Twitter Story: A New Kind of Normal (Patreon)

A New Kind of Normal

When your brain comes online, you’re sitting splay legged on a foam matted floor.  You didn’t wake up, and don’t feel groggy or tired. It’s just that you weren’t…and now you are.  A switch has been flipped and now you exist, and existence is you here on the nursery floor in a navy blue and white onesie and sopping wet diaper.

You suck on your pacifier thoughtfully and start to look around the nursery. Bubby and Sissy are likewise coming to, their brains switched on.  Like you, they are also dressed extremely childishly.  Bubby is wearing white shorts that stop at the knees and a white shirt. The very top of his diaper pokes out of the elastic waistband of his shorts.  Sissy’s white dress covers just the top of her diaper.  

Like you, their diapers are very wet and bulging out to the point that even a novice babysitter would know to change you.  Your big siblings suck on their pacifiers, and their eyes take each other and you in in the same manner that you’re analyzing them.

Adorning each of your shoulders are decorative navy blue flaps stemming out from your collars.

Baby sailor clothes.  That’s the style.  Bubby is wearing a classic sailor suit. Sissy is wearing a dress variant. You’re wearing a onesie.

You’re Baby.

None of this surprises you. Bubby and Sissy and you being dressed up in cute outfits, all sucking on pacifiers and wearing your diapers is perfectly normal and natural. Like breathing air, it’s only weird if you choose to overanalyze it in the same way that Sartre might.  You know all of this.

You shouldn’t though…

You know for a fact that you have never before laid eyes on the man and woman toddling towards the center of your shared nursery.  It’s been ages since you went through potty training, a wet diaper should disgust you.  Crawling to meet Bubby and Sissy shouldn’t feel as natural as it does.  You’re willing to bet that Bubby and Sissy aren’t their actual names. Your name sure as hell isn’t Baby.

The three of you lock eyes, sit down together, and regard one another.  As one, you let your pacifiers fall from your mouths, and cry out,

“MOMMEEEEEEEEE!”

Mommy comes gliding in as if on cue.  Mommy will take care of you.  Mommy will change your diapers and play games with you and make everything in the world better. That’s what Mommies do.

You have no idea who she is.

“Hello children,” Mommy beams. “Do you need your Mommy?”

“Yeeeees,” the three of you whine in unison. All three of you look at each other, shocked and betrayed.

She bends over and helps Sissy to her feet.  “Before we start to play, let’s get you three sorted out.”  She reaches down and squeezes Sissy between her legs, smooshing and squelching her diaper and eliciting a low moan from the woman at the same time.

“Are you wet, Sissy?” Mommy asks.

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Did you go potty in your big girl panties?”

“Not any more, Mommy. You took them away.”

“Are you Mommy’s little girl forever and ever?”

“Always, Mommy. Always.”  There’s a hint of lust mixed in with crushing despair in every syllable out of the woman’s mouth.  

“Let’s get you changed, sweetheart.”

You and Bubby watch, transfixed, as Sissy is taken over to a massive changing table, far too large for an actual child.  You watch as Sissy’s dress is hiked up, and feel intense jealousy when the first tape is ripped off the diaper.  Big Sissy always gets her diaper changed first. It’s no fair.

Bubby whirls around blushing like mad and sucking his thumb.  You copy him. Sissy deserves her privacy.

Big babies like you and your siblings don’t have privacy. There’s no need.  Ever.

“Do you know what’s happening?” you ask Bubby.

“Yeah,” he whispers back. “We’re getting our diapers changed.”  Bubby sounds like he’s struggling to believe it himself.

You ask. “How old are you?”

“One-and-A-Half.”  Bubby answers. You know this. You didn’t need to ask, but Bubby tells you anyways.  “Sissy’s almost-two.”  

“I’m Not-Quite-One.”  You hear yourself say.  It’s true.  You recall highschool graduation, and puberty, and losing your virginity, and working at your job.  But when you think of how old you are, you know that ‘Not-Quite-One’ is the correct and indisputable answer.

All three of you are so little and small that keeping you in diapers is a matter of common sense.  Your classrooms at daycare aren’t preschool,  just big playrooms with scheduled feeding and nap times and very diligent grown-ups who keep everyone as clean, dry, and happy as possible.   

The same disturbing thoughts have already downloaded themselves into Bubby’s brain.

“We’re screwed, aren’t we, Baby?” he asks.

Sullenly, you nod.

Mommy comes back with Sissy. It’s easier for her to walk with a fresh diaper. Good for her.  Bubby is hoisted to his feet next.  Mommy checks his diaper, snaking her fingers up his shorts and inserting them into the leg cuffs of his diaper.  Bubby goes into the same half-trance that Sissy fell into.

