Tale #1: The Art of Perception

Tale #1: The Art of Perception (Content Tags: Hypnosis, messing, wetting, diapers, cuckoldry, mental regression) I felt cool air brushing against the top of my buttcrack. It was a contrast of temperatures: cool above, warm below. I heard her click her tongue in disappointment; I heard her sniff around at the pungent plumes of the mucky failure her investigation had unearthed. I felt her other hand gently settle itself on my bottom, and then gradually, I felt her palm close into a grip around the warm secret I'd been trying to keep. I felt it squish, mashing flat against my buttcheeks and oozing outward. "...And what's that, Derek? What am I feeling right now, hmm?" Her tone was accusatory, and her questions were empty of any real curiosity. She wasn't asking me to inform her of something she didn't know, she was pushing me to incriminate myself, to come clean about being dirty. To contradict the lie that I'd so stupidly told. "...I dunno..." I meekly mewled, spirit too fractured to dowse for any new spring of confidence. She didn't like getting 'non-answers'. Her grip on the pliable lump tightened, and she kneaded it more tersely than before. "You don't know? You're telling me that you don't know what I'm touching right now? You don't know what's all mushy and stinky against your little bum-bum?" My cheeks burned as hot as embers, moving their flames all the way up to the top of my ears, and I felt my stance stiffen in reaction to the way she asserting her dominance over me. "...I-I...Ummm..." My pause made her switch tactics. She removed her grip from my seat, and her hand instead hovered upward, to grab a hold of the elastic of my underwear. With a swift jerk, I felt her tug up, bringing the hot coals in my briefs to forcefully fill my crack. My eyes widened, my lips pursed, and I made an involuntary little yelp. "Last chance, little guy. What is this?" "It's...It’s poo!" I finally relented, my eyes welling with tears of shame, and my voice cracking under the admission of my guilt. "Yeah, I suppose it is, isn't it? But why would there be poo in your underpants? I seem to remember you telling me that you were ready to prove that you were a big boy, right? Do big boys go poo in their underpants?" "...No, mommy. No they don't..." "That's right, Derek. Big boys don't poo their pants. Who does poo their pants?" "...Babies." My tone got much softer, because I didn't want to say it, but I knew I was had. "I guess you're still a baby then, aren't you? Since you did a big poo in your pants. What do babies wear? So that they can poo in their pants all they want?" Another obvious answer, but one I struggled to utter. She wasn't quizzing me for the heck of it, that much was obvious; every inquiry was her leading me to telling her what she wanted to hear. It was a foregone conclusion, so the only difference in my cooperation would end up being whether or not I ended up with a sore bottom. "Diapers, mommy... Babies wear diapers, b-because they poo on themselves..." "That's right. Aren't you a smart cookie? And since you made an icky mess in your pants, what do you think you need to wear for a while?" "...Diapers. I gotta wear diapers again." Her hand let go of my waistband, allowing gravity to pull my formerly white briefs back into a shameful sag. Her touch was far more gentle as she gave me a little pat on my squishy bottom, as if to reward me for my compliance in ratting myself out. "That's right, baby. Let's go get that bottom cleaned up, and then we can get you back in a nice, big diapee." If the conversation had been read as a transcript, then one would have been left to assume it was between an exasperated mother and her preschool aged child. The context would undoubtedly point toward that scenario, and nobody would bat an eye. I was no preschooler though, nor was I a child at all, at least not in a literal sense. If someone were to see me, then they'd instantly know that I was a grown man. They would see me as an adult, which is more than I could say for how my 'mommy' saw me. That woman, who could only perceive me as her naughty preschool son, was also not really my mother, even if we spoke in a way that would suggest it. She was once a woman who I'd slept with on occasion, and worse, a woman who had cheated to do so. She wasn't the only traitor here, though. If blame was to be assigned, then we both deserved an equal amount of it, and as such, we'd both met with a cruel fate. I couldn't remember what mommy's real name was supposed to be, but I did remember who she once was, and for that matter, who I once was. She was my roommate's girlfriend, once upon a time, and I was Derek, a recently graduated communications major. There was irony there, since my communication skills had fallen into such despair. My