Finished Coffee Stop


Est. Contributor
  1. Adult Baby
  2. Diaper Lover
I wrote "Coffee Stop" three years ago for this site and I thought I'd re-post it since all the old stories were removed. I usually submit a scary story for Halloween. I've been working on a new story, but that got back burnered when my wife went into the hospital. I had hoped to get it finished before this Halloween but things don't look promising.

"Coffee Stop" is a psychological thriller about a young man who stops at a closed big box store for coffee. What awaits for him is beyond his wildest dreams, and that sets up his dilemma. Was he imagining all of this during his psychotic break with the world, or was it real? Who or what actually controls the things we perceive and so easily accept as our reality?

My stories always take time to develop, so I hope you, the reader, will give it a chance and read it to the end. This is a good story to receive replies and discuss. Happy Halloween....hahahahaha!

Coffee Stop

It had been a long day and one that included a lot of driving. I worked for a company that made water filtration systems, big industrial ones. My job was two-fold. If they had a maintenance problem, I fixed it. While I was there, I tried to sell them on upgrading, improving their system. I had a lot of tools and supplies in my truck and I knew my job well. Unfortunately it kept me busy and on the road. I had only been married for a couple of years when my wife told me she was seeing someone else. She tried to make it seem like it was my fault since I was never home. To be honest, she was right and it didn’t feel like a great loss, but it left a big hole in my life. Now, all I did was work, drive and go home to my quiet apartment. Something nagged at me that there had to be more. Twenty four years of age and I was terrified that life would never be anything more than this, devoid of the things I dreamed of as a kid.

When I was eight, I’d pretend I was a pirate. My dad made a wooden sword for me and my mom, a pirate’s hat out of a red scarf. I’d play for hours each day, swinging from tree branches pretending they were the sails and lines on my ship. Sometimes I was a sniper in the jungle, my plastic rifle and scope bearing down on a terrorist squirrel. There were only a few kids in my neighborhood, and they picked on me, called me names, so I played alone. My imagination ran wild, so much that my mom worried about me. I talked to imaginary friends, yelled at them when they didn’t do what I wanted. She took me to a councilor.

That was when I was a kid. Eventually I outgrew it, stopped talking to my friends, watched television and played video games instead. She was happy, and the therapy ended. But here I am again, after the divorce and after the thing that changed me, changed my life. I have to keep a journal, write everything down. He doesn’t believe what I write, and it makes him angry. I don’t really believe it either because I know it couldn’t have happened, but it’s all I know. He talks about reality, and I tell him it’s the only reality I have. We argue over this every day and he says if I’m not honest, and especially honest with myself, I can never get better. I’m not sure I want to get better. So here it is for what it’s worth. He wanted me to date everything, but I told him I wouldn’t, that I couldn’t. Time no longer has any meaning. He should understand this. For a few weeks life became…., how to put it, extraordinary. I had my adventure.

It had been a hot summer, and the air conditioning in the truck didn’t work. I had complained about this, but nothing was done. It made me mad. I had worked nine hours at a large plant, and I was glad to call it a day. It was another hour drive home, and I knew I would be getting in late, but I didn’t really care. There was nothing there but the cold walls. I thought, cold, and the truck made me all the madder. There was an old abandoned big box department store that I frequently passed. Its stark emptiness made it stand out. There was the large faded asphalt parking lot without a single car. The windows were dark and dirty. I always harbored secretive feelings, not so much about the place but for the place. I could imagine myself breaking in late at night and exploring, passing among the deserted aisles and shelves. It was a dream really, and in this fantasy, the aisles would be stocked with all the items from its past ghostly life. Some made me embarrassed, because they were the things you didn’t think about, the things grown up boys weren’t allowed to wear, would never want to wear. But my imagination, the one from when I was a child, ran wild, uncontrolled with forbidden thoughts.

I was feeling excitement, a sense of stimulation when I was shocked to see that it was no longer deserted, closed. There was a big sign out by the road.

Weary Travelers Are Welcome to Stop
And Have a Cup of Coffee
What I wanted was something cold, something to bring down this ever growing heat which was building up inside me, but I also was feeling tired, overwhelmingly so. It was drawing me, drawing me inside. Then something said, you get to see what it looks like. I knew there couldn’t be shelves stocked with anything, much less from the past, nothing there that would appeal to the curious living in their past. A car pulled over into the entrance lane and drove toward the big glass doors and I thought, why not, so I did the same. I will live with that decision for the rest of my life.

Upon entering I noticed several tables with coffee makers as well as styrofoam cups, packets of sugar, stirrers, those sorts of things: the mundane trappings of commuters. But that’s where the common ended, and the unexpected began, because serving the coffee were the most beautiful women I had ever seen, young women and men. I could only guess that they were from a college working a fund raiser, though what college that may be was unknown. They had an appeal, an attraction that went well beyond the obvious, beyond sexual appetite and into oblivion. It was mostly the girls that came up to the male patrons, cajoling, teasing, making coffee into something so much more, and I was no exception. She was young, maybe too young, slim of build, almost child–like, and I was falling into her eyes.

She held out a cup of coffee, I think, and somewhere in the distance I heard her say, “Drink it.” It was the last normal thing I ever did.

I have to write this here. I have to write about our sessions and what we learned. He said, none of this is real, that it can’t be real. I know this, and you will read this tomorrow, Dr. Decker. We will discuss it again, and then I will have to tell more. I’m sorry, and I want to get better. I want this all out of my head. I want to be normal, and tomorrow you will help me get there.

As soon as I drank it, I knew something was wrong. At first it tasted vile, the way an experiment in chemistry class smells; that’s how it tasted, but just as quickly, it tasted like coffee, sweet and bitter, almost addictive. She pulled at me, took my hand into hers and walked me through another set of doors. Those should have led me into the store, but it didn’t. It was a room, one of many rooms, an infinite series of rooms all dancing in my head, room after room, endless, and me in this room, with her, her hand in mine, and me never wanting to let go of that hand. I hadn’t had intimacy with another living being since my wife left me, and I felt so alone. Her touch was unexpected and my response, even more so. I fell into her presence like she was a great body of water, and I was being pulled under, breathing her in, submerging into her deep dark beautiful sea. The ocean was vast, and I felt so small in its enormity, drifting into this dream state where I was consumed by her, getting smaller and smaller. I tried to think who I was, where I was, but I couldn’t. My thoughts were childlike, small thoughts in a small body. The water was falling off me, washing me and with it, my past. College was running away, draining off, high school, junior high and grade school. I struggled to think and I couldn’t. All I could comprehend was, “mama”. I was shocked when I heard myself say it, in a high babbling little voice.

