Behind her, the room was quiet except for the soft hum of the ventilation system and the occasional crinkle of plastic as Corey shifted in the crib. Hopefully deflating. Literally.

She rubbed her temple. What now? She’d made her little power move, but that had only bought her a minute or two, and now she was just... standing there.

What was she supposed to do next?

She glanced back at the screen. Her badge login was still active. The checklist blinked at her, clinical and uncaring:

LEVEL TWO MALE – ID: #0231-7C

FEEDING REQUIRED: 7:30 AM

SUPPLEMENT TYPE: 12oz Formula, Bottle Format (Warm)

LAST CHANGE: 9:05PM (Previous Day)

HYGIENE STATUS: Acceptable

Right. The bottle. She could at least do that.

The nursery had a small kitchenette tucked against the far wall: a mini-fridge, a shallow sink, a drying rack, and a stack of pastel burp cloths that looked like they’d never been used for anything innocent. Everything smelled faintly of powder and antiseptic.

Danielle yanked open the fridge. A neat row of sealed bottles stared back at her, each stamped Mother Maiden’s Milking Farm – Stage 2 Nutritional Supplement. The liquid inside was thick, off-white, faintly pearlescent. It looked like melted vanilla ice cream that had been left out too long. Her stomach lurched.

She grabbed one, slammed the fridge door shut, then stared at the warmer unit for a moment like it might bite her. It had buttons, that was about all she could say. No guide. No instruction sheet. Just a little panel with blinking lights. Danielle could barely boil an egg, and the most culinary thing she’d ever managed was instant ramen. She was way out of her comfort zone with literally everything in this godforsaken place. She shoved the bottle into the slot and hit the first button she saw. Then another. The machine chirped. Lights turned orange. Something started humming.

Okay…good. Progress?

Behind her: she heard plastic pampers crinkling. “Uh…Ms. Danielle?”

She turned her head halfway, already bristling. “What now?”

Corey shifted in the crib. “I…I think I might need to…uh…go.”

Danielle narrowed her eyes. “Go where?”

His face flushed crimson, his eyes darted back and forth to anywhere but hers, he gestured helplessly to himself. “You know…” he murmured, voice small and ashamed, “number two...”

Her stomach dropped straight through the foam-tiled floor. “No,” she said flatly. “Absolutely not.”

“But—”

“You hold it.”

“I’m trying b-but—”

“Try harder.” she snapped. “Is it really that hard to not poop all over yourself? Are you that fucking pathetic??”

“I…I'm just saying I feel it coming on—”

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

“Too bad.” She continued, ignoring the beeping coming from the warmer. “I am not changing a messy diaper on my fucking shift, Corey. So you better clench. Pray. Do whatever you have to do, but you are not shitting yourself while I’m in this room.”

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

“You hear me?” she hissed, leaning in closer. “You shit yourself right now and I swear I’ll leave you in it until tomorrow morning. I’ll strap you down and let you stew in your own mess. Is that what you want?”

Corey whimpered, thighs clamped tight, face burning with shame.

The beeping turned into one long, angry shriek.

BEEEEEEEEP!

Danielle finally spun around, snatched the bottle out of the scalding slot, and yelped as the boiling-hot plastic seared her palm.

“OW! Fuck!!”

She dropped the bottle. It hit the counter, rolled, and thudded against the floor with a slosh. Drips of milk spattering the floor. She scrambled to scoop it up, shaking her hand and swearing under her breath. Her skin already stung. She gripped the hot plastic carefully and flicked a few drops onto her wrist like she’d seen people in movies do.

They sizzled. Literally sizzled.

Corey watched from the crib, wide-eyed. “You...you could run it under water. That’s what the others usually do.”

Danielle’s head snapped toward him. “I know,” she hissed. “I know what I’m doing.” But the truth was: she absolutely didn’t.

He shrank back, eyes darting down. She turned sharply to the little mini kitchen, yanked the faucet handle, and shoved the bottle under the cold stream. Water splashed over her wrist as she rotated the bottle, teeth clenching so hard it hurt.

