Unfair-Chapter 125: Unification (Patreon)

Chapter 125: Unification

I did not sleep.  Couldn’t. My eyes wouldn’t close. Not sure I blinked.  I sat up with my back against the crib rail, my eyes trained on the nursery door.  I was a cat at the pound, waiting for someone to come to put me down for good.

My heart wouldn’t slow down. My thoughts wouldn’t stop spinning, doing laps around my fucking skull. And those words, those stupid fucking words, kept reverberating right behind my eyeballs.

“I see how you look at her, dear,” Janet’s mom had cooed down at me while she changed my diaper. “You’re not the first Little who fell in love with a Grown-Up and got Adopted instead. You won’t be the last.”  

So much wistfulness in the tone; like she was talking to a babbling toddler.  So much cruelty in the words; like she was mocking an up jumped upstart who hadn’t yet learned his place.

No. Worse. Closer to a protective parent giving a warning to a serious suitor.  Break my daughter’s heart and I’ll break your spine.  Or was it more like an experienced caregiver, letting the troublemaker kid know that she was onto them and only so much nonsense would be tolerated?

None of them? Some? All of the above?

I didn’t know.
“Probably not what you were fantasizing about when you two met…” That one in particular echoed more than others. “…but you’re still one of us.” If I could have spit at her and not have the loogie land smack dab on my forehead, I would have.  I should have.  I might have.  I just didn’t think of it until it was too late.

“You’re family, baby boy. Your Mommy loves you more than you’ll ever know. Nana and Pop Pop love you, too.”


Only a few simple words, lovely spat in my face with a smile in the dark. So much to unpack.  And the more I did, the deeper into myself I kept digging.  I clutched Lion to my chest, in turn destroying his cottony innards and then pulling him back so I could look him in the eye.

My lips didn’t move, (nor did his of course) but I kept talking to him; talking to a part of myself.  Not expecting an answer, but needing to cling to a liferaft to keep from drowning in a sea of emotions and dissonance.

Love?

Love?

Where did that old bitch get off? I didn’t love Janet. I just didn’t. Not like that. Every parent wants their child to feel loved and desirable on some level, but Helen Foster was barking up the wrong tree and powdering the wrong ass.

Janet was just a friend. Like Beouf. Like Tracy.

Correction: She had been just a friend. A relatively recently acquired work buddy before everything came tumbling down the hill. Then she went insane and became my Mommy; a word that means ‘God’ to Amazons and ‘Monster’ to Littles.

Even if I wasn’t constantly simmering, I still hated Janet and on some level I’d always resent her for what she’d done to me. Stupid, typical, Amazon bitch. Every positive interaction I had with her was either a carefully calculated move to get something I wanted out of her, or a lapse in judgment due to sheer attrition.  Nothing more, nothing less.

I glowered down at lion, scowling like it was his fault.

All that trust. All that emotional investment, ruined because she just had to have herself a Little and get to satisfy some kind of deeply seeded savior complex of hers. Months of friendship flushed down a toilet in the name of preventing me access to one ever again.  Fucking sick.

Beouf made some kind of sense. Maturosis was practically her religion. I could call her a nutter, but I couldn’t call her a hypocrite.  Perhaps that’s why I’d finally forgiven her.  I’d had ten years to know what I was getting into with her. You play with the lion like it’s a kitten, you don’t get mad at the big dumb brute when it finally bites you.

But Janet? I’d genuinely stepped out of my comfort zone for her.  I came to her classroom on my goddamn lunch break to teach her brats fractions. I’d graded papers for her. I’d let her make costume clothes for me. I’d walked across campus BY MYSELF to see her. I hadn’t done any of that with Beouf and Melony Beouf was my best friend; close to a surrogate aunt or an older sister.

Goddamn it, Grange. Why couldn’t you have been one of the good ones?

I felt my face twist itself into knots and my brain sour at the thought.  Calling her ‘Grange’ still didn’t feel right to me.  Was it because she’d slapped that name onto me, too?  No. That wasn’t it.  The moment she’d told me to call her ‘Janet’, I’d internalized it for some reason.  Meanwhile, I still mostly thought of Beouf as ‘Beouf’.  

Was it love?  No. Not at all.

I still thought of Tracy as ‘Tracy’, and I didn’t love her. Okay, I loved her, but not like that. Not like how Foster insisted I loved her daughter.  Tracy was ‘Tracy’ because she’d never told me her last name, and I could still barely pronounce it. Limpy…Limp-pia…just thinking about it made me fucking Mayztepic for ‘windshield wipers’, or whatever.

Janet was still ‘Janet’ because…because…

It just sounded better than Grange, I guess.  That’s all.  

If Janet had taken her maiden name back after the divorce, I’d probably be thinking of her as ‘Foster’, most likely.  ‘Janet Foster’.  No, that didn’t sound right in my brain either.  I’d hated Raine Forrest more than I hated most giants- third to only Brollish and Ambrose- but had no cognitive dissonance about calling her ‘Raine’ inside the ol’ bone cockpit.

My so-called Nana was just crazy. Part of an older generation that didn’t need the lie of Maturosis to justify knocking perfectly capable Littles back down below pre-school. To her generation, Littles just belonged in cribs and cots and no other explanation was really necessary.

She’d known and interacted with me for all of eight hours, tops, and decided that to justify my treatment through victim blaming, just like they all did.  

Oh, he must have wanted to be babied, deep down.  You know how those Littles are. They get a crush on a real adult and start following them around like puppy dogs, thinking they’re in love. They think they want careers, spouses, adult friends, and children,  but they’re just going through the motions.  Just playing house, really. They’re not cut out for that kind of complexity, they just need someone to take care of them and don’t know it.

No better than the assholes on certain MistuhGwiffin threads.

The loser didn’t play it smart. He let his guard down.  DTA: Don’t Trust Amazons. He must have done something to get that kind of attention. What was he doing around them, anyway?  Fucker got what he deserved.  Might as well be dead.  Mourn and move on if you knew ‘em.  Laugh and learn if you didn’t.  Don’t weep for the stupid or else you’ll be crying all day. Littles like this give us all a bad name.

Typical.  

I stared at the baby monitor for what felt like forever. I wanted to call out to Janet, to summon her, and tell her exactly what her mother had said to me.  That’d get a blush out of her, make her stomach turn inside out. She’d be so embarrassed at how cringe and out of touch her old lady was.

Or would she?

What if Janet didn’t say ‘Oh gosh, please Clark, don’t make a scene about it. My mother is old fashioned. I just want to have a nice Unification.’?  What if instead she said, ‘Yeah. I know’?

How would I even handle that? How would I feel?

I didn’t know.

Why the fuck didn’t I know?

“You doing okay there, Clarky boy?”

I roused myself up from the playmat while two sub-par football teams tackled each other on the television.  I hadn’t been sleeping, per se, but I’d gotten caught up in a kind of waking dream.  

“Hm?” I said over my pacifier. “Yeah, Foff Foff. I’ fi’e.”  