I’ve never seen Dr. Decker as mad as he was today. He said that he was very disappointed in last night’s journal entry, and if I continued like this, I would never get better. He asked me if I wanted to spend the rest of my life like a little baby, not being able to get a job, have a healthy relationship with someone, that sort of thing. I know I did wrong, but that’s what stays in my head. It’s the only thing that’s in my head, day and night. I try not to sleep because my dreams are filled with that nightmare. My waking hours are not much better. That’s why I have to see him, but he doesn’t understand. Damn. He’ll be mad I wrote that. I try to see reality, I really do. I know it’s me, that it couldn’t have happened, but it’s my only memory. I’ll do better tomorrow.

She said, “That’s all right baby. Mommy’s here to take care of you.”

She gave me her breast and I took it. At first it was like the coffee, vile, foul, and then it felt like the most natural thing in the world. I suckled, for lack of a better word.

There was a vague thought somewhere in the back of my head, like in another room. It said, “What the hell are you doing!”

It was then that I noticed, well not so much noticed as felt, she was holding me, like a little baby. I continued to nurse, but I started to become aware; everything about me was short. My arms were short and pudgy as were my legs. I could see them, and they weren’t far away. My feet were tiny and wrinkled, and somehow, it didn’t matter. I was tired, oh so tired, and I wanted to sleep. I could feel that she was carrying me, taking me out of the room. I saw a pile of clothes lying on the floor. They looked familiar, like I had seen them somewhere before, maybe this morning. It didn’t matter. I felt so at peace, the world with all of its problems wasn’t there anymore. She put me on a small table and lifted my legs. She put something under me and brought it up. I knew what this was. I tried to remember. I felt so little, and my memory had drifted far back. One word came into being, in the center of my mind. Diaper.

That word carried so much with it, meaning and feelings.

Today Dr. Decker seemed actually interested in what I wrote. He wants to know what diapers mean to me. I was afraid of this. Of course, this is what brought me to him in the first place, that and the court order. This was one of the things we have to talk about. I have to talk about. He wanted me to start at the very beginning. I proceeded to explain again, when I drove into the parking lot and entered the old building, and he got extremely angry. He wanted to know how I viewed diapers as a child, both little and then later. Yeah, that was what I was afraid of. I told him they meant nothing to me, that you wear them as a baby, and then you don’t, case closed. He wouldn’t accept it. He asked me, what was I wearing now? He knew of course. That’s one reason why I’m here. A diaper, I responded, embarrassed. He wasn’t going to accept my first explanation.

I sat there in silence. I was really going to have to do this, even though I knew it wasn’t the cause. It wasn’t the reason for my psychotic break. It wasn’t like that at all. But no one would believe me, so I had to tell them the one thing I kept secret from everyone, even sometimes, from myself.

I think I became aware of diapers, at least for the second time, when my mom would go shopping in the big stores and take me with her. We would go down that aisle, the one I would eventually wait for, in anticipation, the diaper aisle, and there they were. And not just diapers, but baby bottles, baby toys, bibs, everything babyish. So many of the items had Gerber on them and the Gerber baby. Everything was baby, baby, baby, and I wanted to be that baby, diapered, with a bottle in my mouth. I had to tell him that, and I had to tell about when I was older, going back to the store and stealing a diaper out of its package. I took it home and ran into my bedroom to put it on. My mom came into investigate, and there I was, standing and wearing nothing but a baby diaper. It was the first time I had ever heard her scream.

He said, “How did you feel about this?”

I wanted to hit him, hit him hard enough to split his face. I’ve become sick and tired of his constant, “how did you feel about this”. Shouldn’t he know? I knew I was turning red. He knew how I felt.

“I wanted the diaper. I wanted to wear the diaper,” was all I could get out. I buried my face in my hands, hoping he would go away. The crazy thing was that just saying the word, diaper, was making me horny.

“Diaper,” I said again, in a low soft voice, as if I was making love to someone.

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” was all he said. Tomorrow would come, but not until a long night, a night where it would haunt my dreams. I would fight the sleep. I always did, but it would come like a fog, filling my room and me with it.

I heard a scream, another scream, an adult, screaming and screaming, and then it changed. The man’s scream became higher, higher still until it sounded like a squalling baby. I tried to look around, assess where I was, but my vision seemed limited. A sense of panic began to take hold; it crept in, fear becoming dread. Who was I? I heard another baby crying, there in the room. I was crying. I was the baby. She comforted me, picked me up and put me in a crib. She said, now, now, baby. I felt better, and my mind drifted. I was at peace. There was a vague memory of so very long ago, peace and comfort, and as I relaxed, I could feel my diaper get wet. I enjoyed the feeling, and so I didn’t fight it. Yesterday I would have sat bolt upright, thinking, “What the Hell,” but not now. I enjoyed it, enjoyed the freedom of just letting go. The deep dark beautiful sea was now inside me, washing me clean of any regret. I fell into its endlessness.

We discussed last night’s entry, and he wasn’t happy, of course. He reminded me about getting well, but it was obvious he wanted to return to yesterday’s session, and that got me off the hook. Unfortunately it put me on another hook, one that was much bigger.

“Tell me about your diaper fetish,” he said, and he seemed to take some pleasure in it, enjoying the word, fetish.

Fetish? I hadn’t even thought about that. This was so new to me, the incident not that long ago. It can’t be a fetish when you’re a little kid and like diapers, can it? Hell, you’re just a kid, for God’s sake. I tried to tell him as little as possible. I said I liked diapers when I was little, but he wanted more. He wanted so much more, and he seemed to be getting some sort of enjoyment out of it. When I stalled, stammered, he became angry. He told me to stop being a baby. I think he said it on purpose. He got the response he was looking for. Here I must write it all down. He insisted. I have no choice even though he knows I don’t want to revisit this.

