Sent Back and Diapered at Daycare — Part 14 (Conclusion)

The following story contains adult content and is intended only for adult readers over the age of 18. Any characters depicted in adult situations are over the age of 18. This story is entirely fictional and has been written and shared for entertainment purposes only.

“I am furious with you, young man. Furious!” My Mom railed as she dragged me by the ear kicking and screaming down the daycare hallway.

She had just arrived to pick me up from daycare, and was not pleased to find that I had been demoted to the toddler room and diapers in her absence.

“I’ve already been filled in with a few of the details of your unacceptable, babyish behavior today that landed you in the toddler room since I dropped you off. Let alone that also led to you needing to be put back in… diapers! Diapers of all things, at your age! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

I squealed and writhed and pleaded as she dragged me down the daycare hallway, still wearing nothing but my diaper, all to no avail.

As she scolded me, the dozens of other kids in the hall, parents, and other onlookers all stared at me in mixtures of either amusement, disgust, or pity, as they watched me paraded through the hall in my damp, infantile attire.

It was hard to tell what was more embarrassing. Being exposed to all these gawking strangers in such a humiliating state… or reckoning with the fact that my own Mom was now looking at me, her own son, wearing baby diapers again. Just like the ones she herself used to change on me.

“And by the way,” my Mom continued scolding me, “I’ve already heard enough about your unacceptable conduct today to earn you a lifetime of punishment, as far as I’m concerned. But we’re still going straight to your daycare principal’s office right now, because we are not setting one foot outside of this daycare until I heard every last detail of your appalling, babyish behavior today.”

As I helplessly moaned and squealed, I racked my brain, genuinely trying to remember exactly what I did that was so wrong.

Was it lying? Was it breaking one of the many, many arbitrary rules? Was it something else, one of the seemingly endless offenses my daycare teachers seemed to charge me with and punish me for throughout that day?

But ultimately, I knew it didn’t matter.

My Mom was right. She had dropped me off as an adult… and returned to discover that I had been demoted to the status of a pathetic, pants-wetting, toddler.

The proof… was in the diapers.

* * *

“Excuse me, Miss Turner?” My Mom asked, knocking on her office door while I continued squirming in her vindictive grasp. “You mentioned you had a minute to meet with me and Lucas before we leave today?”

“Oh, of course!” Miss Turner smiled, welcoming us in.

My Mom immediately marched me into the corner of Miss Turner’s office and shoved my nose in the corner.

“Hands above your head and don’t move a muscle until I say otherwise. Got it? The adults need to have a talk,” she scolded.

“Yes, Mommy,” I squeaked through teary eyes.

I felt my Mom hovering behind me for a second, looking me up and down. She shook her head and clucked her tongue in disgust.

“Really, Lucas? Diapers? You’re really back in diapers? I can still hardly believe my eyes.”

I felt her give my crinkly, diapered bottom a squeeze, then stick her fingers down the front.

“And it looks like you’ve already wet yourself again, too! Well, that’s just perfect,” she scoffed in disgust. “You know, I never thought I did everything perfect while raising you. But I thought I at least potty-trained you. It’s too bad to find out that’s apparently not even the case.”

At that point, I burst into hysterical, bawling tears of humiliation and shame.

“Oh yes, go ahead and cry, baby boy. Cry all you want. Because that’s just what little babies do, don’t they?” My Mother said, giving my diapered butt more mocking pats and squeezes. “Just do your Mommy one favor, okay little stinker? Try not to poop your diapee and stink up the place while your Mommy and your teacher are talking, okay? Can you at least do that for us?”

I gave a humiliated, frantic nod, despite my tears. “Yesh, Mommy!”

“Good baby,” my Mom sarcastically replied, leaving me to stand in the corner, crying in my diaper while she returned to Miss Turner to resume their conversation.

At first, I found it too hard to listen in to their discussion over the sounds of my humiliated sobbing.

And even worse, I was soon distracted by a now familiar, aching pain developing below my tummy. What I now recognized as a full bladder.

But unlike how I had spent the past several hours, absorbed in my baby-like bliss, I was now thoroughly in the headspace of a supposed adult, and I was now appalled by my diaper… and even ten times more appalled by the idea of using it.