Truthfully, any time I wasn’t directly engaged with another person, I had about thirty seconds before I started reliving that awful speech and talking to myself about just how fucked up everything was all over again.

Janet and her mother, meanwhile, were working overtime in the kitchen, creating a traditional Unification meal consisting of a roasted bird twice the size of myself and enough heavy carbs and vegetables to knock out an elephant.  One of them would pop out of the kitchen every couple of half hour or so to inform us how each course was coming along.

“Casserole’s almost done.”

“Stuffing is in the pot.”

“Got the salad tossed. Extra dressing.”

Not even an approving grunt was required from either of Janet’s dad or myself. The satisfaction came from the telling, not from our participation in listening.

In the present reality going on outside of my head, I’d been changed yet again, and an old man’s  oversized football jersey had been exchanged for  ascaled down version designed for small children and people reduced to small child status. Chances are, I’d be decked out in University of Nemeanna Leos gear until Janet’s parents got dropped back off at the airport.  

Neither football jersey had come with matching pants, so Janet had opted to leave my Monkeez uncovered and completed the day’s outfit by slipping on socks and sneakers. Unification was an important holiday for the Amazons, but not so important to where they wanted me wearing pants, evidently.

On the subject of remaining conscious, my new playmat only complicated matters. It was so easy to drift into quiet thought, sitting contently with Lion and sucking on my pacifier while the floor beneath me literally massaged away the aches and pains caused by obsession and fatigue.

“Okay there, champ,” Janet’s father replied. “Don’t feel bad about it if you’re feeling tired. Go on right to sleep if you need an early nap or whatever. I’ll wake you when it’s time to eat.”

The offer made the beginnings of a yawn start to well up in my throat. I resisted it by turning it into a long heavy sigh and strengthened my resolve by twisting my thoughts into bitter resentment. Easier to stay alert if I reminded myself exactly who it was that surrounded me.

“Okay, Foff Foff,” I mumbled, and turned my back to him so I could pretend to watch the game. Mother fucker was up in my house telling me whether or not I could go to sleep on a goddamn vacation weekend. Who the fuck did he think he was?

Wait.  It wasn’t my house. Not my house. Never my house. It was Janet’s house. This place was my prison, not my home. My bed had the bars to prove it.

‘Pop Pop’ didn’t take the hint. “I’m probably gonna go into a big ol’ food coma right after supper.  If you want, you can come into the bedroom with ol’ Pop Pop and we’ll have ourselves a siesta while your Mommy and Nana clean up the kitchen.”

Offering to let me sleep next to him and getting me what he considered to be clever and fashionable clothing. Janet got her enthusiasm and baby crazy from her mother, but her love languages were directly inherited from ol’ Bill.

“Mebbe…”  It was the nicest response that I cared to give.

I looked down at my shirt,  there was something distinctly perverse and Amazonian about dressing me up in children’s sports apparel for a college team.  When done to actual children, it’s mildly cute, if slightly egotistical. Plenty of people form nostalgic attachments to their Alma Maters, so it makes a certain kind of sense to want to share that with their children.

Dress up the snot nosed pants poopers in costumes and take them to fun outings so that when they grow up, maybe they’ll want to attend the same college you did. It’s not entirely healthy, and in many ways has the potential to be living vicariously through one’s offspring, but it’s not so different from exposing your child to any other fandom. Goodness knows that if I’d ever been lucky enough to have a kid, that tiny crotch goblin’s room and clothes would have been decked out with Muffets gear. Probably GhostHaunters, too. Why wouldn’t I want to share things that gave me joy with my kid?

It was a completely different kettle of fish where Adopted Littles were concerned. Janet’s family was never going to let me attend college again. They had no desire, yet alone an expectation for me to be a student anywhere save Oakshire Elementary, and Oakshire was only permitted because Beouf’s room was technically a form of daycare.

What was more of a parody? Having my old wardrobe infantilized, or being dressed up in baby gear for an academic institution that literally no one wanted me to ever attend? Hard to say.

“Supper will be ready in just a couple of minutes boys,” Janet’s mom said, popping in from the kitchen.  

Janet’s dad barely nodded. I bit into rubber. I felt her standing behind me just before the back of my diaper was pulled open.   “Let’s see if you need a change. Hmmm…no poopies.”  I was roughly lifted off the mat and cradled; a turtle on his back; so that she could check for wetness.  “You’re wet, but not soggy,” she pronounced. “Good baby.  Mwah!” I flinched at the touch of her lips to my forehead.

Janet came into the room and flopped down on the couch next to her dad.  “Table is set up and ready to go,” she huffed. “Dinner is almost ready.”  Calling it ‘dinner’ before two o’clock was more than a stretch, but that was nitpicking.

The ceiling passed me by as the whole family congregated onto the couch, me cradled in the matriarch.  Shocking accusations aside, she’d gone directly into ‘Nana’ mode as if they’d never been made; or worse, saying that I was both a baby and in love with my Mommy was something normal to her.

“Table’s all set,” Janet said, melting into her couch.

“Good job, Janet,” her dad said. “Whatever’s set out smells delicious.” he patted his stomach. “I’m gonna need another notch on my belt after today.”

My pacifier dropped out of my mouth. “Janet?” I grumbled. “Don’t you mean ‘Pookie’?”  It’d be nice to have someone else be the center of her parents’ attention.  Better Janet than me.

My world went vertical with her Mom un-cradling me and setting me side saddle on her lap.  “We do not call Grown-Ups by their first names or nicknames,” she said roughly. The pacifier was shoved back into my mouth and her finger waggled in biting distance from my face. “That’s your ‘Mommy’.  When your Mommy was little she always called us-”

“Mom,” Janet groaned. “He wasn’t being purposefully disrespectful. He was just copying what he’s heard. The ‘Pookie’ thing is new to him.”

Her mother’s lips puckered. She too was picking and choosing battles.  “You’re right dear.” Then to me,  “I’m sorry Clark.  Nana didn’t mean to snap at you.  She just didn’t want you being disrespectful to your Mommy.”

“He’s a scooch, but he’s my scooch,” Janet said. I was positioned so my back was to her, but I could practically feel her tired smile.

Not that I cared. I did not love her. It was just best to keep the beast that was her baby crazy fed and content. Pure calculation on my part.

“Nana,” I pulled out the rubber bulb and tried again. “Can you tell me more stories about when my Mommy was a little girl?”

Even with me using her preferred title, she didn’t take the bait. Her will was stronger than her daughter’s.  Had I been smarter, I could have wrapped Janet around my pinky if I’d been calling her ‘Mommy’ on day two.  “Oh I don’t wanna talk about that.” she said.

“Why not?” I tried for the puppy dog eyes. That tended to get the weary and unsuspecting. I was loading a corny ‘pwease’ into the chamber, but was interrupted.

“You’ve had so much practice being a baby!” she explained.  She started bouncing me on her knee.  Each squish and crinkle hammered the point home.  “I need more practice being Nana. Much more practice.”