It was the year before I started kindergarten, and my mom was working in our garden. I don’t know what I was thinking, but my parents bedroom closet was the dark unknown, hidden and definitely off limits to a five year old. Maybe that’s why I wanted to see what was behind the door that always remained closed. I looked out toward the back yard to make sure my mom was busy, and then I ran to her bedroom. There was the closet door, the one thing which held secrets, prevented me from knowing. My heart was pounding as I turned the knob, opening it a little and then more. At first it was disappointing as there were just clothes and shoes, but on the shelf was a package and something else as well. I knew what the package was, what was in it. I think I always knew what was there, waiting and enticing. They were the last of my diapers from when I was potty trained and next to them, some plastic pants. Had this desire always been with me, buried somewhere deep in my subconscious?

I pushed a chair into the closet and climbed up on it. The diapers were in my grasp and more so, I took them down, the package and a pair of plastic pants. I took off my clothes and struggled to diaper myself. I’m sure I did a half ass job. Regardless, the plastic pants came next, and I was suddenly in baby heaven. I felt like a baby; acted like a baby. The feeling was overwhelming, until my mom came in and found me. Spankings were nothing new to me, but seeing her throw away the diapers and plastic pants was what made me cry.

Dr. Decker wants me to write about what I’m thinking, when I’m home, the space that exists between our sessions. That space terrifies me, because there is no escape. It’s here, real, living everyday in my space where my head is. I have my routine, wake up, change and take a shower, read the newspaper. I fill up the space of every day, sleepwalking through life, but the night is another matter. Here they come back to visit, fill my head with that which they want me to see. I’m back there with them.

She put me in the crib to sleep, for how long, I don’t know. I’ve never been good at sleeping. I’m a night owl, and frankly, sleep scares me. When do we just drift into the great sleep, the one with no return? I laid there kicking, enjoying who I was. There was comfort in being little and wet. They must have known this. I heard the others, so many like me, lying in their cribs, some content, others crying. How long was I there? There’s no answer to this. Time was not something I could understand. The police said I had been missing for four weeks, but it seemed to me that I was there an eternity, as if it had been my entire life.

We had our routine as one day followed another. It was always her, the young girl. She would come in and pick me up from the crib, now my crib. I needed changing first thing in the morning, diapers and plastic pants taken off, skin wiped, powdered and a new diaper put back on, followed by the plastic pants. She would call them panties.

“Here’s your panties, baby,” she’d say, almost like a song. I remember songs. They’d bring me comfort. Her’s didn’t. There was something wrong here, but I couldn’t quite connect. I looked at myself, and I was that baby, small and pink, wearing a baby’s top shirt, white and blue with a puppy stitched on the front. She had put a disposable diaper on me for the day and like she said, plastic panties, I guess so I wouldn’t leak. But I could perceive something, an idea trying to break through the fog which clouded my mind. I think the plastic pants were there because she knew I liked them. I wanted them, and because of that, they controlled me, like a talisman.
The word diaper had so much power over me, always. Most of the time, she would feed me from a bottle. At the first draw it always had that distinct vile taste but would almost immediately change, something acidic becoming opiate, warm, submerging me and taking me down. I am that baby, every muscle relaxing, every care gone as I simply let go. The flow is intoxicating, and I whimper in some deep hidden forbidden ecstasy.

Dr. Decker was in a foul mood today. I suppose my journal entrance caused it, but it seemed like there was something else. He took some cruel pleasure in his pursuit of truth. He wanted to know more.

“When was the next time you wore a diaper?” He asked.

“I didn’t,” was my reply, but he wouldn’t leave it alone.

If you are to get better, we have to talk about this. This fantasy of yours is deeply ingrained in your subconscious. Every action has a cause, a root to the problem. If you ever want to be a man and free yourself from this fantasy and from diapers, I must know everything, is what he said.

I am so confused. I told him, you Dr. Decker as you’ll be reading this tomorrow, I told you, no, I don’t want to talk about this, and yes, I’ll say it now, I’m not so sure I want to be cured. You can’t be cured from what’s real. You’ll be mad in the morning, but you made me angry. You went too far.

He asked, “When did you wear again? It was when you started puberty, wasn’t it! If you don’t talk this out, I will have no other choice then to send you back, back to State House Mental Services.”

After they found me wandering on the highway, they sent me to the big state mental facility, a place where I never want to return.

I was riding my bike on the highway, finally doing something I had thought out and planned for a long time. My parents would be gone for the night, out with friends, drinking and playing cards. The house would be mine. Dr. Decker surmised correctly. Puberty hit me like a hammer, driving through me from the inside out. My friends talked about girls, touching, maybe getting lucky the way junior high kids get, a kiss, touch, lower? I thought about diapers, day and night, and it was the night that drove me crazy. I would lie in bed and dare myself. I wanted to be wet and feel like a baby. I had held back, needed to pee. Just a little would be all right. I could pee just a little. It was hard to get started laying there in the dark. No wonder I couldn’t sleep: so excited. I tried to relax, let my mind wander. Eventually I figured it out. I would think of something that excited me. I always get nervous and have to pee when I get excited. The feeling would take over, the excitement and then the exquisite feeling, relaxing, daring myself to let go, just let go a little, and then the wetness would come, oh so wonderful. I would panic; had to stop. My mom could never know, and whatever I did would have to be dry by morning.

She said she left me something for supper, that they wouldn’t be home and I immediately thought, diapers. My heart was pounding as I rode through town and to the store. I prayed I wouldn’t see anyone, and there it was: the aisle with the diapers. It was the last year you could find Gerber cloth diapers as well as Gerber plastic pants. They were milky white. Years ago when I was very little, they had colored ones too, even yellow and pink. It reminded me of when I was with my mom, all those diapers. Now here they were, rows of diapers arrayed in all their glorious variations, so I bought some large Pampers, cloth diapers and plastic pants. The woman at the counter gave me a dirty look, and though I’m sure I turned red, I didn’t back down. This may be my last chance for a long time. I’d be home, and they’d be mine. Outside, I stuffed them into my backpack and got back on my bike. The ride was intoxicating. My parents were just leaving as I arrived, bike and backpack. My mom looked at me suspiciously, like she could see through the backpack. I pretended not to notice, waved good-bye and went inside.

