Here is a short story I have been working on.
The salty tang of the Southern Sea air bit at Mark’s cheeks, a welcome sting against the dull ache behind his eyes. He clutched the crinkled newspaper ad tighter. “*Seeking a unique connection. Open-minded gentleman for an extraordinary journey. Discretion paramount.*” The words, vague yet compelling, had snagged him from the usual monotony of his life. He found Chrissy waiting on the pier, a silhouette against the bruised pre-dawn sky. Her dark coat billowed around her, a dramatic frame for a face that, even in the dim light, promised sharp intelligence. Brown eyes, deep as ancient wells, fixed on him.
“Mark, I presume?” Her voice, a low current, carried over the gulls’ cries.
He nodded, a nervous swallow catching in his throat. “And you’re Chrissy.”
A faint smile touched her lips, a brief flash of white. “Punctual. Good. Come.” She turned, a brisk efficiency in her movements, leading him away from the pier, towards the cobbled streets of the old town. “This isn’t a typical arrangement, Mark. My advertisement… it was quite specific, wasn’t it?”
“It was… intriguing.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Mysterious, even.”
“That’s the point. I deal in the extraordinary. Do you understand what that means?” She stopped by a quaint blue door, pulling a small, ornate key from her pocket. The brass gleamed.
He shifted his weight. “I… I think so. Something different. Something… out of the ordinary.”
She unlocked the door, a soft click echoing in the quiet street. “Indeed. My home. Step inside.”
The interior was surprisingly modern, minimalist, yet warm. Soft light spilled from hidden fixtures, illuminating cream walls and polished wood floors. A large, plush armchair dominated one corner, a stack of books beside it.
“Tea?” she offered, already moving towards a sleek kitchen island. “Or something stronger?”
“Tea would be fine, thank you.” He watched her, captivated by the easy grace of her movements. “So, this ‘extraordinary journey’… what does it entail?”
She placed a steaming mug before him, the aroma of Earl Grey filling the air. “It entails… surrender, Mark. A complete letting go. A return.”
He frowned, picking up the mug. “A return to what?”
Her brown eyes, now fully illuminated, held his. They were not just intelligent; they were ancient, seeing. “To innocence. To a time before responsibility, before the weight of the world settled on your shoulders. To infancy.”
Mark choked on his tea. A splutter escaped him. “Infancy? Are you serious?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Perfectly. I seek a companion for a unique experience. One where I nurture, guide, and care for you, utterly. You, in turn, relinquish all control. All adult pretense.” She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, observing him. “It’s not for everyone. It requires a profound trust. And a willingness to embrace… vulnerability.”
He stared at her, then around the elegant room. This was not a joke. Her gaze was too steady, her posture too composed. “You want to… turn me into a baby?” The words felt ridiculous on his tongue.
“Not turn you. Help you rediscover that state. Physically, emotionally. The advertisements described you as ‘open-minded.’ Are you, Mark?”
He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture. “I thought I was. This is… a lot to process.”
“I understand. It’s a significant proposition. Think of it as an experiment. A journey into the self, stripped bare. No expectations, no demands, other than what I provide.”
“And what do you get out of this?” He asked, a flicker of suspicion in his voice.
She smiled, a genuine, warm curve of her lips this time. “Satisfaction. The joy of nurturing. The unique bond it creates. And the knowledge that I am helping someone truly let go. It’s a rare gift, Mark, to truly be cared for without reservation.”
He took a long sip of tea, the warmth spreading through him, trying to soothe the jumble of thoughts. “So, no job, no bills, no decisions?”
“Precisely. Your only task is to exist, to accept, to receive.”
“Then we end the arrangement. No harm done. But I believe you can. I see a deep weariness in you, Mark. A yearning for simplicity.”
He looked down at his hands, calloused from years of manual labor, a life he suddenly felt desperate to escape. The idea, outlandish as it was, began to weave a strange, unsettling allure. “How… how would this even work?”
“Gradually. We start small. A new routine. Different clothes. Different sustenance. And, of course, a certain… dependency.” Her gaze dropped to his midsection, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Nappies, Mark. That’s where we begin.”
A flush crept up his neck. “Nappies? As in… adult nappies?”
“Indeed. For comfort, for convenience, for the gradual shedding of adult habits.” She pushed a small, neatly folded package across the counter. “Your first step.”
He picked up the package. It felt soft, surprisingly light. The absurdity of it warred with a strange, burgeoning curiosity. “And if I… wet myself?”