Wasn’t part of being a grandparent getting to tell embarrassing stories about the parents when they were children? Bits of revenge? “But Mommy-!”

“I wanna focus on the now!” Her forehead nuzzled against mine and her fingers danced like spiders along my ribs.  “Your Mommy was my baby girl, but she’s all grown up, now.”

I did not like where this was going.  “Nanaaa,” I tried to whine, “I-”

“But you, Little mister,” she teased, “are my grandbaby, and you’re always gonna be a baby! I never have to worry about losing you to growing up.  No driving around late at night, or flirting with the boys. We can keep things nice and simple.  Just Clark and Nana.  Right?”

This was bad.  This was really bad.  She was winding up to something. This was spiel. This was totally a spiel. “Right…”

“Better watch out, Clarky boy,” Janet’s dad said cryptically.  “He’s coming for you.”

“Who?”

“Oh did I forget to mention?” The older woman asked. “We don’t have to worry about you growing up, but you do have to worry about something.”

“Mom…” Janet called over from the other side of the couch. She didn’t sound nearly as reluctant as she had yesterday.  Just tired.

My heart started racing. “Spanking?” No it couldn’t be. This wasn’t a spanking spiel. Too many smiles.  Janet sounded nostalgic too.  A childhood ritual perhaps.

“Noooo…you’ve met him before…’

Oh fuck.

“Quit torturing him and just get it over with, Mom.”

Goddamn it.

I didn’t want to ask but…

“Who?”

“The…TICKLE MONSTER!”

Sometimes it really sucks to be right.  Spidery fingers dug into my flesh, and sent me into giggling convulsions. My whole body rocked back and I flailed and screamed laughter, with my limbs instinctively tucking in to try to parry the tickling tormenting digits digging into my sides. They might as well have been made of overcooked spaghetti.

“Stop!” I begged, already out of breath. “Please stop!”

“I’M SORRY CLARK! IT’S THE MONSTERRRRR!  HE FEEDS ON BABY LAUGHS! FEEEED HIM CLARK! FEEEED HIM!”

It was the inverse of spanking in that a flood is the inverse of an inferno. Opposite methods, but still the same results.  My senses were overwhelmed, my mind was screaming, my body was useless and out of my control, and I was begging for it to cease.

“Mom,” Janet called “stop it. You’re gonna make him leak.”  I could hear the smile in her voice too.  She didn’t want it to stop that much.

How could that bitch think I loved her daughter, as cruel as she was?

The tickling stopped, and I was allowed to catch my breath.  I was propped back up to a sitting position.

“That reminds me,” her mother reported, “Clark’s wet, but not too wet. Do you want him changed before we sit down?”

Last I got a good look at her, she’d rammed the back of her head into the couch to the point that the cushions were enveloping the sides of her face.  Presently, I was positioned with my back to her and was being watched like a mouse inside a cat’s grip.  I couldn’t have sent a signal for her to say ‘no’ if I’d wanted.

“Gimme,” I heard her say.

Or that! That worked.

It was a short, but gratifying trip from her mom’s lap to Janet’s with a brief flyover of her father’s. Janet checked me just like her mother had, and came to the same conclusion.  “Naw. I think he’s okay right now.”

Her mother smirked to herself. “I still got it.”  Janet leaned forward enough to give a questioning look.  “That is, I thought so, too, but I wanted to make sure.  You’re the Mommy and all.”

Janet’s arms wrapped around me and pulled me closer into her chest. Her muscles relaxed. Mine tensed. “Thanks Mom. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome, dear.”

A moment of relatively comfortable silence passed. The devil I knew had me on her lap.  The one I didn’t was on the far side of the couch, and her husband was watching football like it was a hypno-cartoon.  Nothing was peaceful, but it was eye of the hurricane calm.

Then that damn commercial came on. “It was the day of the big game at Monkeez stadium! But the star receiver couldn’t catch a pass! And no wonder, there was an offensive leak in his diaper!”  

“Can we please change the channel?” I groaned over the propaganda. “Or go sit down and eat?”

A hairy mammoth hand patted me on the shin.  “Yeah, I don’t like commercials either, Clarky boy,” her dad said. “The game’ll come back. Just be patient.”

“ -and Monkeez leg elastics to help eliminate gaps in the defense!”

“Y’know,” Janet’s mom butted in.. “They say leaving kids in wet diapers inhibits potty training.”  Uh-oh. Call it a not quite atrophied danger sense, but I knew she was going somewhere with this.  I just didn’t know where.

“Certainly didn’t help Pookie’s,” her dad joked.

“Just watch the television, Bill.”

“Ten-four.”

“Just makes you think,” Helen continued, “All these commercials about diapers being more absorbent, and leak proof are kind of traps as far as potty training goes.”

No lies detected. Only the smell of a logical fallacy.

“Hmm…I think you might be onto something.,” Janet replied. “But I don’t think Clark is ever gonna be ready for potty training again.”  Like her mother, she bobbed me lightly in her lap, the less than crisp crinkle coming from my backside being enough justification for the diagnosis.

I sucked in my breath. Talk about being caught between Scyllia and Charybdis. Either listen to this conversation, or zone out and replay the awful one from twelve hours prior.

“Full agree,” her mother said. “It makes more sense that he learns to be comfortable sitting in a wet diaper.  As long as he’s not getting a rash or leaking, he should be fine.”

“Less expensive too,” Janet chuckled. “I had no idea how much diapers would cost. If he wasn’t all done growing up I might.  Can you imagine diapers and growing out of clothes and extra food from growth spurts?”

“Can and did, Pookie,” Janet’s dad sounded off. “Can and did. That’s why after you we decided ‘never again’.”

“Bill…”

“Sorry, Helen, can’t hear you. Game’s on.”

“Anyways,” her mother continued, “I know diapering can be hard, but it’s what’s best for him.” There was silent agreement from Janet, and silent fury from me. Her words felt like a shark circling its prey.   “Which makes me wonder…”

Me and Janet’s heads turned simultaneously. Was she about to rally to put me into cloth diapers? Seriously?

Janet beat me to the punch. “Mom, I am not washing dia-”

“Why aren’t you breastfeeding?”

The timer on the oven went off.  Janet practically leapt up with me in her arms. “Supper’s ready, let’s go.”

Janet rushed me to the kitchen and slid me into the highchair.   She gave me a “Boop” on my nose with the tip of her index finger, tied a bib round my neck, and went to help her mother take things out of the oven, drain pots and pans and plate the final dishes. Even her father contributed something besides staying out of the way.  He busied himself setting out plates, silverware and napkins, and followed up by taking the finished products over to the table before going to the sink and scraping and scrubbing a handful of cooking dishes.

For about ninety seconds, Janet’s kitchen turned into the final countdown shots of every reality cooking show with the only one not actively contributing strapped into a highchair, palms flat on the feeding tray.