And yet, despite my reluctance and shame, it was as if my bladder’s muscle memory retained its newly learned habit, anyway. And soon, with a defeated, whimpering, pathetic moan…

Hisssssssssssss

I flooded my exposed, disposable diaper like a baby, squirming as I helplessly felt the familiar, naughty warmth of my pee rapidly soaking into my crinkly, diapered crotch.

I bowed my head and squeezed my eyes shut, now feeling even ten times more pathetic in my newly soaked diaper than I felt just moments ago.

And that’s when I started to overhear some of what my Mom and Miss Turner were discussing. And I realized my utter humiliation was still only just about to begin.

* * *

“Well, one of the things that was most alarming was the way he wet his pants so soon after arriving. Then, he denied it and even started absurdly blaming his urine soaked pants on some of the other, younger students,” I heard Miss Turner explain to my Mom.

“Oh my gosh. And so he peed himself? Was it just some accidental dribbling? Perhaps some typical, careless, teenage boy behavior?” My Mom asked.

“Oh no, Mrs. Jones. This was a full-blown flood. The type we only see for totally non-potty-trained students,” Miss Turner replied.

“Oh my gosh,” my Mom remarked, letting out a huge sigh. “Well I completely understand why you had to put him back in diapers. You hardly had a choice, really. I’m just so sorry it happened here, where you and your staff had to deal with it.”

“Oh, well, we appreciate that, but really, that part in particular isn’t a problem for us,” Miss Turner explained. “We’re actually surprisingly well-equipped to deal with changing diapers for non-potty-trained boys Lucas’s age. See, our facility and diaper-changing room is actually classified as an S-1 facility for exactly these purposes. Believe it or not, we have experience dealing with these sorts of advanced issues with different groups of special needs students in the past.”

“Well, that’s incredible, thank you so much for stepping up to such an unexpected and tall task,” my Mom said. “But I guess I’m still so confused… I mean Lucas has never had wetting issues like this at home.”

“I know, I know,” Miss Turner answered. “And that’s part of why I wanted to talk with you about everything before you leave today. Because I think you may be unaware of just how deep-seated Lucas’s… issue is.”

“What do you mean?” My Mom asked.

“Well, let me put it this way,” Miss Turner continued. “The technical, psychological diagnosis for what Lucas exhibited here today is involuntary latent infantile regression. It’s a rare psycho-physiological phenomenon we see most often with boys like Lucas. At least according to the description of his chronic misbehavior that you described for us. As an S-1 incontinence facility, we have some speciality dealing with these types of cases, as well, which makes it easier for us to recognize.”

“My god… diagnosis? Really? What does all that mean?” My Mom asked again.

“Well, even though it may seem like Lucas’s pants wetting was out of the blue here, it’s likely he’s been having accidents or wetting himself for some time,” Miss Turner explained. “He’s probably just gotten good at hiding it, thinking his problem will just go away if he ignores it or blames it on others, like we saw him do this morning. In fact, earlier, he pretty much admitted as such to me and other staff members when we asked him directly about his infantile habits.”

My eyes widened in quiet disbelief. Did I really admit such a thing? Was she referring to the humiliating discussions of my… ‘sticky’ accidents? I was too frazzled to possibly figure it out. Every word I was overhearing felt so impossibly overwhelming.

“Oh my gosh. I guess I have seen some disturbing… stains in his underpants that have gotten worse over the past few years,” my Mom said, much to my horror.

“Uh-huh. Exactly,” Miss Turner said. “That’s exactly the kind of thing we look for. And well, what’s even more alarming, once we put Lucas back in a diaper, he not only started freely wetting himself, despite us asking him to request to use the potty when he had to go, instead. He also… well… maybe you should see exactly what he did for yourself. Take a look on my screen here.”

“Is this a video?” My Mom asked.

“Yes. We have video baby monitors in the diaper changing room for exactly this reason. Because we find it can help a lot for parents in your position to… well… see for themselves how serious the issue is,” Miss Turner explained.