“You liked this, this feeling, didn’t you?” Dr. Decker seemed to be getting off on my story, and so I’m being honest with you Dr. Decker and writing it down, just as you’d want. I think you enjoy my having to tell you all of this. Yes, I enjoyed every damn bit of it.

I spent the afternoon drinking water, forcing myself. I had dinner early, allowing myself enough time to explore my purchase, explore this new sensation. I had to be careful. I couldn’t get my bed wet, so I got a large lawn and leaf plastic bag from the garage and spread it out on the sheet. I took off my clothes and struggled to put on the Pampers. I opened the package of plastic pants and looked at the picture of the Gerber baby. I smelled the vinyl of the plastic pants and it struck me that I was really going to do this and would have, but nothing happened. I couldn’t go. I had to find a way to relax, to just let it happen, and then I thought of the diaper aisle and all those diapers and that wonderful smell. I became excited at the mere thought of them. The flood of emotions swept over me, and I relaxed. I’m a baby, I’m a baby I thought as I just let go, becoming wetter and wetter, my plastic pants leaking out and onto the lawn and leaf bag.

The damndest thing was that I wasn’t always a little baby. Sometimes I was a toddler, maybe one and a half or two. They would take us out of our rooms and into the store. Sometimes I was pushed in a stroller, and sometimes I walked holding her hand. It depended how old I was. Thinking was still a struggle, even when I was two. We’d walk around and she’d pretend to shop, but we would always come to the same place, the same aisle…..the diaper aisle.

Here we’d spend a lot of time and she’d say, “Mommy has to buy her little baby more diapers, doesn’t she, because he’s such a little baby and messes his diapies.”

She’d say it in a derogatory way, making fun of me, and sometimes she’d swat my bottom if we were walking. She’d say other things as well.

“Does baby want a new bottle? Baby want his ba ba?” Then she’d pick packages of plastic pants off the rack.

“Does baby need new panties? How about the pink ones for a baby girl?” She was mean. It was during these times that I noticed there were others, many others and just like me, either walking or being pushed in strollers. I noticed something else. They all seemed to be in distress, little baby faces and little baby eyes, all showing such terror. I wondered, did I look like that? I would always mess myself, mess or wet when we had these confrontations, as if on cue. She would always notice, and she would take such delight in it, some eager sense of vengeance.

“Baby messed his diapers.” She was loud when this happened, and everyone else would stop and look. “Baby messed his diapers, and now I have to change him,” and she would, right there. I think I was crying, always crying at this point. I don’t even know why. It’s not like I had enough cognizance to know what was happening or even who I was, but there was something else, some hidden glimmer of intelligence, the dimmest light of understanding, enough to know that it was happening to the others, shame and punishment, the rehearsed art of being a baby. I am a baby, here in the store, or was I somewhere else?

Nothing made sense. I was upset, distraught and crying, and coughing, coughing up the bottle. It came up vile. She seemed upset when this happened, almost panicked. She dug into her diaper bag, my diaper bag and fished frantically for another bottle that she forced into my mouth. I didn’t want it, struggled to push it away, and as I struggled, I caught sight of her from the corner of my eye, and what I saw was horrible. My mommy had changed, replaced by some horrible scaly creature, just for the slightest moment until the vile fluid was forced down my throat, and the milky narcotic submerged me into baby dreams. Was I home wetting my diaper like I had done so many times before?

I know Dr. Decker was not happy with this last entry. He said we were making so much progress, talking about being left alone at home. He wants me to concentrate on the real world and get that other nonsense out of my head, or I can’t get better. He did ask me some questions however, based on last night’s entry. He wanted to know if I ever wanted to be a little girl, a baby girl because of the creature, the mommy thing, humiliating me. I told him no. He still looked smug, like he knew a secret, my secret. He asked me what color plastic pants I had on. I didn’t answer him. He told me to show him, and I said I wouldn’t. He threatened returning me to the institution, and so I had to pull my pants down, show him my pink carnival plastic pants. I don’t know why the hell I chose those this morning, and I’m mad at myself, letting him win. He actually laughed when he saw them. He apologized for being unprofessional, but he was smirking as he said it, and he knows I noticed! He wanted to go back to my dream, but I insisted it was not a dream. He asked me if I enjoyed sucking from the mommy’s breast and would I still like to do something like that. He could see I was getting madder and madder, yet he kept pushing. I said I didn’t know and broke down.

Uncharacteristically, she left. My mommy left me standing in the diaper aisle. There was a big commotion, and many of the mommies were running around, looking for someone. We were all babies or toddlers, so I was surprised when what appeared to be a four year old ran up to me, and he was talking!

“Don’t drink the milk,” he said. “Don’t drink from them or anything. Then look at them.”

I thought for a moment, was able to think. He was bigger, older and seemed to be aging. He looked five, and his diaper became too tight. He yelled out in pain and ripped it off. I think he was running around and telling others what he told me, and he would have probably continued, but two large hands came down and lifted him up.

“There you are you naughty baby. We’ve been looking for you,” and with that she gave him a spanking which was now on his bare butt.

He was a little bigger still, and he tried to free himself, pushing her hands away from him and he said, “Get off me you fucking bitch!”

I looked at her, and for a moment I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. She was a grotesque monster, almost black, with hard, scaly skin, and I swear she had two small horns coming out of her head. I looked around, at the others, and they were all changing, looking like her, and then they looked at me and it was like they could tell. They knew what I was seeing. The thing pushed her repulsive scaly breast into his mouth, and he screamed, screamed like an eight year old boy. I looked at him, and he was taller, thinner; blond hair and terror lurked behind those pale blue eyes. Black sludge was oozing out of her breast, dripping out of his mouth, down his stomach and onto the floor. She pinched his neck hard, and when he screamed, she shoved her repulsive breast further into his mouth and with her other hand, flattened her misshapen bag, forced whatever foul liquid residing inside her, out and down his throat. At first he coughed and then gagged, but almost immediately he became smaller, his muffled screams becoming higher. I looked again in disbelief, and I saw an infant, pee now running down his leg.