When everything was plated and set, the spread looked like something out of the movies.  Giant bird at the center with islands of stuffing, mashed potatoes, casserole, bread rolls, steamed vegetables, and salad spiraling outward. It was all positively crammed together. The decorative horn of plenty had been set aside, and only peeks of tablecloth, like shafts of sunlight in a dense forest could be seen.  The only way everything fit on the table was because the highchair did not necessitate me having my own plate.

The three Amazons took their seats.  A crazy giantess to either side, and the pot bellied patriarch across from me. “Before we eat,” Janet’s Mom said. “Let’s all hold hands and go around the table and name one thing that brings us all together. Today is about coming together.”

Janet on my left and her mother on my right reached out and blanketed my palms. Chairs scuffed and scraped across the floor and grasps tightened pulling my arms taught to connect and keep the circle whole and unbroken.

“I’ll go first,” Janet volunteered. “Something that brings us all together…is family. I love this connection we all have with one another.”

My once blank expression drooped slightly.  Where was my family? My parents? My in-laws? My wife?  What were they saying about me right now? Were they saying anything?  Or was I both fallen and forgotten?

“Food and feast,” her dad said, plainly.

Janet’s mom frowned in annoyance. “Bill…”

“What?” he said. “I’m serious.  We’re all coming together and celebrating with food and feast. We’re all setting aside the time away from the rest of our lives to come together and remind each other of our connections.  If we didn’t do that every once and while, we’d take each other for granted. Might as well make it special.”

I thought of drinking coffee and bitching with Beouf. Of walking up front every morning with my posse.  Of grading papers for friends. I’d lost some and rebuilt others. Of seeing Amy almost every Thursday night.  Ritual and routine. Making something mundane and boring into something special by adding an element of predictability and ceremony.  Like coffee. Like lap bounces and diaper changing songs.  

Janet’s mother nodded semi-approvingly “NIce save…”

“Thank you, honey.”

 The elder giantess looked to me, then to Janet, and her husband.. “I’m going to piggyback onto what Janet said and expand.”

“Oh, I can’t say ‘food and feast’ but she can piggyback…”

“Daddy…”

“Sorry, Pookie.”

Janet’s mother rolled her eyes, shook her head and powered through.  “It’s not just about family that brings us together, but it’s about the growth and change of the family.  I’m not just a mother anymore, I’m also a Nana. Janet’s a Mommy. Bill’s a Pop-Pop. None of today would have happened without Clark. We literally wouldn’t be here, as our new and best selves without him being the new baby.”

Almost in unison, both of my hands were squeezed.  “What about you, Clark?” Janet softly asked. “What is something that brings us all together?”

Coercion. Obligation. The lie of Maturosis. Homelessness and the erasure of my personhood. I was literally here, with this family, because of that.  Any of those answers would have landed me in hot water, if not now, then as soon as Janet’s parents were on the plane.

Time for a safe answer. One that would leave the worst kind of bitter in my mouth. “Love.”

“Awwwww!” The three mad Amazons said in unison.

“We love you too, baby boy,” Janet’s mother said.

I wasn’t asked to expound. Why would I be? I was the ‘baby’.  Generic stock answers were permitted and expected.  The grips on my hand were loosening. Everyone was lowering their hands down

“I’m not done!” I yelped.

“Hm? Oh!”  Janet stretched her arm back out.  Her parents did the same. “Sorry, baby. Go on.’

“I don’t just mean love like getting butterflies in your tummies,” I clarified. “There are a lot of people who aren’t here right now,” I said.  “But I still have a connection with them.”  My surrogate grandmother gazed at me with curiosity.  “I’ve done a lot of really dumb things lately.  And people protected me, even though they didn’t have to.”

Out of the corner of my eye, Janet mouthed the word ‘Ambrose’ and her mother nodded sagely.  She was right, of course.  It was more than that, however.  It was the tablet Tracy and Emiliano had smuggled me, too.   It was Amy’s ever cryptic advice.  It was Beouf trying to cover up my mischief and going up to bat time and time again. Fuck it, it was Jessica doing her level best to counteract Picture Day with a shopping trip.  It was even Zoge being willing to humiliate herself in recompense and then later swooping in and saving me from humiliation that I’d arguably brought onto myself.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Janet’s mother broke in. “Who wouldn’t want to take care of a baby?”

“No.” The word came out as a whisper. I cleared my throat.  “They didn’t do it because I was a baby or because they wanted something from me. I had nothing to give them. They did it because I was me, and that was enough for them.”

Puzzled looks all around. I decided to use their own mythologized history against them.

“The first Unification wasn’t one group of people taking care of the other group,” I went on.  “It was two separate groups seeing each other as worth helping and getting to know, as people, in of themselves. Not as a means to an end; or a prop; or an obligation.” I practically spit out that last part.  “Okay, I’m done.”

The people in my life who really cared about me, didn’t do it because I made them ‘Nana’ or ‘Mommy’ or ‘Pop Pop’.  They got nothing out of the deal and realistically would have been better off without me in most circumstances.  They weren’t protecting a baby, they were protecting me.  

Our hands released each other.  Plates started being passed around, with heaps of food scooped on stop.  The conversation didn’t end there.  “That’s very mature,” Janet’s mother said, piling on stuffing and mashed potatoes. “Very articulate, Clark. Thank you for sharing.”

My mood curdled. I’d told them off. and it likely had gone over their heads. I was a kid reciting verses that I clearly didn’t understand.

“Articulate, nothing,” Bill said, in the midst of carving up the bird. “That was gosh darn profound. Kid should have been a poet or something before his Matur-i-ositz kicked in or whatever.”

“Daddy?” Janet looked puzzled. They wouldn’t hear of my so-called condition yesterday. Now her father was almost pronouncing the term correctly.

Her dad started portioning out slices of meat. “We’ve got cell phones, Pookie. We can read.”

“I’m still convinced that it doesn’t exist,” her mother said. Finally, something we agreed on, if for completely different reasons.  “It’s a fad. New speak lingo for the same thing that’s been happening forever.”  Preach sister, preach!

Janet was turning her lip into an appetizer.  “Um…”

“But,” she conceded. “I think it’s a good way to help Littles understand themselves.”

Whelp, Janet’s mom, we had a good run.

She kept prattling on with extra awful bullshit. “Almost every Little gets to a point where they can’t handle play acting like an adult anymore. It’s not a disease. It’s just how they are.  If people want to call it ‘Maturosis’ instead of just ‘immature’ that’s fine with me.”

“Here, here.” Janet’s father said, drowning his plate in gravy. “It’s the outcome that’s important, not how you got there.”

Damn, Bill.  I almost sort-of liked you. You were damn near tolerable as far as Amazons went. Janet was cutting everything on her plate up into tiny pieces.  It was hard to tell if she was tensing up or relaxing; anxious or at peace.  

“And Clark, you’re absolutely right.” Her mother looked me dead in the eye. I braced myself for emotional impact. “All the people in your life protecting you isn’t because you’re a baby. They do it because they love you.”  Like a goddamn psychic, I could have mouthed the next words out of her mouth. “They love you, and you just happen to be a baby.”