There was a long pause. My heart started pounding. Video?? I thought to myself in horror. This couldn’t be happening…

I finally heard the sound of a video start playing. Of Miss Turner talking to me while I was on the changing table at one point earlier that day…

“Oh… oh no…” I heard my Mom mutter as she watched the video play. “Is that…”

“It is,” Miss Turner explained. “It’s a poopy diaper. A very poopy diaper that Lucas made for us earlier today. I wanted you to see for yourself how serious his infantile regression is. He took a massive, unassisted poop in his diaper. And he seemed so unconcerned about it, he lied to us again about it even happening, forcing us to ‘sniff him out’ and change him just like a poopy baby.”

“I… I… I can’t believe it. It’s… mortifying. I was joking when I put him in the corner about him not pooping his pants. I can’t believe he actually pooped his pants like a baby! My god… my god… he really messed himself like a stinky baby…”

“And as you can see, it was no small accident,” Miss Turner said. “He was truly one, stinky, messy, poopy boy.”

“I’m so sorry you had to wipe his poopy butt like that. I haven’t had to do that since he was an actual baby!” My Mom said. “I’m… just so embarrassed. So embarrassed that my son was such a little stinker, and I had no idea.”

“I know, I know. And really, it’s okay. Like I said, we’re equipped and trained to deal with these sorts of… stinky accidents,” Miss Turner said in a comforting tone. “But the reason I wanted to show you is because I wanted to help you understand… once a boy in Lucas’s position reaches this level of infantile behavior, it’s unlikely to ever get better. In fact, it’s probably only going to get worse from here on out. It seems that all it took was putting him back in the diaper he needed to kickstart a process that’s likely been dormant for some time, waiting to emerge, and manifesting itself as chronic misbehavior in all sorts of other ways till now.”

My head was spinning. Was any of this true? Was Miss Turner just making it all up? What if it was true? I quietly shuddered in horror at the thought. There was no way… I tried to convince myself.

“But… are you certain about all of this? That it’s really some sort of… permanent condition?” My Mom asked. “After all, when I arrived and found him dressed in a diaper, I was sure it was all a consequence of him just acting out and being disobedient again. I figured the proper stern punishment would put him back in place and make him take some responsibility for himself and his potty habits again quick enough that the diaper would just be a humiliating, one day lesson for him…”

“I understand why you would think that,” Miss Turner said in a calm voice. “But I think you still don’t understand how severe his condition is. In fact, I’m sure that while we’ve been having this discussion, he’s likely wet himself again since you last checked him.”

“No…” I heard my Mom mutter.

I blushed hot red in silence… knowing Miss Turner was right. I had, practically involuntarily, already wet myself yet again.

“Anyway,” Miss Turner continued, “the point I want to impress on you is that responding with punishments that don’t understand the limits of Lucas’s new, rapidly worsening, infantile psychological condition are likely only going to be counter-productive. And instead, we think it’s critical that you start to treat him appropriately for the age he’s rapidly regressing to.”

“And what age is that?” My Mom asked.

“Between one and three years old, sans-potty-training, from what we can tell so far,” Miss Turner explained. “But don’t worry. Because when you continue his enrollment here, we will be able to continue deploying our experience and specialized resources to hone in on his appropriate behavioral range.”

“I see,” I heard my Mom reply.

There was a long silence.

“You know,” my Mom said quietly, “when I brought him here this morning, the plan was just to enroll him back in daycare here for one day. You know, to embarrass him and scare him straight. I didn’t think that he would be such a misbehaved, literal baby…”

She trailed off. In baffled, humiliated awe, I realized the full weight of the situation’s irony. I had been right this morning about my Mom not being serious about daycare for the whole summer. And yet, here I was, seemingly about to make what I feared the most, happen, by consequence of my own pathetic, infantile behavior…

“I know that was the plan, Mrs. Jones,” Miss Turner said. “But plans change. And the important thing is, now we can give Lucas the care he actually needs. And please, believe me, this is not your fault. You can’t help that your son is still a big, diaper-wetting, diaper-pooping, fussy baby, at his age. You did your best to try to raise him to be an adult. Even though that didn’t happen, there’s nothing you could have done differently.”