“Cleanup on the diaper aisle,” I heard one of them say, and they all laughed, a laugh so terrifying as nothing I have ever heard coming from this world. I realized, I’m thinking, understanding, and as I looked at myself, I saw that I too was bigger. My mommy, or was it caretaker, suddenly remembered me and came back, loping down the diaper aisle. Something told me to run, run and find a way out. I tried to remember how I had come in, but nothing looked like a regular store. The front seemed closed off, as if I had somehow gotten here a different way. I turned up another aisle, running as fast, and I hate to say it, but as fast as my little legs would carry me. I felt a tightness around my waist, and it hit me, either my diaper was shrinking, or I was getting bigger, just like the other kid or whatever he was. I headed toward the rear of the store, and it seemed to get darker, the shelves bare. The floor was dirty, covered by several years of dust, this area looking like it hadn’t been seen or used for several years. I thought I saw a doorway in the back, when suddenly I was no longer on the floor.

“Got ya, you little monster!”

Before I knew what was happening, she shoved the plastic bottle in my mouth and squeezed, squeezed it with amazing strength as it collapsed and forced the same vile fluid down and inside me. I gagged, and that was my undoing; swallowed, and all at once, it tasted sweet and I was at peace with myself. I longed to be put back into diapers, nice thick diapers and plastic pants. Sleep would be coming like a thief in the night, and when it left, nothing would remain of me as an adult.

Dr. Decker stared at last night’s journal entry and then stared at me. I thought, “Silence lasts an eternity.” Finally he spoke.

“Don’t you see these dreams are symbolic? You want to escape this world, the world of work and responsibilities, and so you dream about being a baby. You couldn’t be a husband to your wife, not only a husband, but the man she needed, and now you’re not even that. You’re a pathetic creature that wears diapers and wants to be a baby, but you can’t be a baby. That has come and gone, and it’s time to take on some responsibility.” Again, he seemed to take some secret pleasure in this, almost leering as he jotted down notes into his ledger. He continued to persist and push into my past, memories I did not want to re-visit.

“Infantilists like you usually have a long history of returning to your repetitive behavior, that of wearing diapers and fantasizing being a baby.”

As he said this, he wrote it into his ledger, but I couldn’t help but see what he was writing, almost as if he was letting me see him write “diaper boy” instead of “infantilist”, and when he wrote it, he snickered. I should have become angry. Furious in fact, but I was too defeated. I simply buried my face in my hands, and at that moment, I felt so little. I sat there and peed into my diaper. He looked up and smiled. He knew what I was doing, and he had the satisfied look of someone who had won. It wouldn’t be long before I was telling him everything, all the things I had struggled to keep hidden.

“Tell me the rest,” he said. “Once you committed to this, the rest must have been easier.”

He was right of course. The first time was intense, extreme, letting go in my diaper, feeling the wetness spread and consume everything. I lay there with a lifetime of desire finally being realized. In my mind, I was the baby I had always wanted to be, those desires building up inside me and exploding in sexual ecstasy. And though I felt guilty and ashamed afterward, that feeling would soon be replaced by desire, and I would have to go out on my bike and get more, this time diapers for bed wetter’s and eventually, adult diapers.

By the time I was in high school I was sneaking around constantly, putting on diapers before I went to sleep. I would tank up on water before bedtime, flushing an unused toilet and fulfilling my fantasies under the sheets. I lived with the perpetual cycle of used diapers, the smell, getting rid of them and replacing them. It became an addiction, and I wanted more and more. Several times I thought I would be caught. My mom would comment about the smell sometimes, and I would make up some lame excuse. I would deliberately leave my dirty clothes lying on the floor so I had something to blame. Eventually that day came when she decided to clean my room. She found the garbage bag in my closet, and it changed everything. There was the confrontation when I came home from school.

She said, “Today I was cleaning that filthy room of yours, and can you guess what I found?” She seemed almost hysterical.

I became angry and defensive. How dare she go into my room, I countered, but I felt ashamed and dirty. She asked me, what’s wrong with you, as if that question didn’t cross my mind each time I would put on a diaper. I pleaded, I’ll stop, honest, I’ll stop, but I couldn’t, and things only got worse. Her knowing changed everything. Somewhere in the back of my mind was that she was not only my mother but my mommy from when I was little. I desperately wanted to be that little boy again, and one frantic night, that happened. I put on an old pair of underwear, snug fitting boxer briefs and my thickest flannel pajamas. I was determined to do this, and I had been excited all day. When bedtime came, I pulled the covers around me, lying on my back. I was little again, maybe three. I relaxed and let the wetness come. I could feel it soak the front of me and run down, down and through the sheets. By this time my mom had put a plastic cover on my mattress, having given up on me. I could feel the bedding around me get wet, ever expanding and still I peed. In the morning, my mom screamed at me, screamed and then called a psychologist. The thrill of defying all normal convention was gone and replaced with shame. I would have to tell a complete stranger that I enjoyed wetting the bed.

I lay there in my crib, diapered and at peace, but something was lingering in my mind, the boy who had warned me. What had he said that was disrupting the one thing that had been euphoria? The acrid poison did not agree with my sensitive stomach, and I had urped some of it up. Now clarity pricked holes of light through the dark shroud of this black, submerged world. I should struggle to free myself, get away from wherever I was, but they had chosen us well, as if they had known us forever and knew what we liked to do when no one was looking. Maybe they were the monsters that lived in our bedroom closets? I thought I should run, try to escape, but another desire lay deeper, stronger, and I wet my diaper. I was a baby. I am a baby, was what I heard inside my head, and I was at peace with that.

“And yet here you are, so convinced that you would forever be a baby, act like one, even wear diapers and mess in them, but here you are in my office. Let me see. Pull down your pants.”

I had to do as he asked, and it suddenly seemed so reminiscent, his control over me, just like the ones who controlled me, had some unearthly power over all of us. I was prepared for this. I couldn’t wear underwear. I wish to God that I could, but he would have won again when I sat there in my own puddle, so I chose a cloth pre-folded diaper and regular, milky white plastic pants. Still, he sniggered. He covered his face as he did it, and it only made it worse. At this point in my therapy, there was nothing I could do, so I quickly pulled up my pants. He pretended to become serious again, pretended to care about my well being, and I had to tell him more, as if his appetite would never be satiated.