Janet held out a fork to me, prongs first, a slab of meat dripping with gravy, her hand beneath it to catch the mess “Turkey?”

I opened my mouth and she fed me some. “Mmmm…” I hummed involuntarily. It wasn’t barbecue, but it was good. Damn good. After months of mostly of what could most generously be described as ‘toddler’ food, this really was a feast.  I swallowed and immediately opened up for more.  Ahhhh!”

Her mother wasn’t done with her bullshit justifications, yet.  “If anything,” she went on between forkfuls, “Adopting Littles prove Clark’s point. There’s no practical reason Amazons should have to take care of Littles. If we were being logical about it, we’d just let them struggle, fend for themselves, and fail.  We don’t, though, do we?”

“Ahhhhh!” Maybe I could drown her out with enough mashed potatoes and green beans. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the flavors and textures. “Mmmmm…” The only dilemma was did I chew and swallow as fast as I could so I could loudly open my mouth or did I just hum like each mouthful was an orgasm?

Decisions. Decisions.

“Nope,” her Dad said. “We do not.”  He dabbed roughly at his lips. Fucker needed a bib more than me with all the stuffing crumbs leaking out of him.

“It’s like Janet said. Diapers and bottles are expensive. Littles never grow out of them. Never get fully potty trained. Never get weaned. Not a good investment.’

“Littles aren’t an investment,” Janet growled.

“That’s my point!” her mother said. “If they were, we wouldn’t bother with them. They’re people, though. Ends in of themselves. They need special care, and we give it to them and ask for nothing in return because we love them for who they are.”

I swallowed but did not open my mouth for more. Take a bad thing and lump it in with the good, acting like I was being done a favor. Amazon classic. Vintage typical.

“Oh,” Janet’s growl softened into a purr. From lioness to kitten in only a few short sentences. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. Right, Clark?”

I gave no reply.  

“Here,” Janet’s mother reached across the table.  “Is that Clark’s plate? Let me help feed him so you can eat.”

Janet didn’t hesitate. Her mother’s words of conditional unconditional love had bought her more than enough indulgence. I tried covertly scowling or sending some sort of secret message to Janet, but the woman was busy loading up a second plate with more Amazons sized portions.  

Oh how we regress whenever we’re around the people who raised us.  

“Okay, Clark, open up.” Janet’s mother said.  “Heeeeere it comes.” I kept my mouth shut.  “Uh-oh.  Maybe you’re not hungry,” she said. “Or maybe you just need your Mommy to feed you.”  That was a threat.  She wasn’t talking about spoon feeding me.

I opened my mouth. The awful woman’s casserole was forked onto my tongue.  At least she could cook.

“Good baby!”  She gave me the most devilish wink.  Monster was enjoying this.

I ate and simultaneously suffered and luxuriated.  Holy shit the food was good!  If only I’d been allowed to feed myself, or didn’t have to hear “Good baby” after every single bite.  My stomach filled up quickly.  

Janet inhaled her food and took the plate back from her mother. I kept opening up, even as I began to get uncomfortably full. After today, it could very well be back to macaroni and cheese, cinnamon applesauce, and chicken nuggets.  If my self-proclaimed Pop Pop forced the nap issue, I might just take him up on the offer.  Might be nice to go to sleep again without having to worry about anyone probing my pants for poop while passed out.

The plate still looked incredibly full.  Amazon portions cut up into Little bit sizes was still Amazon portions.  “J…” I self-corrected, “Mommy, can I have something to drink?”:

“Sure, baby,” she said. She slid out and grabbed an empty bottle from the pantry.

“Such a good baby,” her mother chimed in. “Using your manners like that!”

“Thank you…Nana.”  Another weird bit of self inventory. I felt phantom hairs stand on end every time her mother called me ‘baby’.  Not so much with Janet.  Probably because when ‘Nana’ said it, there was still that Amazon mania and cruelty behind it. The prejudice and bias coated and hardened in every phoneme. It was important to her that I ‘know my place’ and accept it.  Every ‘baby’ from her was a reminder of who she wanted me to be.

Janet was more relaxed about it by this point.  It felt more natural. Just a mild pet name. Like ‘sweetie’. Or ‘honey’. Things too people who were very familiar and very comfortable with each other might call each other.  ‘Kiddo’ and ‘buddy’ and ‘bubba’ too, I supposed; but those interested me less.  Janet just sounded more natural with the former phrases than the latter. Maybe that was it. Janet had had more practice and so it came out more naturally to her.  Helen was still in addict mode, still thrilling and practicing in her head; the difference between someone just out of dance class and a professional dancer.

That or…

Nope. Clearly that had nothing to do with anything. I’d just become numb to Janet’s voice over the months.  New stimulus meant new irritant.  That was logical.  

Janet returned and handed me a bottle of ice water. “Here you go. Hydrate in good health.”  I took it and glugged the water down.  The bottle was both a relief to my thirst and a shield against a constant onslaught of rich, savory food.

“Wonderful choice,” her mother said. “Doesn’t need all that sugary soda and junk.  If I had one criticism of our neighbors back home it’s that those girls drink too much of that Little-aid. Their tongues are always blue or yellow or whatever flavor is in their bottles that day.  What’s wrong with water?”

“Thank you, mother,” Janet agreed. “I’ve been trying to work on his dietary needs. Help his weight. Make sure he doesn’t get constipated. Water helps with that.”

“Mhm,” her mother said. “All part of the job.”

Her father patted his stomach. “Who wants some dessert? Some coffee maybe?”

Both ladies held up their hands, as did I.

“You don’t want any more casserole?” Janet asked. “Some stuffing maybe?”

I took the bottle from my mouth. “I’m stuffed as is, thank you J…Mommy.” Damn it! Two slips in less than five minutes?  What was in the casserole? Truth serum?

“Then why do you want dessert?” Janet wondered.

I had something prepared for this. “Dessert isn’t for eating, it’s for tasting.”  I tacked on a giggle for affectation.

Her father took my plate and several others.  “Clarky boy’s got the right idea.”

Janet rose from her seat and followed her father’s lead. “I don’t mind sharing some pie with you.”  She started clearing the table. I resumed draining my bottle.

The three Grown-Ups began the process of moving fancy dishes to the sink, to be hand washed later and put back into the glass cabinet beside Janet’s bed. Then they grabbed the uneaten remains to make room for pie. After dessert, they’d throw tin foil over the half-eaten courses and stowing them in the refrigerator.  Said courses would inevitably be nuked in the microwave and eaten as leftovers tonight and tomorrow.

Three Amazons quietly working as one, each knowing their appointed task without speaking or command.  It was much like the setup had been, but much more relaxed.  Janet’s dad, naturally, was the one to place the pie in the center of the table where the bird had held prominence.  Her mother brought coffee and cups.  Janet passed out comparatively tiny desert plates.

“Can I have some coffee?” I asked. “To sip on?

“Sorry, bud. It’s not decaf.”

Her mother looked close to aghast. “You let him drink coffee?”