“This is so stupid,” she muttered. “I should be at work, doing real work. Not prepping bottles for oversized babies”

The formula inside sloshed, thick and off-white, stubbornly clinging to the sides of the bottle like it enjoyed being a problem. Behind her, Corey didn’t say a word. It was a small reprieve that he didn’t laugh at her befuddlement. She might have found it amusing if she were in his shoes. God she was so glad she wasn’t in his shoes.

She kept rinsing until the bottle didn’t feel like molten plastic in her hands. Flicked some water off, tested another drop on her wrist. Still warm. No longer lethal. She dried it roughly with a paper towel, placed a finger over the rubber nipple, shook it, and exhaled hard through her nose.

She turned to face him. Bottle in hand. And absolutely no patience left.

“Let’s go,” she said, voice clipped. “Feeding time.”

He pushed himself upright on the floor slowly, leaning back against the legs of his crib.

She crouched on one knee and held out the bottle. “Open.”

He hesitated.

“What? Do you need me to wrap it up with a little fucking bow first?”

“No,” he said quietly, and opened his mouth. The nipple slid between his lips with a soft squeak. She tilted it. He began to suck. Slowly. Painfully slowly. Barely more than a flutter against the nipple. She could hear it. Thin, pathetic pulls of air and formula.

Danielle scowled. “Can you hold this yourself?”

He blinked up at her, eyes wide. “I…I’m not allowed to.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“They said we’re not supposed to. It’s part of the ‘dependency metric’.”

She almost laughed, but it wasn’t funny.

“So let me get this straight,” she said slowly. “You’re not even allowed to hold your own bottle?”

He shook his head.

Her fingers tightened around the plastic cylinder. The rubber teat was slick with spit. Formula was dribbling down his chin and soaking into the front of his shirt. Her knees were sore from crouching. Her arm ached from keeping the angle just right.

“I have to do everything around here and you just fucking take it,” she muttered.

He didn’t respond.

“You’re fucking useless. Can’t hold a bottle. Can’t hold your bladder. Probably can’t even hold your own head up unless I do it for you, can you, wittle baby?”

Another sip. Another squirm.

She glared at him. “You plan on finishing this before dinner?”

He paused to speak, which only annoyed her more.

“It just…” he started, already wincing, “it tastes so bad. Like… like chalky cereal milk, but spoiled.”

Danielle rolled her eyes. “What a tragedy.”

He took another sip, slower than before.

“I’m serious,” he whined. “It makes my stomach hurt. And I already have to go…”

She snapped.

“Oh my god, Corey, we’ve covered this. You’re not messing that diaper. Not today. Not while I’m the one stuck here with you.”

“I—I’m trying to hold it,” he said quickly. “I really am—”

“Then try harder,” she bit out. “Clench whatever you need to clench and drink.”

He whimpered around the nipple.

“I do not want to clean up your whiny little accident,” she said, voice rising. “I don’t care if your tummy hurts. I don’t care if the formula tastes like trash. I am not your mommy. I am not your therapist. I am not here to coddle you while you dribble warm goo down your chin.”

He flinched. Took another sip. Still slow. Still dragging it out like it might buy him sympathy.

She leaned in, voice cold. “Do you think if you drink slow enough, I’ll get bored and let you stop?”

He didn’t respond.

“That I’ll say, ‘Oh poor thing, you don’t like it, do you? Better skip breakfast today, wouldn’t want to upset your tum-tum.’”

His cheeks went red. The bottle sagged slightly.

Danielle pushed it back up. “You’ll finish every drop. I don’t care if you spit up, as long as you finish what you and I both have to do and we can move on. Got it?”

He nodded, whimpering.

She stared at him, hovering. Watching each miserable swallow. She remembered scoffing at the judge when the sentence came down: 500 hours, community service, no big deal. She’d had no idea. No clue that “direct care assistance” meant standing here, ankle monitor ticking, babysitting a grown man in a soaked diaper. And she still had six hours left on her shift.