I heard my Mom sniffle and I sensed she was getting emotional. I succumbed to new waves of humiliation and shame, and I started crying again, this time feeling more ashamed than ever that I let my Mom down. That I failed to grow up, and instead… I was now just a big baby.

After a long pause, I heard my Mom sniffling and drying her tears. “Forgive me, because I know I’ve already asked this… but are you absolutely certain about all this. Are you 100%, without a doubt, sure? How can you be?”

This time, I heard Miss Turner sigh. “I understand why you’re asking that. And I understand why you want to be so certain. I think it’s completely reasonable. I just… wanted to avoid this last piece of evidence out of concern that it would be hardest on you. But I suppose we should face it head on.”

“What are you talking about?” My Mom asked.

“You see, Mrs. Jones, Lucas isn’t just a diaper wetter, and a diaper pooper. He’s… an infantile chronic masturbator.”

“What? No… You’re not serious…”

“I’m afraid I am,” Miss Turner said. “He’s so troubled in this regard, we already have video evidence of him ejaculating several times throughout the day, even on the diaper changing table.”

“No… oh my god… no… You mean even in his…?”

“Yes, even in his poopy diapers,” Miss Turner answered.

“No… no… no…” my Mom muttered in horror.

“I know it’s the hardest pill of all to swallow, but it’s how we know Lucas’s condition is as serious as it is,” Miss Turner explained. “Only boys with severe, onset, incontinent infantilism could manage to do something so unquestionably perverse and self-destructive as play with themselves and ejaculate in soggy, poopy diapers. In my professional opinion, knowing how hopelessly addicted he is to playing with himself already, it would be unquestionably dangerous to leave him unsupervised and to his own devices in any situation from now on. Like I said, we can safely predict this issue will only get rapidly worse.”

My cheeks felt like they were on fire. I was mortified beyond comprehension. Was it true? Was I… out of control? I felt so filled with abject humiliation.

“You said… video evidence?” My Mom asked in a quiet voice.

“Yes,” Miss Turner said. “But of course, I really wanted to spare you the details… let alone the actual, mortifying video evidence…”

“No, show me,” My Mom said. “I want to know. I want to know the truth. I need to see it for myself.”

I was mortified. I wanted to scream… but I was still too terrified to move from my spot in the corner.

After a moment, I heard another video start playing.

“Is he… You mean… he’s not…” my Mom muttered.

“Yes, I’m afraid he is,” Miss Turner said.

“He’s really doing it. My god. He really is…”

“He really is sitting in time-out,” Miss Turner confirmed, “in one of the poopiest diapers this daycare has ever seen, playing with himself through his thick, soggy diapers, because he thinks no one’s watching.”

I felt like I was going to be sick. My memory of my filthy, naughty massage of my privates from earlier that same day came back to me as a nightmarish flashback as I heard them watching my perverted behavior in disgust.

Knowing that what I had done had been documented, being forced to face the reality of it, was mortifying enough… but hearing my Mom’s reaction to it was ten million times worse.

My ears started ringing. The room started spinning. I felt like the world was turning upside down.

Finally, as if on autopilot, I quietly plopped down on the floor on my puffy, diapered butt.

My thumb went into my mouth. I started eagerly sucking. And the front of my diaper started growing heavy, warm and wet, once again.

But this time, my bladder wasn’t emptying because it truly needed to. It was emptying because I was a baby. A filthy, helpless little baby.

And the naughty, ticklish warmth of fresh pee in my diaper gave me a profoundly infantile, much needed comfort, in a world that was suddenly spinning out of control.

* * *

“Lucas. Lucas, sweetie?”

I looked up from the corner to see my Mom standing over me. Her hand was on my shoulder. Her voice was soft and comforting.

“How are you honey? Ready to come out of time-out?”

I winced and recoiled, suddenly remembering how angry my Mom was before.

“Aww, it’s okay, sweetie. Mommy’s not mad anymore. She just wants you to come on over and finish having a talk with your daycare teacher before we go, okay?” My Mom said.