Janet weathered the wave of surprise and disapproval.  “Decaf,” she said. “After school.  Made by his teacher. Watered down. Mixed with lots and lots of cream and syrup. As a treat.”

“Why, though?”  

Had I know me drinking coffee would have been a line too far, I would have crossed it sooner.  “It keeps me regular,” I said.

“It’s an incentive,” Janet said. “A reward for good behavior.”

Her mother poured everyone’s coffee. Everyone save me.  “Hmmm.” she grumbled. “As long as it’s a reward for good behavior and not a bribe.”

It totally was. If I didn’t get my afternoon coffee with Beouf I’d riot and turn that setup back into a loud and obnoxious hell.  I was about to tell her as much, but Janet was quicker to talk to me.

“Oh no.  It’s just a reminder.”

Her dad started cutting up the pie. “A reminder of what, Pookie?”

“That I love him for being him. Not for being a baby.” The old married couple exchanged confused looks.  “He and his teacher used to have coffee before. Did I forget to mention that?”

“Ooooooooh,” they said in unison.  Her mother punctuated it with “So it lets him pretend he’s a Grown-Up.  Like playing dress up.”

“No,” Janet said thoughtfully. “More like an affirmation that just because he can’t do everything he used to enjoy doing, doesn’t mean that his whole life before he got Adopted is gone.”

“That’s very sweet,” Janet’s mother said. “Come to think of it, coffee isn’t particularly Grown-Up, is it?”

“It’s just soda for adults,” Janet’s dad said, shaking up a can of whipped cream. “I think some of those Mayztepic folks give their kids coffee. Not their babies, but their kids.”  He proceeded to top his slice of pie with a mountain of the stuff.  He added a quirt into his coffee, too.  “But it’s not like all the extra caffeine is gonna stunt Clarky boy’s growth.”

I imagined Tracy’s husband, Emiliano. I have no clue what position Bill Foster played in college. I’m certain Emiliano could have bench dressed and folded the old guy into a pretzel with one hand.  “It certainly doesn’t stunt theirs,” I said.

My hilarious in-joke went unnoticed and uncommented on. “Speaking of keeping him regular, breast milk also helps babies’ digestion.”

Janet’s fork clinked uncomfortably through the first bit of pie. “That’s true…” She eyed me, wondering whether or not I’d erupt.  I eyed her back, wondering if she’d give me cause to erupt. “I just don’t think it’s for us.”

“Problems producing?” her mother pried. “Different medications have different success rates. Once he starts nursing, it should come on its own easily enough.”
Janet’s hands went down by her side. Her face became uncomfortably pink. She was becoming the same embarrassed little girl wanting to please her parents while being afraid of how I might react. Healing and personal growth is very rarely linear. “That’s not the problem.  I started producing and expressing. But we decided to stop.”

“We?” Her dad asked. “Who’s we? A doctor?”

Janet’s mother glanced at me and ran roughshod over her husband’s question “You can’t just express. You’ve got to try breastfeeding him directly.”  

My mouth sealed itself shut.  My teeth clamped down on top of my tongue. My eyes darted from left to right to left again.  I was watching a tennis match with a live grenade. I was the grenade.

“I tried bottle feeding him,” Janet protested.

“Did he spit it out or something?”

“No.” she admitted. “He liked it.”  

I liked it well enough when I didn’t realize I was drinking another person’s bodily fluids. I liked it before my body was forming a bizarre kind of chemical addiction.  

“I just…” she stammered, “I just think there are better ways to give him what he needs, nutritionally speaking.”

“It’s more than just nutrition, dear. It’s incredibly bonding. I breastfed you.”  

If their relationship wasn’t a ringing endorsement of why I shouldn’t breastfeed, I didn’t know what was.

Janet tried to resist. “He doesn’t like it.”

“Did he like his diapers at first?” Her mother pivoted.

A beat from Janet. A nervous glance out of the corner of her eye. “No.”

“Did he insist that he was a big boy and demand you let him use the potty?”

Another glance. “Yes.”

“If he told you he wanted to stop wearing diapers, would you let him?”

Janet paused but the pause did not grow pregnant. “No.”  Didn’t even look at me.

“Then why,” Janet’s mom asked with all the skill of a courtroom prosecutor, “are you letting him stop you from taking care of him in other ways?”

Silence all around the table.  Janet didn’t have an answer for that. I didn’t have an answer for that. As far as Amazon non-logic went, it was air tight. Once one accepted the presupposition that an Adopted Little didn’t know what was good for him- which she had- then my concerns didn’t matter so much beyond how much of a fight would I put up.

Oh, I’d give them a fight alright.

“I gotta side with your mother on this one, Pookie.”  Her father broke the silence, but not the discomfort everyone was feeling.  Everyone but Janet’s mother, that is.

“Because…” was the best Janet could do to mount a defense. It wasn’t much.

“Because why?” The witch pivoted her head from Janet to me and back. “Part of being a good Mommy is doing what’s best for your baby. Even if they’re resistant at first.  Think of all the stuff we did that you didn’t like. You turned out fine.”

Oh that was some bullshit. Time to intervene. “Jan-...” Goddamn it! I’d never gone this long without using her name! “Mommy!  You said-”

“He calls you by your first name when you’re alone, doesn’t he?” Her mother asked.

Janet looked down into her lap, ashamed. “Yes.”

“Thought so,” Helen Foster sniffed. “That explains something.”

“What?”  Janet lifted her head, confused, sensitive to the criticism, yet desperate for approval.  “What does that explain?”  

Clueless too.

“Why he still thinks of you as something besides his Mommy,” her mother said.

“What are you talking about? We used to be co-workers but that doesn’t mean he still thinks of me like that. He’s called me ‘Mommy’ in his sleep.”

“In his subconscious, sure, but what’s he dreaming about while he’s awake?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Your baby boy is in lo-”

“MOMMY CAN I PLEASE HAVE SOME BREAST MILK?!”

All dialogue stopped.  Janet’s head whipped around so fast I thought she’d snapped her own neck. I’d just said words that were too good to be true. Practically every other time in our relationship (no not like that) getting what she wanted had blown up in her face. Her mother’s head turned slowly, more confidently. She’d found her own silver bullet to weaponize against me.   Her dad finished his first slice of pie and leaned forward to get himself a second, wholly unconcerned.

Time to cover my tracks. “Please let me try it. I liked the milk. It helped me feel good.  I got mad because you didn’t tell me what it was.” If eyes were windows into the soul, Janet’s was filled with suspicion and temptation in equal measure. “I’d like to try it. At least once. Just once. So I know how I really feel about it.”

She couldn’t know it. She couldn’t know her mother’s batshit theory. I hated her. Tolerated her at best. Manipulated her.  If Janet Grange thought I was in love with her, any amount of comfort I’d managed to claw out of this miserable padded prison stay would disappear.  

No more showers.

No more sharing a bed.

No more green goop.