“Tell me about your father,” is all he said, but there was this Freudian tone in his statement. I looked up at him, and he was playing with his mustache as if he was the pioneer psychiatrist.

My dad said very little, but there was a distance. Not only did he not want to know, he didn’t want to know me. I went to school and came home. At school, I would think about diapers, about wetting. At home, I would wait until after dinner. It was easy. I’d go to my room to study. Every high school student studied, but most didn’t do it in diapers. I had convinced my parents to let me have the attic. We lived in a Cape Cod house, the attic being somewhat finished off. I painted it, moved my furniture up there and made it home. I think my mom was relieved, out of sight, out of mind. She knew what I was doing. They both did, and I didn’t care. She tolerated it for the most part, though she would make comments and sometimes they were ill timed and hurtful. If I had a friend over, and that wasn’t often, she would find a way to say something like, “Don’t act like a baby”, or, “Quit complaining. Do you need your diapers changed?” It was always uncomfortable.

“And now you were diapered all the time.” This wasn’t a question but rather, a statement of fact and the good doctor seemed to take some satisfaction in it, the same satisfaction my mom took when making fun of me. And yes, I felt compelled to be diapered all the time. I enjoyed it. I would always be diapered, I decided.

She took some delight in it as she changed me.

“You can’t run away from us. You will always be our little baby, diapered and messy, bound to us for all eternity. You will be dressed like a baby: in diapers, plastic panties, onsies, baby clothes, whatever is our whim, and your thoughts will belong to us.”

With that she shoved the bottle into my mouth, and I knew what that meant, because I had slept late, and it had been a while since the last time I was fed. The thought struck me, how they were controlling us, living out their human fantasy and at the same time, punishing the mortal. What pleasure they must be deriving. When we became baby, they felt it, the intense passion of diapers, wetting, and messing. What unholy canker let them out into our world, I wondered?

I deliberately looked away from her, looked aside, but from the slightest corner of my eye, I concentrated on seeing her, just a glimmer from the farthest gray area of my periphery, and in that remote dark region of shadowy eyesight, I could see it for what it really was, hideous and grotesque: demonic. The same was true for my room. It was painted pale blue, baby blue, and there were pictures of baby ducks, chicks and bunnies on the wall. I had accepted all of this from the beginning, my rebirth, but since my encounter with the strange boy, I began to look. I had first noticed these things as shadows, lurking in the cobwebs of my sight. In the beginning they frightened me, like a baby’s night terrors. The mommy thing would come in the middle of the night, what seemed like night, pick me up and comfort me. She would feel my diaper, put her finger down there and touch, exclaim, “Baby’s wet,” but she would set me down in my crib and tell me to go to sleep, or she would feed me if I resisted, again that abhorrent substance calming me, returning me to baby. But the encounter with the strange child had changed me in some small way. I was beginning to see and what’s more, reason.

I have tried to get this out of my memory, wished to God it could be erased, but it’s still there, resting and dormant, in those same abstract recesses where vision just begins, where the unseen is born into our brain as an image, breaking into whatever reality our brain has chosen for its home.

There was no baby room, no baby blue walls with duckies and baby chicks. There was only the stinking grotto of some subterranean dungeon dug beneath whatever pretended to be a department store. The walls were earthen, carved rock, and water was seeping down, creating a moldy green slime. I’d blink, and it would be gone, gone until I’d concentrate again, peer beyond the boundaries of vision, only to see it again and again, lurking like a persistent nightmare. It made me sick. Everything here made me sick, what I had become, my helplessness, diapers, too many diapers, and so I vomited, again and again, and the dark demonic sludge came out of me, purifying me, and when that happened, I could see everything.

Something inside my head said, “Escape!”

With my stomach purged of the vile oozed bodily substance from the mommy beast’s demonic breast, I grabbed the crib rail and tried to climb out. At first I was too small and weak, but I knew I would just have to wait. As my head cleared, I became more aware of my surroundings. I could see through the dimness of the grotto, small cave after cave, cribs and babies in each one. I noticed a creature checking on one of the captive infants, and I quickly ducked down. I mustn’t get caught. Not now. I was more aware, aware of myself. I touched my diaper, felt the smoothness of the plastic pants, its softness. I pushed it against my skin, and the sensation of my wet diaper flooded me with memories from when I would do this in my former life, do it and enjoy it, pretend I was a baby. I was wet, and for the first time, I could smell that I needed changed. In fact, I could smell the whole subterranean nursery, and the smell was overwhelming. I almost gagged again. My diaper, wet against my skin, was beginning to have its affect, driving me crazy. The thought crossed my mind; just lay back down in my crib and wet again, be the baby you always dreamed about, but I knew if I did that one more time, I would die here.

Dr. Decker looked at last night’s journal entry and was his usual displeased self. He wrote in his journal, looked up at the ceiling and then looked straight at me, into my eyes: through my eyes.

He said, “They found you wandering the highway at three in the morning, naked. You were babbling incoherently, talking in some sort of baby talk, according to the police report. They would have put you in jail for indecent exposure, but they deemed you mentally incompetent and took you to the hospital instead.”

I wasn’t incoherent, I interrupted, but he went on like anything I said didn’t matter, and why should it. I’m considered insane. Delusional. He won’t give me a name for what I am other than the symptoms such as self destructive, depressed, a loner and of course, infantilist. He seems to take some delight in that one and still has a sneer on his face when he says it ….infantile.

“Don’t you see,” he began, “what you wrote indicates you want to get better, to escape from that which you have become. You don’t want to act like a baby, wear babyish clothes, suck a pacifier and worse…” and here he began to laugh, “wear diapers and actually use them, peeing and pooping.”

He began to laugh harder, and when he did, I had to turn away, turn away in shame, and when I did, turned away, just for a moment, in the corner of my eye, the farthest reaches of the brain decoding its surroundings, I saw him for what he really was….

My diaper was getting tight on me, and I could feel myself as bigger, maybe that of a six year old. I climbed out of my crib and ran, ran not knowing where, ran in the dark letting some inner presence guide me through the dark catacombs of caves and cribs, babies who once were grown adults with real adult lives, maybe families, wives and children, but who for whatever reason, had been drawn to this place, stopping for coffee.