“That’s the point, isn’t it? To remove the shame, the expectation of control. To embrace the natural. I will change you. I will keep you clean, dry, and comfortable.” Her voice was devoid of judgment, pure practicality.
He looked at the nappy, then at her. Her eyes held an unwavering conviction. He swallowed. “Alright,” he said, the word barely a whisper. “Alright, Chrissy. I’ll try.”
A genuine smile bloomed on her face, radiating warmth. “Excellent. Let’s begin.”
The first few days were a blur of disorientation. Chrissy’s house became his world. He traded his worn jeans and t-shirts for soft, loose-fitting cotton, then for specially made, oversized babygrows. The first time she presented him with a bottle of warm milk, he felt a wave of profound embarrassment.
“Come on, Mark,” she encouraged, her voice gentle, holding the bottle to his lips. “Just try it. It’s comforting.”
He hesitated, his cheeks burning. “I haven’t had milk from a bottle since… well.”
“Since you were a baby. Exactly. Let go. Allow yourself this simple pleasure.”
He took a tentative sip. The warm liquid, sweetened slightly, was surprisingly soothing. He found himself drinking it all.
“Good boy,” she praised, stroking his hair. The casual touch, the soft words, sent a shiver down his spine. It felt… foreign, yet strangely comforting.
The nappies were the hardest. The initial humiliation, the constant awareness of the soft bulk between his legs, was overwhelming. He tried to hide it, to move naturally, but every step felt clumsy, alien.
One afternoon, a sharp cramp twisted his gut. He froze. A warm, wet sensation spread across his bottom. His breath hitched.
Chrissy, who had been reading in the armchair, looked up. Her eyes met his. “Oh, Mark,” she murmured, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Did you have an accident?”
He flushed crimson, unable to speak. His eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape.
“It’s alright,” she said, her voice calm, devoid of any judgment. She rose smoothly, moving towards him. “No need to be embarrassed. It happens. It’s part of the process.” She gently led him to a changing mat she’d laid out on the floor. “Lie down for me, sweetheart.”
He hesitated, then, with a defeated sigh, slowly lowered himself. The soft mat felt strangely welcoming. He averted his gaze as she knelt beside him, her skilled fingers unfastening the tapes. The cool air on his wet skin made him flinch.
“There we go,” she murmured, her touch surprisingly tender as she cleaned him. “All clean now. Nothing to worry about. Just let it go.”
He felt a profound sense of shame, yet beneath it, a strange, undeniable relief. The burden of control, of expectation, lifted. He felt… light.
Days blurred into weeks. His world shrank to Chrissy, the house, and the simple rhythms of eating, sleeping, and being cared for. He wore soft babygrows almost constantly, the fabric gentle against his skin. His meals consisted of purées, soft foods, and bottles of milk, juice, or water. He found himself reaching for the dummy she offered after meals, the plastic teat a surprising comfort against his tongue. He no longer questioned the nappies, no longer fought the urge to simply let go. The accidents became less humiliating, more a natural part of his new existence. Chrissy always cleaned him with the same gentle efficiency, her touch reassuring, her words soothing.
“Are you hungry, little one?” she would ask, her voice a soft melody, as she prepared a bowl of mashed banana.
He’d nod, a small, involuntary sound escaping his lips. He found himself making more sounds, less words. Gurgles, soft sighs, contented hums.
One afternoon, Chrissy returned from an outing, a large, brightly colored box under her arm. “Surprise, Mark,” she announced, her eyes twinkling.
He looked up from the colorful building blocks he was haphazardly stacking.
She opened the box, revealing a plush, bright yellow bib with a cartoon duck on it. “Time for a bib, I think. We don’t want any messes on your lovely clean babygrow, do we?”
He felt a faint blush, but he didn’t protest when she tied it around his neck. It felt silly, yet also… protective.
The next morning, Chrissy woke him gently. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “Time for a change, and then breakfast.”
He stretched, a wide yawn escaping him. As he did, a sudden warmth spread through his nappy. A gurgle of embarrassment escaped him.
Chrissy chuckled softly. “Oh, you’re a messy boy this morning, aren’t you? Never mind.” She lifted him, surprisingly strong, and carried him to the changing mat. As she cleaned him, he felt a strange sense of contentment. The shame had faded, replaced by a quiet acceptance. He was her baby. His only responsibility was to be cared for.
Then came the vacation. “We need a change of scenery, Mark,” Chrissy announced one morning, her voice filled with excitement. “A little break away. Just us.”
