As if sleeping in a crib wasn’t impressive enough commitment to keeping Connor babied and trapped, his playpen was the masterpiece in many ways. Fashioned just as a toddler’s wooden playpen would commonly appear, Connor’s custom design also stretched enormously to the ceiling. Taller than Connor, or Jacob, or Connor’s husband, its extreme height resembled something closer to a cell or an enclosure but with the aesthetic of a child’s play area. The door leading inside was the only deviation from this style, with its large handle and keyhole, not unlike the jail doors that gave inspiration for the design.
Once inside, without the key, escape was impossible without finding a way to break the build. Both ends that reached the walls were robustly bolted in, and any attempts to damage the heavy timber bars would be slow, noticeable, and without doubt, supremely punished. Connor had not become stupid or desperate enough to attempt this yet.
It was the perfect secure space, and where Connor spent the majority of his time feeling his mind drain against his will, amidst the infinite boredom his limited options did not help battle.
He was granted infantile toys, to do with as he saw fit; building blocks, stacking rings, plushies, and plastic trains and cars to wheel around on the floor. He quickly learned he could either be bored and miserable, or try to engage himself with what was available. But there was only so much stimulation the toys could provide an adult brain.
A television hung on the wall, for which he did not have the remote, and it played entertainment for a toddler, constantly. Everything from the dumbest, cheaply made animations teaching him the alphabet and counting, to mascot characters speaking out from the screen, to happy but humiliating singing and dancing playlists instructing him to copy the moves. This in particular was a humiliation usually avoided, unless Daddy or Jacob were feeling mean enough to encourage their happy baby to get up and play along to the screen.
Connor once, and only once, defied his discomfort and stood on his spiked booties to switch the television off and end the torment of endless baby shows, and was left with silence for a week, until Daddy decided it was time to give it back. He learned to miss his shows, quickly, and never touched the device again. Of those shows, the ones that encouraged their audience to answer questions soon became a favourite for Connor, as he found himself sometimes answering along, supposedly because it gave him someone to speak to who wasn’t mocking him in return.
Overall, Connor had to learn several times that revolting was not an option, but as his brain keep screaming for freedom it took some time for the lessons to sink in. The punishments proved effective, eventually, as it left him with enough memories of a stinging bottom, an excruciating enema, or endless boredom standing in the corner. The near-permanent mittens and spiked booties that he wore, along with a fat pacifier were constant physical reminders not to complain or even say anything that might be considered as adult communication. It had been a long time since he’d walked freely or used his own hands without the mittens, and was mostly certainly never unsupervised if they were removed for bathing. His unwillingness to commit to his full-time baby lifestyle had rendered him entirely helpless, and reliant, in his own home.
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