I stared back up at her, then gave a reluctant nod. I slowly turned around and crawled on my hands and knees to a little plastic chair next to my Mom’s chair in front of Miss Turner’s desk. And strangely, both my Mom and Miss Turner seemed to be smiling gently at me.

“Now, don’t worry, Lucas, like I said, Mommy’s not mad anymore,” my Mom repeated as I sat down in the little baby chair.

“You’re not?” I asked, thumb in my mouth.

“No, sweetie,” My Mom answered. “What Mommy understands now, is that you couldn’t help acting the way you did today. Because what your teacher told me is that you’re just a little baby now. A little baby who needs diapers and diaper changes and highchairs. And your little baby brain was just doing the best you could. Isn’t that right, sweetie? You can tell Mommy.”

A swirl of confusing emotions washed over me. On the one hand, I still felt vague memories of pride and adulthood. Of feeling like I hated the diapers and spankings and pacifiers and all the ways they had humiliated me that day at daycare.

And yet, on the other hand, I couldn’t help but think that… maybe they were right.

After all, if I was a baby… then that meant my Mommy wasn’t mad at me anymore. It meant that I wasn’t a bad boy for wearing diapers. In fact, I was a good boy for wearing them! And instead of being punished… my Mommy would finally just be happy with me. As long as I just accepted my place as a diaper-wetting, thumb-sucking baby.

But was I really ready to give up adulthood? Could I really submit to completely giving in and admitting I wasn’t worthy of being out of diapers?

Totally overwhelmed, I sucked my thumb harder and stared downward at my diaper in silence. Without thinking, I started to feel the front of my soggy, crinkly diaper with my free hand, palming it, squeezing it, patting it, squishing it…

My soggy diapee just felt so… naughty. So naughty and good.

Before I knew it… I was quickly getting yet another stiffy in my soggy diaper.

“Uh-oh,” I suddenly heard Miss Turner say. “Looks like we’re right on schedule.”

“Alright, baby, that’s all the answer I need,” my Mom said, interrupting me. “Now come on, let’s take care of that for good, right now, before we go.”

My Mom suddenly grabbed my hand and started walking me across the office.

I stared in confusion as Miss Turner started unfolding a diaper changing mat across a waist-high bench.

“Whass going on? Diapee change already? I’m not that wet yet…” I said.

My Mom and Miss Turner laughed. My Mom then checked my diaper.

“You’re right, honey, you’re not that wet yet,” she said.

“But Lucas,” Miss Turner added, “Do you remember what we talked about earlier? About how we would finally have a permanent solution to your problem of making so many naughty, naughty sticky messes?”

I frowned, only half-remembering and understanding what she meant.

My Mom and Miss Turner suddenly pushed me up onto the changing mat. And Miss Turner was suddenly untaping my diaper and wiping me down with cool baby wipes.

I looked up at my Mom attentively watching my diaper change and I blushed and wriggled in humiliation at my exposure.

Smack!

Miss Turner delivered a sharp slap to my bottom, making me let out a babyish wail. “Be a good boy for your diaper change and stay still, like we talked about earlier,” Miss Turner scolded me.

My Mom shook her head in disappointment. “He really is just a big, un-potty-trained two-year-old. I don’t know how I ever failed to see it before.”

Before I knew it, my feet were raised and the soggy diaper was pulled away. My Mom took the soggy diaper to throw it away, and as she did, she pinched her nose and gave me a mocking look of derision at how heavy and stinky my diaper was with pee.

Miss Turner swiftly unfolded a new diaper beneath me and thoroughly powdered my every nook, cranny, crease and crevice.

Finally, the real reason for the sudden diaper change was revealed.

“Can you grab it? It’s in that small box on my desk,” Miss Turner said to my Mom.

“Yep!” My Mom answered, returning with the box a second later.

Miss Turner slowly opened the box… and I gasped in horror.

It was a chastity device. A bright pink, extra-small, locking chastity device. I could barely believe my eyes.

“Here we go!” Miss Turner said, proudly holding it up. “I measured him earlier and it should be exactly his size.”

“My gosh, it’s so tiny,” my Mom remarked about the device. “But I guess seeing his diaper changed again right now… his peepee is still as itty bitty as it was when I last changed his diapers!”