He gurgled, a question in his eyes.
“We’re going to a lovely little cottage by the sea. It’ll be wonderful. Fresh air, new sights. And you, my sweet, will be just as cared for there as you are here.”
The journey itself was an experience. Chrissy carefully strapped him into a specially adapted car seat, the kind designed for toddlers. He felt a pang of self-consciousness as she buckled him in, but her gentle touch, her calm demeanor, quickly soothed him. He watched the world blur past the window, a fascinating kaleidoscope of greens and browns, cars and houses. He hummed softly, a tune he couldn’t place.
The cottage was charming, nestled amidst rolling dunes, with a breathtaking view of the sea. It was smaller than Chrissy’s house, cozier, with a crackling fireplace and soft, inviting armchairs. The first night, Chrissy tucked him into a large, comfortable cot she’d set up in the main bedroom. He felt a moment of unease, the bars a strange reminder of his confinement, but the soft blankets, the familiar scent of Chrissy’s perfume, and her gentle lullaby soon lulled him to sleep.
The days at the cottage were idyllic. Long walks along the beach, Mark in a specially designed stroller facing Chrissy’s, his head nestled comfortably against the buggy looking out at her, and then the scenery. The roar of the waves was a constant, soothing soundtrack. He’d gurgle with delight at the sight of a passing seagull, or the feel of the cool sand between his fingers when Chrissy let him sit for a moment.
One afternoon, as Chrissy pushed him in the sturdy pushchair along a promenade, he heard voices. Laughter. He turned his head, his eyes wide. A group of people, a family, approached them.
“Chrissy!” A woman’s voice, bright and warm, called out. “It’s so good to see you! And who’s this little one?”
Chrissy stopped, a smile gracing her lips. “Sarah! David! It’s wonderful to see you too.” She gestured to Mark in the pushchair. “This is Mark. My… new arrival.”
Mark froze. His heart hammered. He pulled his dummy from his mouth, his eyes wide with a sudden, overwhelming dread. The bib, the babygrow, the pushchair – it all crashed down on him. The humiliation, raw and searing, returned with a vengeance.
Sarah, a woman with kind eyes and a cascade of red hair, peered into the pushchair. “Oh, he’s a big one, isn’t he? So sweet!” She reached out a hand, her fingers gently touching his cheek. “Hello, Mark! You’re a handsome chap.”
Mark whimpered, a small, involuntary sound. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to scream.
Chrissy’s hand, warm and firm, rested on his shoulder. “He’s a little shy,” she explained to Sarah, her voice calm, reassuring. “Still getting used to the world.”
David, a burly man with a booming laugh, leaned closer. “Looks like he’s enjoying the sea air, Chrissy. You’ve got your hands full, eh?”
Chrissy laughed, a genuine, joyful sound. “Always. But it’s a wonderful kind of full.”
They chatted for a few more minutes, discussing the weather, the local sights. Mark sat rigid in the pushchair, his face burning, his eyes fixed on Chrissy. He felt exposed, vulnerable, stripped bare. He wanted to cry. The fear of being seen, truly seen, in this state, was paralyzing.
As Sarah and David walked away, waving goodbye, Mark burst. “Chrissy!” he cried, the word a raw, desperate plea. “They saw me! They saw me like this!” His voice, unused to speaking, was raspy, thin.
Chrissy knelt beside the pushchair, her brown eyes soft, understanding. “Yes, Mark. They did. And what of it?”
“It’s… humiliating! I’m a grown man! They think I’m… I’m a baby!” Tears welled in his eyes, hot and angry.
She reached out, gently wiping a tear from his cheek. “And you are, in this moment. You are my baby. There’s no shame in that, Mark. Only love. Only care.”
“But… my friends. My family. What if they find out?” The thought was unbearable.
“They won’t, unless you choose to tell them, when you’re ready. And even then, they will see you, Mark, the man they know, the man you choose to be. This is *our* world, remember? Our private journey. Sarah and David are good friends, but they don’t understand the depths of our bond. They simply saw a sweet child and a loving mother.”
He looked at her, truly looked at her. Her face held no judgment, only a profound, unwavering love. Her words, so calm, so steady, began to chip away at the wall of his shame. He saw the truth in her eyes: she was not embarrassed. She was proud.
“But… the nappy,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “What if I… if I have an accident now?”
She smiled, a gentle, knowing smile. “Then I will change you, just as I always do. It’s part of who you are, right now. It’s natural. There’s no need to hide. No need to be afraid.”