His face twisted. He sucked again. Still slow, still mewling with every pull. More dribble. This time it slid off his chin and splashed onto the front of his romper in a pale, wet streak.

Danielle rolled her eyes.

“You’re getting it everywhere.” She pressed the bottle harder against his lips, tilting it steeper so the thick formula surged in a relentless stream. “Do you need a bib, baby boy?”

He shook his head, cheeks flushed.

“Then drink like you mean it.”

He obeyed with a thick, desperate swallow, then another soft whimper vibrated around the nipple. His fingers tightened on the plush giraffe in his lap, knuckles white, as if the stuffed toy could somehow shield him from the shame flooding his body.

“I really have to go,” he mumbled around the rubber teat, voice muffled and pleading.

Danielle’s expression didn’t flicker. “I really don’t care. You’re not going. Not on my shift.”

He looked like he might cry. Another stream of formula rolled down his cheek and onto the front of his shirt. Danielle watched it soak in, unmoved.

“I said drink.” She adjusted the angle again, making sure the flow didn’t slow. “Every. Last. Drop.”

His belly gave another low, ominous gurgle. His thighs clamped tighter, the padding crinkling sharply with the effort. He was nearing the end of the bottle now, but every gulp looked painful. His lips clung to the nipple, cheeks hollowing with each miserable suck. His eyes were watering. He groaned softly with each swallow, the sound vibrating up his throat.

Danielle leaned in, fingers still clamped around the bottle. “Awww!! What is it?” she snapped. “Is your tummy too full?”

He winced, nodding faintly as he sucked.

His stomach was visibly bulging now, round beneath the edge of his romper. His knees shifted. Another whimper slipped out.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” he mumbled weakly, breaking suction.

She yanked the bottle away, letting the last few warm drops slosh inside.

“You’re not puking,” she said flatly. “You’re fine. Just full. That’s what happens when you suck down 16 ounces like a big baybee.”

He groaned again, holding his belly.

She sighed. “Oh for fuck’s sake. Come here.”

She grabbed him by the armpits and hoisted him forward, not gently, he was limp and sluggish, breathing shallow. She patted his back once. Hard. A second time. On the third pat, he let out a loud, involuntary burp.

Immediately, Corey went still.

Then he tipped forward slowly, almost reflexively, onto his hands and knees, the giraffe dropping from his grip. His back arched slightly, legs quivering under the pressure.

Danielle froze. She watched his body tense, watched his breath catch.

And then she knew. “No. No!! Don’t you dare.”

A soft, panicked moan escaped his throat.

“I swear to god, Corey!” she barked, stepping back instinctively, “Don’t you fucking do it!!.”

“I’m s-sorry,” he gasped, trembling. “I c-can’t…it hurts…” He let out a sharp, helpless groan, his arms quaking under his weight.

Danielle turned in a circle, panicked. “Okay, okay fine. I’ll…I’ll take you to a restroom. Just…hold it.”

“I can’t!!” he whined. “Please!”

“You have to hold it,” she snapped. “Just for one more minute. One. I’ll get you somewhere…I’ll..”

Her eyes darted around the room. Walls. Soft tiles. A high chair. A fridge. The charting station. The crib.

But no toilet. No side corridor. No attached bathroom. No signage. No nothing. It hit her like a slap to the face: there is no restroom, there is no stopping this.

“Please don’t be mad!” He whimpered, “please don’t be mad…”

“You have to hold it!” she shouted. “We’ll find one, just…just…”

They’d put her in this room with him. They’d sealed her in here with him, handed her a checklist and a diapered man, and expected her to handle everything inside these four pastel walls.

“Oh my god.” she breathed.

Corey whined, still hunched forward on trembling knees. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!!”

His hands clutched the floor. His hips jerked once, and then came the sound. Low. Long. Shuddering. Wet. His whole body jolted as nature overtook him. Muscles clenched, a moan caught in his throat.

She couldn’t look away.