I saw another one, misshapen, loping on legs that were more bird like, but thicker, dark and scaly. She had come from one tunnel and gone into another, tending to what I heard as a baby squalling. Poor soul, I thought, and then I wondered, where were all these souls going, caught in this baby purgatory? Was there some eternal punishment for people like us, held captive forever in baby land, languishing in our own filth and mess? I hoped not, but rather, that we were all still living with some hope of escape. I was determined that I would be that one, the one who got away.

I ducked into a cave baby room and crawled under the crib and its occupant. I waited until the creature moved on, but as I waited, I couldn’t help but wonder: who resided above me, diapered and living this lie, at peace, forever a baby? I had to see, and once I thought it was safe, I stood up and looked through the crib slats. There was a sleeping blond haired boy, asleep and happy in this world of diapers and teddy bears, baby blankets and bottles. I looked deep into his cherubic face, his blond curls, and suddenly I gasped. It was the boy who warned me, the boy who just a little while ago, had so desperately wanted to escape. What had happened to him that he now looked so contented? He was quietly sucking his thumb as he rested forever in infant sleep.

It appeared safe to leave, and even though I wanted to wake him up, somehow save him, in my heart, I knew it was too late. I peered out from his room, gave one last look backward and quietly moved out into the tunnel. Before, it had been a hall, but not now. My diaper was starting to pinch me around my waist, and I knew I would have to get rid of it. When I unsnapped the last safety pin, I felt suddenly free. The wet diaper fell to the floor, and it was as if they had lost control, the pull to return to my crib was fading. I tore off my baby shirt and left that behind as well, all of this being discarded in the last refuge of baby hell.

I had remembered that creature carrying me from the store to my room. It seemed like a short, straight trip from the play room of baby things to my nursery, but I knew that couldn’t be real because I was somewhere else, somewhere deep beneath what was the store, the place that once attracted me with its toys, toddler and infant wear and mostly, baby diapers. I carefully looked both ways as I poked out of the illusion of nursery and headed down the tunnel. Again the smell assaulted me, smells of nurseries but something else as well, and then it struck me. This was a sewer, or something like a sewer. Everything about it reeked, and the smell triggered a long past memory. Our septic system had overflowed one spring, the ground wet and spongy from our own waste. My dad, in an effort to save money, got the shovel from out of the garage and started digging; dug until he hit something hard. At about that time, the septic people arrived with their truck, and together they pried the lid off the cesspool.

“Look at that,” my dad said, and then he picked me up and hung me over it.

“Maybe you’d like to go for a swim.”

He dangled me until I screamed, and my mom yelled at him from the porch. He called me a baby, and that night, up in my room, I proved him right.

I crept on, trying not to run into one of those things, and as I felt my way in the dark, it occurred to me that this place could have been created out of my dreams and nightmares. The earthen floor of the grotto was wet and slippery, and again I thought of the septic system and my dad. Was there no end to this, and then I saw some light, dim and diffuse. I was about to run to it when one of them suddenly appeared from a side passageway. I ducked into another nursery. From under the crib I could hear the child above me, breathing softly in and out like a baby. When I thought it was safe, I stood up and looked in, and I realized I could look down. I had grown. I was aware of my body, and it appeared that I might be fourteen. I ran my hand across my chest and stomach and for a moment, enjoyed being that young and beautiful. The child stirred and brought me back to where I was. It had tried to trick me again, ever reaching out to bring me back. I could have youth forever if I stayed here. I quickly left and headed straight for the light.

There seemed to be some commotion going on with the caretakers as there were several coming and going throughout the tunnels. I made my way carefully, ducking into various nurseries, looking out and making sure that it was safe enough to continue. Each nursery grotto was a little different, different baby animals, different colors, though it was hard to see in the dim and repressive dark of this subterranean hell. My salvation lay in the light before me, light that would take me up and into the store. As I got closer I could see my surroundings better, see how putrid the earthen walls were. Something made me look up, a sound of dripping water, and when I did, I could see large rusted pipes slowly dripping the refuge that confirmed my suspicion, that this was some sort of demonic sewer buried beneath the store, a place of business I was soon to discover, for now the light was apparent. It was a lone dirty bulb hanging from the ceiling, directing me to what appeared to be the only way out: a slippery stone stairway that led up.

There were no hand railings, nothing that suggested that the steps were made by humans. The stones were rough hewn, and the stairway itself looked like some singular force created it. The light hurt my eyes, dim as it was, and I guessed I wasn’t used to it, deprived of sunshine and anything wholesome. I slipped and fell in my attempt to escape the lair of my captors, and then, finally, there it was, the floor that belonged to the original store, and for once, I could see where I was and what had attracted me to it in the first place. It was a Tykes R Them store. Suddenly, it all made sense. I had to step out onto the tile floor as there was no stairwell, no railing. It was apparent that they, whatever they were, had blasted a hole through the floor and downward into the subterranean tunnels. Either that or, and now my mind was racing, they had blasted up from below, from the twisted hell where they had come and punched their way into this abandoned store whose business was selling baby things, diapers and plastic pants, baby clothes and strollers, pacifiers, baby blankets and toys, all for little children. What had been the products designed for parents who loved their children had become the means to dominate the few like myself, those who never stopped being that little child, the ones who were loved and babied or needed love and wanted to be in that world forever.

I looked toward the front of the store knowing that the sliding glass doors would be there, just like the ones I first saw when I stopped for coffee, but they weren’t. That too had been an illusion, used to deceive the few who wanted what lie beyond. They were blocked and chained as one might find on most abandoned buildings. I would have to find another way out, and then I remembered the back of the store and the door that waited for me. There was only one fluorescent ceiling light on, enough to enable the guardians to see, to observe but not enough to be seen by an outside world. I hoped it would work in my favor, especially since I would be making my way to the back where the light stopped and the unknown began. I wasn’t sure which aisle to take, which aisle would conceal my presence. To the far end were the baby clothes, onsies and baby shirts, little tiny skirts and toddler shirts and shorts. I thought that might be my best escape route because I could crawl through the racks of clothes unseen, but first I had to walk through the front of the store. The radiating fluorescent made me vulnerable to any watchful presence, and so I would have to duck down an aisle and cross over. I quickly ran past two aisles and dodged left, down a random aisle to what I thought would get me to the toddler clothes, but it was my undoing. I had chosen the diaper aisle. As I look back, I wonder if I was being controlled, if some entity was laughing as I haphazardly chose that aisle. I rather think it chose me, as my progress suddenly stopped.