He leaned into her touch, a long, shuddering breath escaping him. The anger, the shame, slowly began to recede, replaced by a quiet acceptance. He was her baby. And she loved him. He felt a strange, profound peace settle over him.
The next morning, Chrissy woke him with a gentle kiss on his forehead. “Good morning, little one. Are you ready for a new day?”
He gurgled, reaching for her hand. The humiliation of yesterday had faded, replaced by a renewed sense of trust. He had been seen, truly seen, and Chrissy had not wavered.
“Good,” she hummed. “Because I have a surprise for you.”
She led him to the living room. On the floor, a large, brightly colored playpen stood, filled with soft blankets and an array of toys: rattles, soft blocks, a plush teddy bear.
“Your own little space,” she explained, her eyes sparkling. “For play, for naps, for just being. You can explore, you can relax, you can be completely yourself.”
He crawled into the playpen, his movements surprisingly fluid now. He picked up the teddy bear, its fur soft against his cheek. He looked at Chrissy, a wide, unselfconscious smile spreading across his face. He felt safe. He felt loved. He felt… free.
The following weeks were a continuation of this blissful, childlike existence. He spent hours in the playpen, babbling to himself, exploring the textures of his toys, sometimes falling into deep, peaceful naps. Chrissy would sit nearby, reading or working, her presence a constant, comforting anchor. He rarely spoke now, communicating mostly through sounds, gestures, and the expressive gurgles that had become his language.
One evening, as Chrissy was feeding him a bottle of warm formula, he felt a familiar rumble in his stomach. A moment later, a warm, messy sensation spread through his nappy. He squirmed, a little whine escaping him.
Chrissy’s eyes met his. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, a gentle smile on her lips. “A big one, is it?”
He nodded, his cheeks flushing slightly, but without the searing shame of before. He had learned to trust her, to trust the process.
“Alright, my messy boy,” she said, her voice soft and soothing. “Let’s get you clean and fresh.”
She carried him to the changing mat, humming a soft tune. As she unfastened his nappy, the air filled with the pungent smell. He whimpered, a small sound of discomfort.
“Shhh, it’s alright,” she whispered, her touch tender as she cleaned him. “Just a little mess. We’ll have you sparkling clean in no time.”
He watched her, her focused expression, her gentle hands. He felt completely vulnerable, completely dependent, and yet, completely safe. He gurgled, a sound of contentment.
Once he was clean and powdered, Chrissy fastened a fresh, dry nappy around him. He felt the familiar warmth, the soft bulk, a comforting presence. She dressed him in a clean babygrow, then lifted him into her arms, cradling him close.
“There you go, my sweet,” she murmured, rocking him gently. “All better now.”
He snuggled into her, his thumb finding his mouth, his eyes drooping. He was her baby. And it was enough.
Months passed. Mark’s transformation was complete. He no longer remembered his old life, his old self, with any clarity. His days were filled with simple joys: Chrissy’s gentle touch, the warmth of a bottle, the comforting weight of a nappy, the soft hum of her lullabies. He babbled, he gurgled, he laughed, a pure, uninhibited sound. He was her oversized baby boy, completely dependent, completely loved.
One afternoon, Chrissy was talking on the phone, her voice low. Mark, in his playpen, was happily banging two soft blocks together. He heard her mention a name. “Mark’s doing wonderfully, Mum. He’s thriving. Yes, he’s a bit bigger than most, but he’s just so sweet.”
Mark stopped banging the blocks. He looked at Chrissy, a flicker of something, a faint echo of a forgotten memory, stirring within him. *Mum?* The word felt strange, yet familiar.
Chrissy hung up, turning to him with a soft smile. “Who was that, Chrissy?” he asked, the words surprisingly clear, though still with a childlike lilt.
Her smile widened. “That was my mother, sweetheart. She sends her love.”
He thought about this. *My mother.* He looked at Chrissy, his caregiver, his everything. “Are you my mum, Chrissy?”
She knelt beside the playpen, her brown eyes, full of love, meeting his. “Yes, Mark,” she said, her voice soft, firm, and filled with an undeniable truth. “I am your mum.”
He reached out a hand, his fingers tracing the curve of her cheek. He gurgled, a sound of profound understanding. He was her baby. And she was his mum. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. The world outside, with its complexities and demands, had vanished. Only the warmth of her hand, the love in her eyes, and the comforting security of his nappy remained. He was finally home.