His head dropped between his arms. His face was red with shame. His breath hitched as the mess spread slowly beneath him, the seat of his diaper swelling, rounding, sagging. She watched, horrified, as his diaper ballooned in slow, visible waves beneath him. It was happening right in front of her. Slow, obvious and inevitable.

She hadn’t even realized she was backing up until she hit the fridge behind her. He collapsed fully to the mat, burying his face in his arms, sobbing now. Loud and broken.

“I’m sorry!!” he cried, “I tried! Please! I didn’t mean to…”

Danielle stared down at him, heart pounding, fury and nausea and disbelief swirling in her gut. She blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You disgusting little—”

He sobbed, hands over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said again, voice high and shaky. “I…I couldn’t stop it…”

Danielle’s stomach turned. Her fingers clamped over her nose, but not before the stench punched her in the face. Her arms folded tighter across her chest. The bottle trembled in her hand. The stench was rising, wafting up and inescapably punching her in the face. She stepped back again, clamping her fingers over her nose.

“No.” she said.

Corey hiccuped. “W-what?”

She stared down at him, cold and flat. “I’m not changing that.”

His head lifted slightly, tear-streaked and red.

Danielle turned and walked to the far side of the room. Set the bottle down so hard that some of the thick milk shot out of the nipple. “Not happening,” she muttered. “You can sit in it all damn day for all I care.”

A soft chime rang from the speaker above the charting station. Then a calm, synthetic voice came over the speaker above the charting station:

“Level Two Sitter Monroe, a hygiene alert has been registered and not resolved. A five-hour penalty will be added to your sentence if the participant is not confirmed to be cleaned and changed within protocol window.”

Danielle blinked up at the speaker. “No,” she said again. Louder to whoever was watching or listening. “He did it on purpose. I told him not to.” She turned in place, pacing now, hands clenched at her sides.

Corey whimpered behind her. “I didn’t—”

“Shut up!” she snapped.

Another chime. This time louder.

“Danielle Monroe, you have just added 5 hours to your probation sentence. Confirm and comply, or additional penalties will be assessed.”

Her jaw tightened. She squeezed her eyes shut. They weren’t bluffing. She stood there, frozen in place, rage and helplessness twisting inside her. Then slowly, furiously, she crossed the room.

She crouched next to Corey.

“Look at me,” she said. Her voice was sharp and quiet.

He didn’t.

She grabbed his shoulder and hauled him up just enough to expose the back of his diaper. The sight made her stomach lurch: a heavy, sagging bulge, the white plastic stretched taut and discolored in ugly brown streaks. The stench hit harder up close—thick, earthy, sour.

Begrudgingly, she pinched the back waistband with two fingers and peeled it open just enough to confirm.

The mess had spread everywhere: soft, sticky brown smeared across his cheeks, clinging to the creases, pooled in the seat of the padding. The smell punched her in the face.

She let the waistband snap back and jerked her head away.

“Confirmation,” she spat toward the ceiling.

Silence. Then a soft chime.

She stood, stalked to the charting station, swiped her badge, and jabbed the screen until the alert cleared.

CHANGE REQUIRED: YES

SEVERITY: HIGH

A final tone sounded. Danielle didn’t move for a long beat. This was happening. Whether she liked it or not. Then she turned, walked to the changing table, and yanked open the supply drawer.

Gloves. Two pairs. She snapped them on with vicious precision, layering the second over the first. No masks. Of course there were no masks. They wanted her to smell every second of this.

The gloves snapped tight around her wrists. She put another pair on over, just to be safe. She looked for disposable masks she could put on to at least block out some of the smell. There were none. They wanted her to smell every second of this.

“Get up,” she said flatly.

Corey didn’t respond. She stormed back over, yanked the giraffe from his arms, and flung it across the room.

“I said: get up! On the table. Now.”

Still sniffling, he dragged himself upright, his diaper sagging behind him with every movement. The plastic crinkled wetly. Loud. Shameful. She didn’t help him onto the table. She let him struggle. Let him wince and squish and hoist himself up with trembling arms. He laid back. Stared at the ceiling. Eyes red. Face pale. Danielle grabbed his ankles and yanked them apart.

