Affirmations of Infancy

Hhhnnnn? Huuhhh? Wha- whassa- going- on…?

I stir sleepily in place, slowly becoming aware of so many things. Not only the familiar, warm comfort of the mattress and sheets beneath me, but the gentle brush of fingers over my thighs… the cool kiss of air as the blankets slip back… and the warm, lilting voice of my dear Mommy-wife.

"Shh, baby. It's okay! It's all right…" I crack one eye open as I feel a soft, yet insistent probing in the general vicinity of my crotch. "Did my dearest little baby sleep well?", she asks, a sweet smile wreathing her lovely face. "Did he have lovely little dreams?"

The probing has now ceased, only to be replaced with the gentle thrust and brush of fingers beneath what I now remember is… oh, yeah. My… onesie. And my… diaper.

I blink up into the soft morning light, a shiver of delight and embarrassment rippling through me as I realize what's going on. Mommy's- she's, she's checking me. Checking – just like she would check a little toddler – to see if I'm wet. "I, uh- I…" I begin, and now I'm squirming upright, trying to remind myself that in all actuality I'm no baby – I'm a thirty-one year-old guy. So of course there's no reason on earth why I should be waking up in a diaper, let alone a wet one! "I slept good. Yeah, I- I did…"

But what's with the look of disappointment on Mommy's face?

"Aww, well, that's good!" she tells me, with a wry smile and a final motherly pat of my onesie- and diaper-clad crotch. "You sure about that though, honey? You're completely dry – and Mommy knows that's definitely not how little babies should wake up." She leans down, her cleavage now mere tantalizing inches from my face as she presses one soft hand against my forehead. "You sure you feel okay, honey? You do feel a little warm. Here, maybe I should check your temperature another way…"

Of course I splutter that I feel fine, blushing all the while. And of course she smiles, and shrugs, and rises from the bed with an air of maternal resolve. "Okay then, baby! I bet you're just dehydrated, huh? Here, let's go ahead and get you your breakfast. Mommy will make sure you get an extra juice bottle, just to make sure…"

Well, it's Sunday morning. And we've agreed that I can be in baby mode most weekends. And since there's really not much to do besides obey, that's exactly what I do: scramble out of bed, crinkle out from the bedroom, and settle down in my chair, before which Mommy is already placing a lovely, warm bowl of oatmeal and a baby bottle full of my favorite cranberry juice.

It's all delicious.

"Now, then, baby," Mommy admonishes at last, and I glance up over the curvature of my nearly-empty – and yes, second – bottle. "We've talked about how important it is that you obey your Mommy, haven't we?" I nod, a flash of almost juvenile guilt stabbing through me despite my not having done anything amiss. "And you remember how Mommy explained just how important your diaper training is, don't you?"

I nod again, cheeks warming at the term. Oh, the power that phrase has over me! Diaper training: the exact opposite of potty training. The process by which I will be gradually conditioned and taught to ignore my bodily urges. To let go wherever I am. To let my muscles regress into a precontinent state of soft, instinctive relaxation. And most of all, to trust that my diapers and my Mommy will protect me from the soggy, messy consequences of my own bodily functions.

"Uh-huh," I manage, after downing the last drops of juice and sheepishly handing the bottle back to Mommy. Now that I'm fully awake, my bladder is sending me uncomfortable reminders of just how long it has been since last I emptied it. I'm diapered, of course – and I know I'm going to be diapered all day. There's no question that I'm going to end up flooding my pants… and yes, I admit that as a confirmed kinkster I'm going to love every second of it. But right now…

Well, with Mommy lecturing me, somehow the idea of sitting there listening to her while actively soiling myself just seems more pathetically infantile than anything I've yet done.

"Then you're going to understand how important it is that you do what Mommy says," she smiles, and motions me up from the table. "Come with me, baby. I've got a very special game for you. It's the perfect game for a poor little baby who hasn't even learned yet how to wake up wet…"

God, what an absolutely marvelous mind-fuck it is, I find myself thinking, trotting obediently after her into our snug little home office. Instead of scolding me for an accident, as any ordinary mother might do, she's reprimanding me for not wetting myself. For being too silly to wet in my sleep. For not having progressed and learned enough just yet to actually be a confirmed bedwetter.

