βArms in. Ankles out. Thatβs right, sweetpea. Just like you built it.β
You hated that she was right. You had built this monstrosity. Every plank. Every bolt. Every humiliating little measurement sheβd barked out while you stood there, diapered and pink-cheeked, holding a cordless drill like a fool.
It had started when she asked for a pergola. Youβd put it off. For months. Then the leaky sink. The shelves. The dog door. All conveniently forgotten.
So she gave you a different kind of project.
Now your legs are locked wide at the ankles, strapped into two thick wooden slots that make your sodden padding painfully obvious. You squirm, but thereβs nowhere to go. Arms and legs bound, feet flat, cheeks burning. The seat creaks beneath youβstill unpainted, still raw.
She hums behind you. Then the tray slides in with a sharp clack.
βThere we go. My little handymanβs all strapped in. Canβt whine about your chores now, can you?β
She pinches your cheek, gripping it and forcing you to shake your head back and forth. βNoo!! You sure canβt!β She coos mockingly, giving you a little smack for good measure. You harumph behind your pacifier, careful not to let it fall out of your mouth, lest you earn another trip over her knee.
She sets a bowl of something gray and lumpy on the tray, then pops the pacifier out of your mouth with a soft click. Your stomach turns as you watch her pick up a spoonβnot too big, so it doesn't go by too quickly, but not too small either. Just enough to make sure you get the full taste. She loads it up deliberately, the mush threatening to spill over the edges.
βOpen wide, baby boy.β
You hesitate. She doesnβt.
Her fingers grip the sides of your jaw and she purrs, βOooopen. Or should I get the feeding gag again?β
Reluctantly, your mouth parts. She shovels a sloppy spoonful in.
βThereβs my big, helpful little man. Bet that mouth didnβt mind building this highchair once the cage went on, huh?β
You groan, barely able to swallow the mush without gagging.
βAww. Does it taste yucky, pumpkin? Maybe you shouldβve fixed the sink when I asked. Or changed the air filters. Or gotten off your lazy ass and shown me you could act like a grown-up.β
Another spoonful. It dribbles down your chin.
βSo messy! Tsk tsk. Between your face, your βman caveβ, and that soggy thing between your legs, you just canβt keep anything clean, can you?β
You glance down. The wood grain of the tray is unfinishedβrough, sanded but unsealed. Your arms ache. Your thighs tremble. Your diaper crinkles shamefully with each breath.
βOh, and since youβre such a natural at woodworking now,β she coos, wiping your chin with the back of the spoon, βMommyβs decided what your next few projects will be.β
She leans in, sweet as poison. βA changing table, for starters. Sturdy enough to strap down a squirmy little handyman who gets a little too handsy while his cage gets cleanedβand whoβs clearly going to be needing lots of diaper changes, the way he fills them like itβs his job.β
βAnd a crib. Full-sized. Lockable. With bars you will install, since youβre so clever with those tools.β
You try to shift. Your diaper squishes. Her smile widens.
βIβll be checking your cuts, of course. I donβt want my crinkly little carpenter getting a splinter while heβs curled up in his pretty nightie.β
Another spoon. Another whimper.
βOh, and the pergola?β She sighs dreamily. βStill happening. But now youβll do it with your pampers on full display, a pacifier in your mouth, and the only time you get to stop is for bottle breaks. No more βforgetting,β right baby?β
You nod slowly, defeated.
βGood. Now open up. Here comes the choo-choo for my crinkly little carpenter. Chugga chuggaββ
Your eyes close as the spoon slides between your lips.
Sheβs still humming. You can smell the fresh sawdust on your fingers.
You built thisβnot just the highchair, but the whole humiliating little world youβre now trapped in.
And sheβs just getting started.
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