“Are you wet, Bubby?” Mommy asks.

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Did you go potty in your big boy pants?”

“Not any more, Mommy. You took them away.”

“Are you Mommy’s little boy forever and ever?”

“Always, Mommy. Always.”  You can tell that Bubby’s body is enjoying this interaction, even if his mind is screaming

“Let’s get you changed, love.”

Bubby’s change starts like Sissy’s, only Mommy yanks his shorts all the way down to his ankles.  You join Sissy in not looking,  she’s already started crawling towards a box of toys. Sissy still crawls sometimes if something she wants is close by.

“Don’t crawl too far, Baby,” Sissy warns. “Mommy needs to change you, too.  She’ll be cross.”



That’s true. Sissy’s always looking out for you.  “Will you wait with me?” you ask.

Sissy nods and crawls back with you.  “What’s it like?” you ask.

Sissy shrugs. “You know.  A diaper change.”  You do. You shouldn’t, but you do.  “We get them…all the time.”

Mommy is faster with Bubby. Either that or you’re having a harder time counting the seconds.  Bubby’s steps are heavier than Sissy’s and his crinkle is louder.  You don’t have the time to try and figure out what Sissy knows.

Mommy doesn’t help you to your feet. She lowers to her knees and very, very slowly pops open the snaps on your sailor suit onesie. The same low moan escapes you when she squeezes your wet diaper and inserts her fingers inside the leg cuffs just in case.  You want to suck your thumb so badly, but Mommy’s not done yet.  Not till she asks you the questions.

“Are you wet, Baby?” Mommy asks.

A spell is being woven over you. You can feel it.  “Yes, Mommy,” you reply automatically

“Did you go potty in your big kid undies?”

“I’ve never worn big kid undies Mommy. I’m just a Baby.”  Your pulse is pounding. Your breath is shallow.  

“Are you Mommy’s little one forever and ever?”

Say it. Say it make it true.

“Always, Mommy, al- NO!” You scream with the entirety of your soul.  “NO! I’M NOT A BABY! I’M AN ADULT!”

Mommy’s loving expression mutates into an irritated scowl.  She almost had you, all of you, and you know it.

Mommy sits down and tugs you over her lap. You freeze, paralyzed, as she finishes unbuttoning your onesie. There’s no need for her to do it, not physically anyways. But she wants your sopping wet diaper on full display so that Bubby and Sissy can see it.  She wants you to feel the onesie all but peeled off your body and the massive bloated diaper exposed.

It makes the spanking she gives you that much more intense.

By the time she’s done with you, you’re a blubbering mess, incapable of even apologizing.  Good thing she doesn’t ask you to apologize.

She waits for your bawling to soften enough so that you can hear the words you know she’s going to say.

“You’re either lying to me, Baby, or you really are an adult. I just spanked you for lying, Baby. If you’re really Mommy’s little one, you’ve just taken your punishment, and can try telling me the truth when you’re ready.  If you’re an adult, then you’re guilty of impersonating my sweet little one and they’ll take you to jail.”

You find yourself crying in the Naughty Corner with your hands on top of your head. Mommy hasn’t snapped your onesie back together and you don’t know how to do it yourself. Its ends dangle and scrape at the floor while your diaper sags, practically dripping off of you.

“Let me know what you decide,” Mommy tells you. “Stay there in the Naughty Corner until you do.”  Before she walks away, Mommy reminds you of one more thing. “Oh, and Baby? I don’t change adults’ diapers.”

Facing the corner you fight off round after round of panic and renewed sobbing. You don’t know what you did to get here or what’s been done to you and it might not matter as far as you can figure.  You keep running the various contradictions over and over in your head and hit a brick wall.  

You can hear Bubby and Sissy playing behind you.  It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.  They got to say the words.  You didn’t.  Why didn’t you?  Why couldn’t you just give up this time and let this be normal?

It’s only after you poop your diaper, and feel the mess settle pleasantly down near the bottom, that it occurs to you that the act was disturbingly easy. As much as you want to reach back and pat your padded rump to see how big the lump is, or to try to reach down your front so that you can masturbate, you know better. Sissy and Bubby are playing, but  Mommy is watching.  Mommy is always watching.

“Mommy…?”  You call out.  You dare not look over your shoulder. You just yell loud enough so that your voice will bounce off the Naughty Corner.

“Yes, Baby?”  Mommy’s voice is all smiles.

“I think I’ve made a decision.”

“What is it, Baby?”

You don’t hear your own answer.  You hope it’s the right one.  Maybe you’ll make the right one the next time your brain turns on you thi

(The End)