Yeah. She's incredible, isn't she?

But her next steps admittedly take me by surprise. There before me is our laptop, a blank document filling the screen. "No, no chairs for baby," she smiles, and I clumsily obey, settling awkwardly down onto my knees before it. "And here – I really don't think you're going to need this hand, either." Out from a drawer she produces one of my locking mittens, and as I squirm in growing alarm, she slips it snugly over my right hand and locks it in place.

This is getting… interesting. Because I don't know that I mentioned this, but I'm right-handed.

"You're going to write some lines for Mommy this morning," she explains, her lilting, condescending tone setting my tummy even more aflutter than it already is. "Mommy really can't have you waking up all nasty and dry anymore, okay? You really need to learn, baby: babies like you wear diapers, and they use them night and day."

She giggles softly as I glance up, mouth opening in feeble protest – and before I know it, she's popped one of my pacifiers inside. "Oh, hush now, dear! It's simple, really. All you're going to do is write some lines for me, okay? Write this: 'I am a baby, and babies always wake up wet.'"

Oh… god.

"Whhoooww mmiiihh-eeee ffhhiiyymmffh?" I manage from behind my paci, and she giggles once more at my infantile lisping. "Oh, sweetie, I really can't understand you when you have your paci in! But in case you're wondering how many times you need to write it? Hmm…" She cocks her head as if in consideration, then shrugs and pats me on the shoulder. "Oh, let's just say two hundred times."

Two hundred?! Left-handed?!

Well, nothing for it but to begin. Which I do slowly, my uncoordinated fingers pecking out the humiliating affirmation word by word. I. am. a. baby. and. babies. always. wake. up. wet.

"What a good baby!" she praises in saccharine-sweet exuberance as I finish the first sentence, and I blush as she deals an affectionate thwack to my padded behind. "Oh, but before I forget…"

Over my ears she slips a pair of noise-isolating earphones, and silence descends suddenly – broken only by the occasional thump of my elbow on the desk and the sound of my own pacifier-muted breathing. What the heck…?! Behind me, Mommy is doing something on her own computer. Something I can't quite make out here without my contacts…

"I am a baby, and babies always wake up wet." The crisp, robotic voice of a digital female echoes in my ears now, and I almost drop my paci. What the-? I turn, half-shocked and half-confused, to Mommy – and she laughs and lifts one ear of the headphones. "Oh, sweetie, what's the matter? I thought you might enjoy hearing your own pretty words read back to you! You know, seeing as how babies like you aren't very good at reading – especially when there's a paci in your mouth…"

She's- she's giving me hypnotic audio. She's forcing me to… to write my own hypnotic mantras. Oh… oh, god-

"I am a baby, and babies always wake up wet." Peck, peck, peck. "I am a baby, and babies always wake up wet. I am a baby and-" Peck, peck, peck. "I am a baby, and babies always wake up wet. I am a baby, and babies always wake up wet." It's looping: reading out the entire document one sentence after the other before circling back to the beginning and starting once more. As I clumsily type out word after embarrassing word, I realize that the longer I'm here, the more humiliating sentences this tireless, sadistic audio program is going to speak into my ears. With every minute that passes, I'll be listening to my Mommy's mandated words, kneeling here, being forced to let them sear their way deeper and ever deeper into my poor and helpless mind…

"I am a baby, and babies always wake up wet. I am a baby, and babies always wake up wet. I am a baby, and babies always wake up wet."

I suck harder on my pacifier. And take a shaky breath in… and then out. Relaxing my muscles in groveling, abject submission. And feeling, at long last, the wet trickle and then hot flood of my night-swollen bladder, emptying out between my legs, blossoming into my thirsty, rapidly swelling diaper.

Exactly as should have happened hours before. In my sleep. Because, you know…

I am a baby. And babies always wake up wet.