The smell hit her again. Thicker now, rising from the crushed mess inside.

She gagged. Actually gagged. “Fucking hell,” she muttered, stumbling half a step back, one hand to her face.

Corey whimpered. “I’m sorry…”

“Oh, don’t,” she snapped, regaining her balance. “You don’t get to say sorry right now.”

With utmost reluctance, she took a deep breath, then peeled back the tapes. Each rip feeling like a death toll. Rippp. Riippp. Riipppp. Rip.

The diaper peeled open with a squelch. Her gag reflex flared again. The mess had spread everywhere. Thick, soft, brown sludge coating his skin, smeared into every crease, clinging to his balls and the base of his cock. The padding was ruined, lumpy and sagging.

She stared, eyes burning, horrified and furious. “This is your life now?” she spat. “This is what you’ve become?”

Corey didn’t speak. His eyes were shut tight. The tears were fresh again.

She grabbed the first wipe and pressed it to his skin. It slid. She dragged it downward, the texture thick, slippery, warm.

She’d changed diapers before. Her little brother, years ago. Back when her mom made her help. She used to gag then, too. Thought she had the weakest stomach in the world. But that? That was nothing. This was something else entirely. The heat, the size, the shame radiating off him. The pathetic way he whimpered when she wiped too hard. She wasn’t helping a baby. She was scrubbing down a grown man who'd just soiled himself and cried about it.

She gagged again and threw the wipe straight into the messy flap below. Grabbed another.

“You’re disgusting,” she hissed, wiping harder now. “You think anyone’s going to feel sorry for you after this?”

He shook his head, barely.

“I told you not to mess yourself,” she snapped, voice breaking as she scraped the next wipe under his balls. “I warned you. I was clear.”

“I—I didn’t want—”

“Oh, shut up!”

She wiped again. The mess kept coming. Kept moving. She pressed the wipe into a fold of skin and felt it give. She reeled back. Another wipe. Another breath through the mouth.

“Big grown man, huh?” she said, forcing a bitter laugh. “Big boy with a stiffy in the morning and a diaper full of shit by breakfast.”

He let out a sound, half sob, half plea.

She didn’t stop.

Wipe after wipe, she scrubbed him down. Her movements were rough, detached. As if faster meant less real. But nothing could dull the awful combination of texture, smell, heat. Her stomach turned. Her forehead was damp.

Finally, finally, it was mostly gone.

She reached for the rash cream with trembling fingers, smeared it cold and thick across the cleaned skin, and pulled a fresh diaper under him like she was throwing a tarp over a disaster site. The tapes sealed with four final, loud rips.

Done.

She ripped the gloves off and threw them into the bin with a violent snap of her wrist. She didn’t say anything. Corey curled to one side, facing the wall, shivering despite the warm room.

Danielle stood there, breath ragged. The music still played overhead, cheerful and slow. Her throat was dry. Her hands were shaking. But it was done. Her first. And she knew it wouldn't be her last.

******

Danielle stood at the sink, scrubbing her hands harder than necessary. The hot water scalded, but she didn’t stop until she’d almost taken the skin off, the last of the smell gone, and her breathing had finally started to slow.

She turned.

Corey had climbed off the changing table and onto the floor, curled on his side. Diaper clean. Face red and blotchy. He was still crying, but softer now. Not the loud, shame-soaked sobs from before. Just little hitching breaths and the occasional whimper, like he didn’t know how to stop. His thumb hovered near his lips more than once, but he never quite gave in.

Across the room, near the base of the fridge, she spotted the little stuffed giraffe. She’d chucked it when her frustrations had reached its peak. Now, looking at it, she felt a pang of guilt. Not for the toy, but for how she treated the man it belonged to.

Danielle bent down, picked it up, brushed it off, then crossed back to Corey’s mat. She knelt beside him and set the stuffed animal gently against his chest.

