personalias
patreon
Ultimate Headspace (Part 2)
🕑 Added 2020-06-16 18:28:15 +0000 UTC
You wake up with a yawn. The hotel bed is oddly comfortable and you roll over to bury your face in the pillow, your body automatically fighting against consciousness. There’s no point though. Not really. The adrenaline and excitement from Chronocon is now fully in your system. You’re a kid on Christmas morning. (Wouldn’t that be weird? If they had a Christmas themed room?) You’re awake. And without even having to open your eyes, you also know you’re wet.
That’s weird...
You’ve woken up wet before; sure. The dull squishy feeling of a saturated diaper that has had several hours to cool is hardly something unfamiliar to you. What is unfamiliar is the memory gaps.
You’ve gone to bed wet before, but you’re fairly certain that’s not what happened here. If anything, the feeling of a nice fresh diaper taped up around you just before you yawned and laid down for the night is still shining in your recent memory.
You’ve gone to bed dry and woken up wet before, too. But there’s always been that moment in between when you’ve woken up with an aching bladder, chosen to wet yourself and then gone back to sleep. You’re not a bedwetter. Those hypnosis tapes did nothing for it. Alcohol and sleep deprivation only made the disconnect worse. The only thing that would happen is that you’d wake up more often with a full and urgent bladder.
Now though? You’re running on empty. Your diaper is full, and your bladder feels completely relaxed. That means that you wet the bed. A true Chronocon miracle. You reach over to bug Mommy about it; maybe brag to her a little bit and gush before she changes you. Maybe you’ll hop into the hotel shower...a nice shower sounds good too.
When your hand brushes against sturdy wooden bars, instead of Mommy’s shoulder, your memory shoots back to you. Gasping for breath, you pull yourself up to a sitting position and snap back to this bizarre not-quite reality.
You’re at the Con, alright, but not in your hotel room. You’re still in the nursery playroom, locked in a giant crib. There are littles crawling and giggling and playing all over. Bigs, too, but there’s something off about them...
The adult babies are all dressed as you’d expect. Onesies, shortalls, dresses that do nothing to hide padding, and footie pajamas. There are a few who are rocking out in just t-shirts and diapers. Ribbons are everywhere: in hair and tethered to pacifiers. Lanyards (which are really just thick sturdy ribbons come to think of it) dangle around necks. Double checking yours, you see your name….your real name.
You’re dressed like a baby. So is pretty much everybody else. Oh, check that. There’s a couple of little school girls having a tea party with dresses long enough and tights concealing enough that they might be “potty trained”.
It’s the Bigs that give you the creeps. Men and women in simple and functional jeans, sneakers, and T-shirts with the word ‘STAFF’ written on them. It didn’t mean convention staff either; not even hotel staff. Nursery Staff.
The Bigs are clearly busy: Some were lap feeding little ones, holding bottles to their lips. Others were checking diapers, or supervising. You hear a snippet of conversation of a woman telling a couple of little boys that they had to clean up the blocks they were playing with if they wanted to go play with the marble run.
“Yes ma’am,” they say. They sound petulant, deflated, and defeated; two whiny kids that didn’t do what they were told, but were going to do it anyway. It was something out of a scene, but without the escalation or humiliation...kinda boring truth be told.
And then the Big walks away, satisfied that the two boys are cleaning up their mess.
Another Staff member is cuddling with a little and reading them a story, but as soon as the story is done, they stand up, give the little a pat on the head and then walk away, asking if anyone else wants a story.
None of the Bigs seem to be particularly emotionally invested in or with any of the littles.
They’re being Bigs in the most literal sense; but unless this is the largest polycule you’ve ever witnessed, they’re nobody’s Mommy or Daddy.
They’re acting like caregivers, but not like significant others. If it wasn’t for the size of the “babies” you might think this was just a vanilla job for them.
A job?
There’s a thought that hadn’t occurred to you. What if these were all professional Doms and Dommes? That was something not advertised as a con feature... It was also something that seemed highly unethical. No consent was being asked for or given. No negotiations had taken place; and your safewords had been outright ignored.
If...no when... When Mommy finds out that somebody besides her changed your diaper, she’s going to be pissed.
Speaking of changes, the sounds of tapes ripping off a plastic backing snap you out of your reverie and you whip your head to the side. The nearby and very public changing table is in use again. A vaguely familiar face is using it; two if you count the woman that forcibly changed you.