It’s doubtful she’d ever want me to call her by her real name ever again. Not if she thought it was connected to some non-existent attraction or non-platonic love.  She might even upgrade her monitoring devices; make sure I wasn’t masturbating to her.  Or chemically castrate me.  Or try to set me up on some weird ‘playdate’ with a girl ‘my own age’.  

Little Voices was oddly sex positive considering they treated us like toddlers, but would the ‘Maturosis Research’ say anything regarding Littles being attracted to their caregivers? Doubtful. Who knows what would happen?  It wasn’t worth it rolling the dice and finding out.

“Are you sure?” Janet asked doubtfully.

“Yes!”  I said.

“When?”

“Right now!” I was shaking, jonesing like a junkie about to get a fresh hit. I was self-sabotaging in the worst way. “Right now before I chicken out! Please! Make me do it!”

Janet stared at me and then redirected her attention to her parents: A little girl, seeking permission.  

“Doesn’t bother me,” her dad said.

“Go on,” her mother encouraged. “Do it. He’ll love it. Promise.”

Trembling hands removed the highchair’s tray and unbuckled me. Shaking arms lifted me and brought me close to her. We backed away, slowly from the table.

“Where are you going?” Her mother asked.

Janet froze. “I was going to take him to his room.”  She sounded incredibly guilty.

“Nonsense,” her mother said. “We’re all family here. No need to be shy.” Twisted bitch wanted to watch.

“I got an idea,” Janet’s father said. “Let’s go back out into the living room. The couch’ll be nice and comfy and I can turn the T.V. on to make some background noise. That way Clarky boy won’t feel too self-conscious or whatever.”

“Good idea, honey,” Mrs. Foster said.

False.

That was a terrible, rotten, no good, very bad idea. Bill probably only suggested it so he’d have an excuse to watch more football.  I’d given away my chance to veto, however. One wrong step, and her mother would drop the L-bomb on me.  “Okay,” Janet said, voice quivering as much as her body.

“Right this way, dear.”

We were marched out of the kitchen straight back into the living room.  Janet sat down in the middle of the couch.  She positioned me so that I was cradled in her lap.  Her father turned on the television and contented himself laying sideways on the playmat, blocking everyone else’s view.  Not that I was going to be able to watch.

I was about to do arguably the most babyish thing possible. I’d been forced back into diapers. My potty training was atrophying. My best chance of organizing an escape was being withheld on ransom of good behavior. I thought I’d hit the bottom of the barrel. To prove me the fool, I was being quietly blackmailed to do the one thing most people do before they use their diapers. Fuck it. It was better than the alternative.  What was one more concession in the long run?

No idea why Janet was so nervous.

“What do I do?” Janet asked.

“Get yourself ready. Shirt up. Bra uncupped.” Her mother twisted her lips. “You do have a nursing bra on, yes?”

“Yes.”  Janet lowered her head and shot me a silent apology.  “I threw out all my old bras when my milk started coming in and I haven’t had time to re-replace them.”

“Good,” her mother said. “You won’t need to replace them now. Isn’t that lucky? Okay, go ahead.”

Janet raised her top up above her breasts. It was teal, somewhere between the color of the ocean and the sky. I’ll always remember that.  She opened up a cup on her nursing bra; it was beige, the faux-skin color of a band-aid.  I’ll always remember that too.  The nipple was erect and at attention.  “Now what?”

I closed my eyes and opened my mouth.  Janet’s hand grabbed the back of my head and guided it upward. I braced myself for what I must endure.

“Just brush your nipple against his cheek,” her mother instructed. “It’ll sort of get your body started, and it’ll let him know that it’s time to feed.”

No snarky reply came out of my lips. I felt her nipple wipe itself on my face before it got the chance. A jolt of panic. Everything tingled in the most disturbing way. My limbs seized up in fright and retreated inward.

“You okay?” Janet asked.

“He’s fine, just let him latch.”

Nothing left to it, but to do it. I opened my mouth and turned my head. My mouth closed down around the biggest tit ever.

Janet was inside me.

My tongue probed outward, licking her nipple, tasting her flesh. I felt her suck in her breath. Experimentally, my jaw closed, just barely. Her arms tensed, the moment my teeth scraped against her. “Careful, baby.”  She rotated me so that I was more on my side, but still cradled.

This was nothing. This was going to be nothing. This was just a bottle of milk. Maybe two. I wasn’t sure how much milk she produced, but that wasn’t the point.  I wasn’t going to get addicted. This wasn’t going to make me her slave.

Her doll.

Her baby boy.

I wasn’t going to go full native. Ivy had decades of gaslighting and cultural indoctrination that Beouf’s class had no answer to or significant contradiction with. Amy was messed up for different reasons. If it was chemically induced, it had more to do with licking batteries and eating crayons. This was going to be fine.

My heart ignored the calm rationalizations of my mind. thudding almost as hard as hers. My entire body followed my heart’s lead, my skin tingling in fear and excitement.  I puckered my lips and sucked.  

And sucked.

Nothing.

I opened my eyes and looked up at her.

Janet looked up to her mother.

“Go on,” I heard her say. “Coach him through it. You have to teach him.”

I felt Janet’s voice more than heard it. “Keep going,” she urged. “It’s almost there.  Just keep suckling.”

I sucked.

And sucked.

“Harder.  Don’t be shy.”

I sucked.

And su-

Something warm dribbled out onto my tongue. Shit! Was it blood?! It was blood! I’d bitten her! My jaw shot open and I tried to take my head away. Her hand wouldn’t allow that.

“It’s okay,” Janet whispered. “Mommy’s fine. Keep going.”  She started rubbing my back. “Keep going, baby. Almost there.”

I took a deep breath and sucked again. More of the warm liquid squirted out. It wasn’t blood. Just milk. Sweet, creamy, fatty, delicious milk; just body temperature instead of chilled in the refrigerator.

I was doing it.  

I was breastfeeding.

I kept going, suckling and letting the milk flow out of her and into me.  Just do it. Don’t think about it. It’s just milk. It’s just milk. It’s just milk. It’s just milk.

Janet’s milk. Not cow milk. Not goat milk.  Janet’s milk.  Her milk. Mommy’s milk.

Up against me, Janet’s body was fidgeting, and gasping, and moaning, and squirming almost as much as mine.  “That’s right baby,” she cooed. “Thaaaat’s right.  Just relax. Let it happen naturally.”

Breathing slowly, I let everything I felt start to melt away. The milk slid down my throat in a steady trickle. My head started to fog with the same mellow calm I’d had first thing in the moring.  The milk was in my system, but good.  

A flood emptied itself into the front my diaper. I’d been so tensed up, I hadn’t even consciously realized I’d been holding it in.

Janet noticed it too.  “Uh oh. Someone’s very relaxed,” she chuckled.

Her mother said something, and Janet chuckled some more, patting my back and butt in the process, but my ears didn’t hear what the joke was.  They were already starting to tune the other woman out.  I didn’t even know what was on T.V.  

Just keep drinking.  Don’t think about it. Just keep drinking.  Let the milk fill me. Let it help me sleep and get these terrible thoughts out of my head.  If I can’t have tequila, at least let me have sleep.