He blinked at it. Then at her.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then his hand reached out, slow and cautious, and he pulled the thing in close, arms curling around it like a lifeline.

“Thanks,” he murmured, almost too soft to hear.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He held it tighter. Pressed his cheek against the giraffe’s soft head like it meant something.

Danielle sat back, watching him quietly. She didn’t know why a grown man would cling to a stuffed animal like that. Didn’t know why it seemed to calm him in a way nothing else had. But she didn’t question it, either. He looked… safe. Or maybe just safer. For the first time all day, he looked like he might stop shaking. He stroked one of its little ears absently.

“What’s his name?” she asked before she realized she was talking. “The giraffe?”

He looked up at her with a faint hint of embarrassment. Then spoke in the smallest voice. “Jeffy.”

Danielle gave a small exhale, almost a laugh, but not quite. She looked away. “Of course it is.” There was no sarcasm in it. No mocking edge. Just…her awkward way of trying to ease the tension.

He gave Jeffy a little squeeze. “I know it’s weird,” Corey said softly, his normal voice returning. “But… he’s the only solace I have in this…place.”

Danielle glanced at him. The way he said it, like he wasn’t even asking to be understood. Just stating a quiet truth. She didn’t say anything for a while. Neither did he.

Finally, her voice came, low and rough. “I might’ve been a little hard on you...”

Corey gave a small shrug, still staring at Jeffy’s stitched smile.

“I mean, you’re still disgusting,” she added with a half grin. “But maybe…not on purpose.”

That got a tiny huff of air. Almost a laugh.

Danielle leaned back, staring at the ceiling tiles. “You want to tell me why you’re here? How you got yourself in this place?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just squeezed the giraffe tighter.

“Because I told my supervisor to fuck off,” he muttered.

Danielle looked over at him, eyebrow raised with genuine surprise. “You? I find that hard to believe.”

“I know how it sounds.”

She gave a small scoff. “You’ve been crying since I’ve been here. You give a weak little whimper over every little thing. You haven’t protested or raised your voice to me even once, and you expect me to believe you just blurted that out?”

He took a breath. “Yeah. I mean, not in so little words. I just…lost it. Like a pipe bomb under too much pressure. All of my frustration and anger came out.”

Danielle turned to face him more directly.

“I was tired,” he continued. “Burned out. Work stress. And… the end of a relationship. She—” he hesitated “—said I had too many needs. That it felt like she was doing all the emotional labor. Said I was… too dependent. Too soft.”

He gave a faint, bitter smile.

“She didn’t like the things I was into in bed. Said it made her uncomfortable. Like I wanted things from her she couldn’t give. Called it pathetic.”

Danielle frowned slightly. “What were you into?”

He shrugged. Looked away. “Doesn’t matter.”

The pause was too long.

He let out a breath. “It was right after the second wave of reforms. Men were being held to a new standard. Finally. And honestly? Yeah. It needed to happen…” Corey said. ““I get it. There were…are…a lot of shitty men out there. Things needed to change. Honestly, some of it probably should’ve happened decades ago. I’m not against that.”

Danielle glanced over, surprised. He wasn’t defensive. Just… tired.

“There were a lot of guys out there making things worse for everyone. Angry all the time. Entitled. Like the world owed them something for just existing. I wasn’t blind to it. I’d seen it. Worked with it. Hell, I probably laughed along with it sometimes.”

His fingers tightened a little around the stuffed giraffe.

“I told myself I wasn’t like that. That I was one of the good ones. But…” He looked down. “I let my anger get the best of me, and I acted out.”

Danielle blinked. “That got you sent here?”

He nodded. “Yeah. They flagged it as ‘gendered aggression’. Said it showed signs of toxic masculinity, lack of emotional regulation. Said I needed regression and behavioral unlearning.”

He paused. Then added, almost to himself, “I don’t even blame them.”

Danielle furrowed her brow slightly.