The girl laying down on the table was riding on a giant tricycle, her frilly rhumba panties were peeking out from her short smock of a dress. Right now, she’s bawling, and you can make out the grossest stains smeared down her legs, and how there’s matching ones on her panties. Not only has she pooped herself- something not allowed in convention space- but she’s had a blow out, too.
“It’s okay,” the blonde with the Staff shirt on says. “I can fix it. Miss Lynn will fix it.” She looks back over her shoulder and calls out, “Can I get a plastic bag, please? Ziplock, not grocery!”
Meanwhile, she’s dealing with another person’s shit like it’s an everyday thing. The stuff is smeared all along the inside of the diaper. You’re at least ten feet away and slightly grossed out. Even folded over on itself, the smell and the mess is almost overpowering. The shell of the diaper is a discolored dark brown; a feat considering that it’s a Rearz Princess.
“I! WANT! MY! DADDY!” the girl screams, even as this complete rando is wiping her down. “DADDEEEEEE!”
“Safe word!” You shout out. “Safe word! HELP! HELP! STOP IT!” This is definitely not consensual.
“Just wait your turn,” the woman says to you. “I’ll change you next.”
You stand up, using the bars for the support, but the mattress is all give. You’re practically sinking and try as you might there’s no way you’re able to swing your leg over the raised railing of the kink crib. Even if your diaper wasn’t so swollen as to give you the effective agility of a pregnant cow, you don’t think you’d be up for this.
You can only watch as the disgusting used diaper is bolded up and tossed with an audible plop into a king sized diaper pail. There are still bits of brown that need to be wiped up, but the diaper was too full and too bloated to let settle any further.
A man rushes over with a gallon sized ziplock baggie. “Panties,” is all the blonde lady says, still cleaning up the girl and throwing away wipe after wipe after wipe. Her cohort turns the bag inside out and grabs the shit stained costume panties like he’s picking up dog poop; ceiling them inside once he’s grabbed them and turned the bag right side in.
“Got it.”
“Her name is Jenny,” the woman says. “Shelf is the lower left. Hand me a fresh diaper. Hers are pink.” The girl’s wails have died down a little bit. Each wipe makes her a little more calm. When she hears that she’s getting a fresh diaper, she starts breathing normally.
“My panties?” you hear her ask.
“You daddy will take care of them. You’re not in trouble.”
“No time out?”
“No time out.”
The pink diaper is unfolded and slid underneath her. No commands or cues for the girl to lift her hips or legs are given. This doesn’t surprise you. Lady is freakishly strong. A cloud of baby powder whisks away the last of the bad smell and the diaper is brought up between the girl’s legs and taped on snugly. “THERE WE GO!” the blonde lady with the iron grip coos.
The baby girl isn’t crying anymore. A quick raspberry to her tummy even has her giggling just before she’s set down and told to go play. She does. Not even looking back; her poopy pants and stained panties completely forgotten.
You’d think this would be a time to break character and come on up out of headspace. You’d think the girl would be embarrassed. Not so. Even now you can see her going for a big pile of stuffies.
The Big who changed her seems to have remembered her promise. In two quick motions, the rails are lowered and before you can react, you’re over her shoulder for the three steps it takes to set you down on the changing table. The hard sturdy surface you find yourself sitting on contrasts with the pulpy mass between your legs “Oh wow, you’re wet,” she says. Then, “lay down.”
Her hand shoves you down so quickly and yet gently that it’s almost like a bad kung-fu movie with pressure point fighting. “Let me go!” You tell her as forcefully and clearly as you can manage. “I do not consent!”
“Mmmhmm…” The palm of her hand on your chest might as well be Mjonir. Her other hand is unbuttoning your crotch snaps one at a time. Her face a soft reassuring smile, even as she doesn’t make eye contact “Did you have a good nap?” she asks, absentmindedly.
Admittedly, it was a good nap, but that’s besides the point. “I want out.”
“I’m getting you out,” she says.
“No,” you say. “Out out.”
“You can go play as soon as I’m done changing you.” She pulls a strap over your chest, securing….no fuck that!...trapping you; your arms somehow pinned to your sides. Just as you think to kick your legs, a single forearm across your knees renders them immobile.
The fuck is going on?
“Let me out of this room!” You demand. “I can change my own diaper!” You immediately regret saying that. It’s not helping your case.
“You can’t leave until your Mommy or Daddy comes to pick you up.”
Stupidly, you try to reason with her. “I’m a grown-up!” You insist. “An adult! Isn’t it obvious that I’m over eighteen?”
“Over eighteen months, maybe.” She laughs a bit at her own lame joke. Great. A pro-Mommy with mom jokes. Not what you need.