The milk didn’t come quickly enough. No matter how hard I sucked, the flow didn’t come enough. The good stuff was body warm, but flowed as if it were milkshake thick. My mouth tired. How did real babies do this?

Janet released the back of my head. “Use your hands,” she instructed. “Press against Mommy’s breast.”  

Her big hand guided my small one until it was making skin to skin contact. Boob! I was touching her boob with my hands. More nervous energy rocketed through my spinal cord. I was touching her! I never touched her! She touched me but I never got to touch her! Not even in the shower! I’d always been careful never to place my hands anywhere below her shoulders. Today she was ordering me to put them directly on her breast.

They were so much firmer than I had anticipated. Full and swollen with milk, her breasts were rock hard.  They weren’t the only ones.

“Knead.”

I obeyed.  Like a kitten, I pressed both hands up against her and squeezed. Gentle at first, testing to see where the sensitivity lay. Every squeeze, every nudge, every suckling motion made the breast milk start to flow a little more.  An iceberg was melting. Finally, the dam burst and the creamy stuff began to flow properly.

“Such a boy,” Janet took to stroking my tangled messy hair. “Such a good Little eater.”

I took my fill and more. Sip by sip losing both rational thought and rationalization. The act continued and with every slurp I cared less and less about how this might look, it only mattered how it felt.

My Monkeez were soaked to the point of sagging, now. I had no pants. I was suckling on a woman’s nipple, and much to my surprise making grunting, slurping, mewling noises while I did so. I thought this would feel babyish. As babyish and humiliating as having to finish my breakfast while trapped in a highchair wearing a loaded diaper.   

This?This wasn’t babyish at all. There was something primal about it. Something natural. Instinctual but long forgotten. I was taking part of Janet into myself, taking life essence that had been made and manufactured, specifically for me.  Every breath we took and every shudder brought us closer and closer together.  Our breathing synced up.  Her heartbeat kept pace with my mouth. My heart kept pace with hers.

This was bonding. This was intimacy. This was communion.  This was Unification.

I was pulled away from her, and I let out a gasp. I wanted to cry out. I’d just gotten started. I wasn’t done. Had I done something wrong? Did I bite her?

“Switch,” she informed me, turning me over and opening her other cup. I attacked the nipple, and started kneading at her bosom. “I think he likes it,” Janet chuckled again. I nibbled on her nipple, just enough to make her hiss and resumed suckling.

My stomach filled beyond the capacity I thought possible. I wanted no more, but I kept suckling. This was dessert.  It wasn’t about nutrition, it was about tasting, and I loved what I was tasting.

Who I was tasting.

Inside my sodden padding, my cock raged like never before. It throbbed and pulsated. Every minor jostle, sending it slipping against the slick squishiness of my diaper. No matter what my mind knew to be true, my penis had convinced itself that I was waist deep in something far better and sorely missed..  
This was the green goop. This was better than the green goop.  There was nothing warm to grab onto besides a pillow when it was the green goop. Here I had warmth and head fuzzies, and another heartbeat, and breathing, and nipples, and a voice that existed outside of my own head telling me how good I was at this.

Can you really blame my penis?

“Almost done,” she said.

Already? Like a good movie, I’d gone blind to the passage of time. I had no clue how long I’d been suckling; only that my fingers and jaw ached in roughly equal measure. Like an amusement park ride, the ride was far too short compared to the wait.

The nipple went dry and I moaned at being turned upright. My stomach grumbled, fit to burst. How much was in there? A gallon?  It certainly felt like it. Surely, I must have been on the edge of vomiting.

The feeding was done, but the ritual was as of yet incomplete. Janet lifted and draped me over her shoulder. One hand supported my soggy bottom, cupping it and pressing me against her at the same time.  The other started gently patting my back.

“URP!”

“Good baby.”

The pressure inside me decreased. The one inside my stomach, that is.  My urge to vomit was simple gas.

“URP!”

“That’s right. Good baby. Good Little burper.”

My hips gyrated, almost imperceptibly.  Even the slightest graze against the front of my diaper was enough to make my pulse rocket for microsecond.  What had happened to me?

“URP!”

“Good baby.”

My stomach started to churn and pull down towards the back of me. My bottom started to feel full. The rich Amazon food and the milk conspired to jumpstart my digestive track beyond my control. In that moment I had no control that was worth having:  Not over my words. Not over my actions. Not over my thoughts, nor my feelings. Certainly not over my body.

“URP!”

“Good boy!” Janet said. “Can you give me one more? One more burpie?”

“URP!”

Four things happened virtually simultaneously, or in such rapid succession that I cannot honestly recall what order they actually occurred in.

The first was leaning back into the couch slightly, patting my padded bottom.

The second was my willpower and pride reaching their limits, breaking to the point where I lifted my bottom up off of her hand and started pushing, filling the back of my diaper as much as completely as I’d soaked the front.  The mess was sticky, and mushy, but not runny; the perfect middle point between hard constipation stool and the runny near-liquid of diarrhea or stool caused by training chocolate. It would spread and coat my bum two seconds later.

The third was the wonderful slick and slimy feeling from shifting around in an already soaked Monkeez and the unnatural excitement of my stiffened steel-like erection, raging and begging for release as much as my bladder and bowels had.

The fourth was Janet sighing contentedly and whispering softly, sweetly into my ear. “I love you, Clark.”  That last part sent me over the edge.

“Mommy!”  I panted back, my own voice less than a whisper. “Mommy….Mommy…Mommy…”

I came. I orgasmed right there in front of the entire family, right in Janet’s arms. My body was glowing and singing despite how much my mind reeled and just wished to undo everything I’d just done. My penis was still spurting cum when my weight settled back down and the mess I’d just made of myself spread around.

I’d used my diaper for everything my body was capable of of using it for. Everything save my blood, spit, and tears, had been absorbed by the plastic-backed, crinkling monstrosity.  I’d feel so incredibly, impossibly guilty later; like I’d just gone for the game winning catch and fallen right on my face.  At that exact moment, though, I just felt exhausted; more so than my first time with Cassie.

I lay there limply up against her, totally spent. She patted my bottom again and massaged my back.  She was happy. Content. Satisfied. I’d done that. Me. I’d given her that. No one else. Stupidly, I allowed myself to feel an ounce of pride.  

“Time for a change and a nap,” she announced.  

“Want me to lay down with him, Pookie?” I heard her father offer. “After the change, I mean.”
“No,” Janet said, her voice filled with almost as much warmth as the milk she’d given me. “I think I’ll clean him up and take him to my room.”

“It’s so wonderful to see a proper Mommy and baby,” her mother harped. I ignored her.

Janet took me to my room. When we were alone in the hallway, she whispered into my ear. “Mommy loves you, Clark.”

“I love you too, Mommy,” I whispered back. In the clarity of my post orgasmic state of being I made myself another promise I knew I could never keep. There can be strength gained from unkeepable promises and unachievable goals.

Janet Grange must never know that I was in love with her.