“I mean it,” Corey said. “I crossed a line. Even if it was just once. I let myself become part of the problem, even if only for a second. That’s on me.” He gave a faint shrug. “I don’t think I’m dangerous. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t do something wrong.”

Danielle didn’t respond right away. She wasn’t sure what to say. For once, he wasn’t whining. He wasn’t deflecting. He was just…owning it.

She sat back on her heels, watching him. The quiet between them stretched. Not awkward, just…palpable.

Finally, she said, “You’re not the only one who ended up here for something stupid.”

Corey looked up, wiping under one eye. “Yeah?”

She hesitated. Then nodded. “My boyfriend was abusive. Controlling. Loud. You know the type.”

He didn’t answer, just listened.

“I didn’t report him,” she went on. “Not when I should have. Not even when it got physical. I kept making excuses. Told myself it would get better.”

A bitter smile flickered across her lips.

“Then one night, I keyed his car. Smashed a few windows. It felt good, for about ten seconds. Then the cops showed up.”

She shrugged. “They gave me probation. Two hundred hours of community service for the vandalism… and another three hundred for failure to report improper male behavior.”

Corey blinked. “You got more time for not turning him in?”

Danielle nodded. “Welcome to the Matriarchy.”

He didn’t laugh. Neither did she.

“I don’t regret keying his car,” she added. “I regret not saying something sooner. Maybe if I had, someone else wouldn’t have had to.”

Corey was quiet again. Then, softly: “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she muttered. “I made my choices.” She looked away, then back at him. “And now I’m here. In pastel hell. Changing diapers and getting spit-up on.”

Corey shifted slightly, still holding Jeffy close. “Could be worse.”

Danielle raised an eyebrow.

He shrugged. “I mean… not by much. But still.”

That pulled the faintest exhale from her nose. Half-sigh, half-scoff.

She stood, brushing off her knees and stretching her arms overhead.

“You gonna make it through the rest of my shift without crapping yourself again?”

He gave her a ghost of a smile. “I’ll try.”

“Try harder,” Danielle said, reaching for the charting tablet. “I’m not getting another hour tacked on because of your squishy ass.” She barked, but her voice had softened, just slightly.

******

The time crept toward the end of her shift. Danielle checked the tablet, nap protocol began promptly at 3:00. She hated how official everything sounded. Like it was a job title instead of a punishment.

“Alright,” she said, rubbing at one temple. “Crib time.”

Corey didn’t argue. He stood slowly, Jeffy tucked under one arm. At the side of the crib, he hesitated. “Protocol says I need my pacifier for naps.”

Danielle glanced toward the floor. The pacifier was there, just under the changing table where it must’ve rolled earlier. She crouched, picked it up with two fingers, and picked the lint off of it.

He looked at her, but didn’t seem to mind, it had probably been in worse places. “And… I’d really like to keep Jeffy. If that’s okay.”

Danielle didn’t answer right away. There was no mention of stuffed animals in the chart. No directive. No rule. Just a quiet, pathetic man clinging to the only soft thing in a room full of plastic and powder.

She rolled her eyes, then shrugged. “Fine.”

Corey gave a small nod of thanks and climbed into the crib, curling onto his side. He stuck the pacifier in without a word and pulled the giraffe tight to his chest.

Danielle slid the tall side rail up until it locked with a sharp click. He looked smaller now. More fragile inside the unrelenting bars of his giant crib. She lingered longer than she meant to. This wasn’t what she’d expected. Not any of it.

She turned off the overhead light, leaving only the faint amber glow of the wall sconce. “Sleep tight,” she murmured.

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t cry, either.

She heard a click as the door for the room unlocked. She stepped out. The door hissed shut behind her, the light on her ankle monitor blinked and beeped.

Danielle rubbed her eyes. Another shift down. She walked over to the terminal to scan her badge. 484 hours to go, she thought.

She started to log out, then paused. No. That wasn’t right. She’d gotten five extra hours tacked on for refusing to change him.

489.

Her lips tightened into a thin line, cursing herself.

Maybe next time… she’d just do it.

To Be Continued

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