The goon who came over with the ziplock bag strolls up. The little boy in the overalls who’d been riding the rocking horse is being pushed by the shoulders by him. “Hate to bother you, Lynn,” he says, “but when you’re done with this little one, do you mind taking Billy? He’s soaked.”
The lady, Miss Lynn, sighs. “Fine,” she says “I’m on a roll anyways.”
“Exactly.”
“Do me a favor though and get me a fresh diaper,” she says. “This one’s a squirmer and I don’t wanna take my eyes off.
He asks for your name. Lynn gives it to him. Your real name, not your scene name. It’s still weird hearing that when you’re padded up.
“I don’t see them,” he says. “Can’t find the name.”
“They’re peekaboos,” she says. “The ones with the little animals on them. Lower right, I think.”
“You do realize that that doesn’t help. Most of these have animals on them.”
Lynn sighs. “They look like THIS.” In one deft motion she opens the flaps on your onesie and slides them up your hips, revealing your soaked toddler style diaper . You can barely feel her finger poking the front of the padding. It’s THAT wet. “White all over. Cute little animal on the landing zone. Size 8, okay?”
“Found it!” he says before slapping the nappy in her waiting hand.
“Thanks.” Then she turns her attention to you. “Let’s get you changed.”
It goes fast from there: Tapes removed, private parts aired and wiped. Diaper tossed. Finding out that you got the dragon decoration. Then your yellow onesie is snapped up again, and the restraints are removed.
Total elapsed time? Maybe a minute. Real pro. All with assurances of how good you were being all of a sudden and how you’d get to play.
“Thank you,” you hear yourself say. You catch yourself and break out into a blush. You hadn’t meant to thank her after the change...it’s a habit you developed with Mommy. Till now you thought it was a good habit.
“You’re welcome,” she says as she helps the boy in the shortalls onto the table, going for his snaps. “Go play.”
If by “go play” she means, “try to escape immediately”, then you do exactly as you’re told. You dash for the door, ready to ram through it and into freedom. The sooner you’re out of here, the sooner you can get back into vanilla clothes and the sooner you can check out of this goddamn hotel.
Con’s over as far as you’re concerned. Mommy will understand once you tell her. This isn’t the sort of thing you call management for, this is the sort of thing where you just get the hell out of Dodge.
Once again, the door does not budge. It might as well be a wall. You can’t even make it rattle on its hinges.
“Get away from there,” another worker calls as your hands feebly try to do anything. You turned away from the door. “We don’t want you to get hurt, baby. Someone might open that door and hit you on the head, or something.”
“The door opens out,” you protest.
All you get is a gentle swat on the butt. “Go play.”
“I want my mommy!” That’s not what you meant to say at all. You meant to say “wife” or “girlfriend” or “fiance”. That’s not the word that came out though. Shit...what is Mommy to you...beside Mommy? “I want my mommy!” is all you can manage to repeat.
“She’ll be back,” she says. “Go play. Make friends.”
You stomp your foot. “I WANT-!” The look that this short redhead gives you is enough to make shivers run down your spine. Your bladder is completely empty. You’re sure of this. Because if it wasn’t, you’d be wet again.
“Do you need to go to timeout?”
You suck in your breath. Redhead says it calmly enough but there’s some underlying menace with it that you can’t quite (and don’t want to) put your finger on.
“Can...can I have something to drink...please?” Your throat feels.
She smiles. “Of course. Go play. I’ll bring you a baba.” She thinks for a second. “Unless you want to sit in my lap...”
You shake your head. Mommy would not be happy with that. Fuck!
Out of options you start looking around the nursery for a quiet place to think. What did you get yourself into? The hell happened? The doors are still closed. You’re still trapped here, and far more people have violated your personal bubble than you planned today.
The doors are still locked. There are still littles playing around, and no one seems to mind that all of these Bigs are babying them without consent. Come to think of it, a lot of them are familiar. Oddly familiar. They’re the same people who were playing when you lost consciousness.
You’re not sure how long you were asleep in that crib, but that means the doors have been closed for as long as you were out, more than likely.
“Hi.” It’s Rhumba panties. Or maybe Princess Rearz would be a better descriptor given that the panties are in a ziplock bag at present.
“I’m Jenny. Wanna play?” Girl is way deep in headspace. Her voice is chirpy and happy, even though almost anyone would have been mortified having their own feces end up smeared up to their crotch.
You sigh. “Fine. Fudge it. Let’s play.” You can’t escape. Maybe you can get some answers.
Jenny takes you over to a toy bin filled with Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head Parts. “How bout here?”