I looked at all the diapers, baby diapers and larger ones for toddlers, cloth diapers, trainers and plastic pants. I had to touch them, feel them. I realized I was in the store alone, like a childish dream I used to have, alone in the baby aisle with hundreds of diapers to rip out of their packaging and try on. Plastic disposables and cloth diapers, baby pins and plastic pants and me here in this lonely and abandoned store, ready to put one on and use it, finally achieving that illusive bliss. The thought came to me, putting on the diaper and letting the warm flow consume its very fabric, warmth and wet consuming me as I became younger and younger, forever a baby. Without warning, I was jarred to my senses by a horrible shriek, something so demonic and inhuman that I instantly knew what it meant. I had been discovered. I ran.

There was no thought of hiding and crawling, no time for stealth. From the hole they came, hopping out of it, one after another. They split up, each loping down an aisle, their grotesque bird like gate, running and searching. I ran for the darkest part of the store and hoped that there was a door and not another illusion. There were shadows now as I ran farther from the naked ceiling fixture, and I zigged into one and then another. I ran past the strollers and tricycles and into the abandoned section where only bare and filthy shelves made their home. I stayed close to them, trying desperately to infuse myself into the shadows that they cast, and then, there it was: the back of the store and the one solitary door. There was a sign above it. Employees Only, it said. I had made it. Release from this madness was only a few feet away, the end of the aisle and space where once baby products were stacked ten feet high for mothers who loved their children. The door was mine as I ran for it, ran and suddenly was lifted off my feet by something that wasn’t the least hindered by my adult weight.

I jerked my head around to see even though I knew what was happening, knew what terrible thing had hold of me and had lifted me with its hands under my armpits like I was still a small toddler.

“You’ve been a naughty boy,” it said, not in the sweet mommy voice I had remembered but this time with a deep and gravely demonic puissance. I was suddenly sick to my stomach.

“You’ve been a naughty baby,” it said again. “You know you want to come back to us, back to baby dreams and diapers,” and with that, the beast held a diaper up to my face, my wet discarded diaper from the tunnels.

It held me with such ease, holding me with its one arm wrapped around my chest and with the other, pushed the wet diaper into my front, the softness of the wet cloth held against me, and now, I wanted the diaper, the wetness enfolding me and making me feel forever little. I looked again into its face, and it was the beautiful young mommy who once took care of me, sang lullabies and mostly, put me in diapers. I could feel myself getting smaller, and my mind drifted, the peace of baby thoughts clouded my mind. But something else spoke to me, reminded me of whom I once was. I reached down and felt the diaper, its wetness and comfort. I also felt something else, the long metal safety pin that held them forever on me. I knew it was my last hope, and with one quick motion, I pulled it from the cloth, pulled the pin straight out with my waning strength and plunged it into the eye of the most beautiful young woman I ever saw: ever would see.

A great unholy scream came out of her, mouth torn open, yellow horrid teeth exposed, her head tilted back as black ooze gushed out of her eye and down that grotesque face. She immediately dropped me, and when she did, I ran through the door and into blackness. There was another back room. I searched frantically for another door, and then I felt it, the cold long steel bar that we all have pushed to let ourselves out; push the bar and the door opens, I told myself, and then there I was, standing in the night, the real night with its hot sticky air blowing against me, city lights in the distance and the still warm black macadam back parking lot under my bare feet. A scaly black hand reached out from the door frame, grabbed my shoulder, and the voice in my head said, Run!”

“Well here we are again,” said Dr. Decker, the same tiring story you tell me every week, again and again. Look here in your journal,” and he flipped through the pages, and there was my story, repeating.

Each week I write it down, and each week he gets angry, saying I can never get better. But I am getting better, oh so much better. I see him now, see him for what he is, see him from the corner of my eye, his grotesque shape and bird like legs. I see them everywhere, in the grocery store, on the bus and even when I stop to get coffee at Starbucks. The girl who makes my latté is always pleasant enough, but when I look away, I really see her. I know she’s laughing at me, knows what I am and what I like to do when I’m home alone. They’ve infiltrated themselves into our world. They sell us our clothes, teach our kids and run our country. There’s just a few, but they’re growing, little by little, more of them on the streets. I see them, and they see me.

I am insane. Legally I’m insane, and so I must see Dr. Decker as part of my release. When the police officer found me, I was walking aimlessly down the highway, unclothed. He put me in the back of his patrol car and drove to the hospital. He said I wasn’t making much sense. I have since talked to him, and he told me something interesting. Though it never made the news, they had found several like me over the past few months, walking around naked, all in close proximity to the old Tykes R Them building. In all instances, each one of us was talking like a baby, baby talk he called it. Apparently, I was the last one. Several days later they broke into the old store but found nothing, just an abandoned big box building. I asked him about the hole in the floor, and he said that there was something strange, that there had been some broken floor tiles, and instead of finding concrete, there was dirt. He said they didn’t dig into it. Why would they, he asked me. He also said that there were a few abandoned cars in the back and that they were registered to known missing persons.

I used to wear diapers because it was something I enjoyed, but not anymore. Now I have to wear them. As I said, I will always be in diapers. They saw to that. They knew what I wanted, always wanted, and they made it come true. I live alone in my small apartment. It looks like a nursery. I buy things without thinking, baby things and bring them home. I’m no longer continent, something Dr. Decker finds amusing. I have to stay away from the baby aisle in the grocery store or I will regress, talk baby talk and wet my diaper on the spot. People stare at me, and I’m ashamed. There is nothing I can do about it. But it is nightfall when they invade my thoughts and dreams. It is in the night that I am back in the grotto, a prisoner of my own desires. I am baby again and again. I feel myself getting smaller: watch my arms and legs get smaller, my skin pink and smooth. They have done their work well, and she was right, the mommy. They will always own me, my passion and my desires. And when I’m sleeping, I never know if I am in my room….. or down there with them.