The two woman erupted in laughter, filling me with mortified humiliation.

I stared at the chastity device in Miss Turner’s hand in a state of shock. If I hadn’t seen the strange things before on the internet, it’s unlikely my little baby brain would have recognized it. But because I did… I was now ghost-white in terror.

“Anyway, do you really think that this will work to totally solve his… sticky problem?” my Mom asked.

“Oh, certainly,” Miss Turner answered. “In cases like Lucas’s, a large percentage of his various behavior problems are in fact due to his out of control masturbation, which wreaks havoc on the mental and emotional state of a boy his psychological age.”

“That makes sense to me,” my Mom said. “I’m certainly mortified to learn about how often he’s been defiling himself here at daycare. I can only imagine how often he’s been doing it under my roof, right behind my back.”

“And the best part of all, I’ll be giving you the key,” Miss Turner said to my Mom. “He’ll never even have so much as an erection without your authorization from now on. You can even keep him locked up permanently, depriving him of erections from now until eternity, which is honestly what we recommend, given how serious his infantile masturbatory behavior is.”

I stared with wide, helpless eyes, as Miss Turner un-fastened the chastity device, placed one end around my balls, then started to slip the other end over the front of my penis.

Finally… it was all too much.

“Stop!!!” I screeched, bolting upright on the make-shift changing table. “Wait! Please! Please don’t put that on! I’m not… I’m not a baby!”

A deathly silence fell over the room. My Mom and Miss Turner stared at me with wide, stunned eyes.

Naked on the changing mat, I stayed frozen in fear, terrified about what might possibly happen next.

* * *

Finally, my Mom spoke.

“You’re… not a baby?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“No, I pwomise!” I said, my thumb still in my mouth. I then pulled it out and wiped my slobber on my chest in embarrassment.

“Then… why did you wet your diaper?” my Mom slowly asked. “Not just once today… but over and over again?”

“Oh,” I said, suddenly feeling confused and embarrassed. “I mean… when I wet myself… I mean… I didn’t mean to…”

“You… didn’t mean to?” My Mom asked while Miss Turner silently watched. “Isn’t that… what a baby does? Wet their diaper, because they can’t help it?”

“No!” I blurted defensively. “I mean, yes! But… but I could help it! Really!”

“You could help it?” My Mom asked. “So… you wet your diaper on purpose? Just to be naughty? Because you know that means I have to punish you, right? I have to punish you very, very sternly. Because that’s a very, very naughty, gross, unnecessary thing for a boy who’s not a baby to do.”

I blushed, feeling confused and trapped. “No… I mean… no…”

“And you pooped your diaper, too, hon. Are you telling me you pooped yourself on purpose, too?” My Mom asked.

“No… no, of course not. It was… an accident… I mean… I mean… umm….”

“Hon, let’s take a step back,” my Mom continued. “What kind of boy your age would be wearing diapers at all, huh? And sucking his thumb? And running around the toddler room at daycare? Does that sound like appropriate behavior for a boy who isn’t a baby?”

“Ummm…” I said, staring at the floor, still sitting naked on my un-taped diaper.

“What about wetting yourself to the point of leaking during story-time? Or pooping your pants and lying about it? Or slobbering on your thumb while your daycare teacher changes your diaper in her office?”

“I… I… I mean…”

My Mom came over and put her hand on my shoulder. “None of that is the behavior of a big boy, sweetie. It’s all the behavior of a baby. And Miss Turner has made it clear to me that’s what you are, now. Just a big, diaper-wetting baby. And given everything I’ve seen from your behavior today, I don’t think it’s possible to argue with her. It’s plain as day.”

I stared up, confused, embarrassed, speechless, unconsciously putting my thumb back in my mouth for comfort.

“Also, if that weren’t true,” my Mom continued, “if you weren’t just a helpless big baby, that means I would have to punish you from now, until your 100th birthday, given the unnecessary trouble you then put your daycare teachers through for no reason. Like making them wipe up your peepee thighs and poopy bottom all day. Is that what you want? Lots of punishments when we get home for you peeing and pooping your pants all day today?”