You shrug, sit down and start fiddling with one of the plastic potatoes. You start rifling through eyes and hats. You still can’t decide if your potato head is gonna be a boy or a girl. “I’m makin’ a princess!” Jenny loudly announces.
Yup. That tracks. The girl starts cramming in different eyes and ears and mouths in all the wrong places. If it’s a princess, it’s a picasso princess. You? You’re being more deliberate in your choices. Even when you were a little the first time around you had something of a meticulous streak, (it’s why finger painting drives you crazy). More importantly, you’re trying to look for an escape route….kind of hard with only one way in and out though.
A quick tap on your shoulder, and you look up to see an amber colored class bottle dangling in front of you. “Here you go, baby.” The red headed caregiver says, handing you the apple juice. “Drink up.”
She walks away, leaving you and Jenny alone again. You examine the bottle. It’s an adult baby bottle, larger container, larger nipple. Perfect for headspace. Mommy said she was going to go buy one for you...but that must’ve been hours ago. Gingerly, wondering what was taking Mommy so long. You hope she’s alright. You hope you can remember her real name and relationship to you.
“How old are you?” You ask Jenny.
She holds up three fingers. “This many.”
Three?! Wow! You feel a sudden sense of awe. A big kid! No wonder her Daddy let her wear those panties over her diaper! You were getting to play with a real live big kid! You took a drag from your bottle, and the taste of apple juice on your tongue turned bitter.
You shouldn’t be thinking this way, you realize. You’re not ACTUALLY not-quite-two...that’s just your headspace. But the thought that this big girl....this other person is a whopping three years old isn’t exactly an alien thought. If you were in a scene, or just didn’t feel quite so trapped, you’d be letting yourself think these thoughts.
Total headspace.
But you’re not letting yourself think these things. You’re just thinking them. You’re starting to immerse when you should be strategizing (or at least panicking).
You take another sip from the bottle. Feeling it would not end well, you don’t dare try to unscrew it. You just collect your thoughts. “How old are you?” Jenny asks.
Without thinking you hold up your pointer finger and crook your middle finger. Your clever little joke about being one and a half.
You take another sip of juice and roll your eyes at yourself as much as Jenny. “Not your little age,” You say. “Your real age.”
“Daddy said I’m this many!” Again, three fingers.
Time for a different tact. “What’s your daddy’s name?”
“Daddy. What’s your Daddy’s name?”
“I don’t have a Daddy.”
Her lip pouts out. “That’s soooo sad. I’m sorry.”
“I have a Mommy.”
Jenny brightens up. “Oh! What’s her name?”
The word is out before you can even think to edit yourself. “Mommy.” Damn!
Damn! Damn! Damn!
“What’s your name?” Jenny asks.
Reflexively, you tell her your scene name. Not your real one. Good. At least you still had that bit of control. In quiet celebration you drain a little bit more of the bottle.
“Nuh-uh!” Jenny says. “I heard the grown-ups call you somethin’ different.”
“It’s what I like to be called.” You pull the bottle out of your mouth.
For whatever reason, that seems reasonable to Jenny. “Oh. Okay. Then I’m gonna be Princess Lollipops.” Your head snaps up at that and you do a double take. Princess Lollipops?! That’s a scene name. That’s a pretty famous scene name. Artist. No way this is her!
Then again, you don’t know what she looks like…
FUCK! Between unwanted little space impulses, and geeking out grown-up thoughts, it’s getting harder and harder to concentrate. You reach down and finally pick a pair of girly eyes with long lashes for your potato head.
“Princess Lollipops,” you say, “Do you remember anything about a convention?”
The girl bites her nail. “Um….no?”
“You don’t remember your Daddy telling you about going to a fancy hotel with lots of people like us?”
Jenny/Princess Lollipops is busy picking out hats to put on the shoe section. “You mean like here?” she said. “Daddy said he had important business stuff, but I could come and play here so I wouldn’t be bored. Where’s your Mommy?”
“Shopping…” you admit.
“Shopping is sooo boring,” the girl moans. “Much better to hang out here.”
Internally, you had to admit. It was that exact train of thought that led you into the nursery to begin with. You didn’t want to shop. You wanted to play. “I still miss my Mommy.”
“I’m sorry,” Jenny says. “Do you want a hug?” She shifts onto her knees and opens her arms wide, waiting for you to say or do something.
If she’d just hugged you, you’re fairly certain you would have freaked out. Everybody has been getting in your personal space and forcing you to do stuff since breakfast. The fact that someone is asking you if you want to be hugged makes you want it all the more. It feels good to be respected by a big kid.
Also, this might be Princess Lollipops...celebrity hug?
As you shift over to your knees, you nod and open your arms. She hugs you and squeezes juuust right. Jenny or Princess Lollipops or whoever she is is a really good hugger. So good, in fact that you don’t notice that your diaper is wet again until the last few drops have settled in.
Damn.
“Your Mommy’s here,” someone taps you on the shoulder. The man in the staff shirt points in the direction of the doors. They’re open! You run straight for her and run into her arms, eliciting excited and giddy laughter from her.
“Mommy!” You scream! “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry! Let’s go! Let’s get out of here!” You pull back. “Wow…” Mommy is dressed...differently. She’s dressed for business; literally. Gray power suit with a white blouse and gray pencil skirt with makeup done up and hair pulled back.
“I missed you too, baby,” she laughs. “What are you sorry about.”
You blush. “I’ll tell you when we get outta here. Let’s just go back to the hotel room.” The bland, quiet room will be nice compared to the chaos you’ve been put through. “I just need to get changed…”
Holding her hand you start to lead her out into the main hotel area. You’re forced to stop, as she’s not moving with you. She’s also not letting go of her hand. Mommy might as well be an oak tree.
“Changed?” She slips her fingers into your diaper. Your face heats up immediately. “You are a little wet,” she says. She’s done this before, but not in front of OTHER people.
The man who came and got your attention strolls up. “Your baby had a great time and started making some little friends.” Your back is to him.
“We’ve got a lunch break,” Mommy says. “No presentations for an hour or so. Thought I’d have some lunch with my little one.” She tweeks you on the nose and it takes everything you can not to melt.
“We’ll probably be seeing other parents, too, then.” The man says. “Thanks for the heads up.”
It’s so weird being talked over and around; being present for the conversation, but not part of it.
“Do you mind if I use your changing table before we go?” Mommy asks.
“Oh, I can change ‘em if you like.” The man said. This is the same one that ditched shortalls. Now, he was sucking up. “I don’t mind.”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
Your jaw practically hits the floor as you’re handed off to yet another stranger and force led to the changing table. “Mommy no! NOOOOO!”
“It’s okay, baby!” she calls after you. “He’s just gonna change your diaper. Then we’ll get your lunch.”
That doesn’t help you. That doesn’t stop you from screaming and crying as you’re forced back down onto the table. It doesn’t make you stop yelling “RED! RED! RED! RED!” No one is even giving you a second look. You’re just a fussy baby to them.
The diaper change is quick. Dude knows where your last diaper was kept. You’re wiped clean quickly, gently, and efficiently. Through your panic, your lizard brain makes a note: He’s good from a technical sense, but lacks the Mommy’s loving touch or Lynn’s playfulness.
God you shouldn’t even have to KNOW that!
Mommy’s right by the changing table. Helping out and stroking your hair as the last diaper goes on and your onesie gets snapped up. It doesn’t really help. The fact that she’s so willing to casually ignore your safewording out and casually break all of your long held boundaries deeply disturbs you.
This isn’t your Mommy. Not really. Or if it is your Mommy, it’s not your S.O. Somehow that makes sense.
“That was the last diaper,” he says as he lets you up and gives your hand to Mommy. “Had a big poopy and then a long nap.”
“I’ll make sure to bring some extra after lunch,” Mommy says.
“Thanks.”
Once again, people talking about what goes on inside your pants like the weather is a foreign experience. The tone isn’t even teasing. So clinical as to be banal. You could use some playful teasing right now. That would make you feel little in a fun way. This? This just makes you feel small.
Mommy takes you by the hand and leads you out of the nursery and into hallway. There’s the same background buzzing going on, the same ambient noise, but something is different and very wrong.
The Middles Rooms. The Preschool area. All the decorations and headspaces touches that you carefully observed like you were in a museum before committing to the playroom. All of them are gone. This is just a boring hotel, now.
People in suits and ties are milling about. It’s more than vanilla. It’s hyper vanilla. Not even a T-shirt in sight. And their faces aren’t so familiar. Their demeanors are pure business. They’re not even noticing you. Correction: They’re noticing you, but only taking note before going back to whatever small talk they were making; discussing presentations.
Your crinkle is the only one that you can hear as you walk as Mommy leads you to the elevators.
Everyone outside the nursery is dressed like an adult. But you’re still in your yellow honey bee onesie and diaper. And Mommy is leading you into the hotel proper.
“Let’s get some lunch.”