I looked up, then slowly, reluctantly shook my head no.

“That’s what I thought,” My Mom said.

Suddenly, I looked over and saw Miss Turner holding the chastity device again.

“But… but… but…” I said, pointing to it. “I don’t want that.”

“I know, sweetie,” my Mom said in a gentle tone. “You like playing with your little doodle, and you can’t help it. But here’s the thing, part of being a baby is accepting that you don’t get to decide everything. Sometimes, Mommy has to make decisions for you.

“Like, from now on, you’re going to be wearing diapers, because you need them. You’re going to be going to daycare every day, so your teachers can help keep you in diapers and feed you and take care of you, like the big baby you are.

“And finally, we need to keep your little doodle in a locked, plastic holder, because otherwise, you make very naughty, sticky messes, that are completely inappropriate for a boy your behavioral age.”

“But… but… but…”

I started tearing up. But I knew I was totally beat. I felt myself slowly going limp in whimpering defeat.

Miss Turner seized the moment and silently helped me lay back down…

And I sucked my thumb and watched through teary eyes as my teacher and my Mommy slipped the new chastity device over my little penis. Miss Turner locked it up and handed my Mommy the key, ensuring that I would never make another naughty sticky mess again.

Miss Turner then swiftly pulled my clean diaper up and taped it up tight.

“There, that’s so much better,” My Mom smiled, gently patting my newly chastened peepee through my crinkly, diapered crotch.

“But… but… but…” I continued helplessly whimpering to no one and tearing up. Miss Turner responded again by suddenly slipping a new, extra large pacifier in my mouth.

“There, that should at least help calm him down for the ride home,” Miss Turner said to my Mom with a laugh.

“Oh gosh, I can’t thank you enough for all you’re amazing help,” My Mom said. “You’ve done so much for my naughty little stinker already today. We’ll finally get out of your hair.”

My Mom then started walking me toward the door by the hand.

“Bu… bu… bu…” I continued mumbling through my paci.

“Aww, that’s cute, he’s saying bye-bye!” My Mom laughed. “Don’t worry Lucas, you’ll be back bright and early tomorrow morning to see Miss Turner and all your wonderful new daycare friends again.”

I stared back at Miss Turner with wide, teary eyes. And just before leaving, Miss Turner flashed a smirk worth 1000 words.

In that moment, I knew that Miss Turner had been the architect behind all of this.

Whether it was out of cruelty, financial interest, or some other perverse motivation, I knew that she had done all of this to me on purpose, that she had ruthlessly plotted and successfully turned me back into a helpless baby against my will. And there was nothing I could do about it now.

Except cry. Cry like the baby I now was.

* * *

As my Mommy walked me out of the daycare center, I looked back in a state of bewildered awe.

That morning, I never would have thought I would have been turned into exactly the baby I feared I was being treated like as punishment. That my first day returning to daycare would become the first day of the rest of my new life.

As my Mom buckled me into the back seat of her van, I heard her comment to herself that she needed to get me a special, big-baby carseat for tomorrow morning, and I burst into fresh sobs of anger and helplessness at the terrible unfairness of it all.

And yet, as I looked out the window at the daycare as we drove away, I felt the familiar feeling of the front of my diaper getting hot, heavy and wet with pee. This time, I didn’t even realize it was happening till I was almost finished.

And suddenly, a familiar, naughty, babyish feeling came over me.

I suddenly remembered the freedom of what it was like to run around in just a diaper in the daycare room. Of playing with blocks and play-doh and coloring books all day. Of being lovingly changed on the changing table by my daycare teachers, even when I had a humiliating, smelly, mushy, stinky, mega-poopy diaper…

I suddenly remembered the unique, naughty, indescribable bliss of being treated like a big baby in every single way.

I peed a little more in my diaper and gave an involuntary, babyish giggle.

Maybe it was even good I couldn’t make naughty stickies anymore, after all, I thought to myself. Because maybe my Mommy and my daycare teacher were right.

Perhaps I really was just a baby.

And they were just putting me exactly where I now, truly, belonged.

THE END.