roommate, Wyatt, had been a friend since we had both started college. He was a warm soul that saw the best in people, who never hesitated to help, but it had only taken one step over the edge to frost his heart right over. While Wyatt and his girlfriend had been dating for several years, and were at the point where they were discussing marriage and children, I had been in a lengthy, torrid affair with the woman. Wyatt gave her everything, but his inadequacy in the bedroom was what made her stray, and my own weak willpower was what made me all too eager to fill that void. Perhaps that would be letting myself off the hook too easily. She'd seen our coupling as nothing but passion between the sheets, while my whims had been decidedly more serious. I'd fallen in love with her, not just physically, but romantically; I yearned to steal her away from Wyatt, to trample over the trust that my friend had put in me, for my own selfish gain. In that way, it was a far worse betrayal. She might have cheated on her boyfriend, but only for mechanical reasons of unsatisfied libido, while I'd betrayed my friend with hopes of a more tangible reward. That made it more obvious as to why my fate had been worse than hers. My punishment was intended to give proper retribution for the weight of my crimes, which was why I'd been allowed to remember so much, so that I could remain aware of my penance. Wyatt had been crushed the day that he found out about our affair, whenever he'd caught us in his bed, in the middle of sullying everything that he'd held dear. He'd been so angry, and so sad. She'd begged for his forgiveness, but I'd been more callous. I hadn't wanted his forgiveness, I'd wanted his girlfriend, and while caught in that moment of fearing I'd lose everything, I made clear that no part of me would be apologetic. What a regret my stubbornness was now. I'd be lying if I claimed to remember everything that happened in the aftermath of that. There was screaming, and shouting, and there were tears. And then? There was nothing. The nothingness didn't last long, I don't think, but I really couldn't know. The nothingness was a stretch of time where no knowledge of existence had occurred, where my life had been put on some manner of autopilot, like a sleepless dream. The world I would wake to, was one where my former life no longer was relevant. What was the first thing I would notice? What was the initial sensory information that my brain would process? It was poop. I smelled the earthy ripeness of poop, I felt the warm mushing of poop, and I could hear the squishing of poop as I moved. It was all over my tushy, coating my skin like a thick layer of mud that’d been cooking in the sun, but it had been contained to just the region of my backside, not oozing down my thighs; it had only taken moments to recognize the reason why it’d stayed so local to its deposit area, and that reason was a thick, crinkly one. A diaper. An adult diaper. Not something flimsy and mainstream, like Depends, or even one that was cumbersome and medical, but an overly thick monstrosity that was absolutely covered in colorful, infantile designs. No self-respecting incontinent man would have willingly allowed such a thing to be the guard that kept their pants tidy, nor would a senior with leakage issues; instead, it was the sort of diaper that only a fetishist, or one with the mental acuity of a child, would find to be acceptable. Strangely enough, I remember being mesmerized by the sight, whenever I’d first looked down to notice it. Something about it had calmed my panic from rising too abruptly, and I absolutely had every reason to panic, especially as I would fidget and feel the mush smearing with the slightest movement. I couldn’t remember having put the diaper on, nor could I remember having taken a dump in it, but in that moment of awareness, I’d also had a nagging thought tell me that it was nothing that should be seen as out of the ordinary. It was normal for me. It was what a ‘boy’ like me was supposed to wear, because I wasn’t a competent potty-user yet, and so my pee-pee and poo-poo was completely delegated to my diapee. It wasn’t uncomfortable either, but instead was like a warm hug, emphasized further by the way the front of my diaper began to grow heated with a mindless trickle. I felt something wet on my chin too, as a consequence of my gaping maw, and wiping my forearm across my mouth, I realized that I couldn’t help but drooling on myself. But why had this happened? What was going on? What was wrong with me? So many questions that had needed answers, and in the meantime, I was stuck imprisoned in my own bed, which now had rails on the side. I could have easily scaled the sides, or I should have been able to, but I couldn’t muster the courage, nor the coordination, to do so. My body felt so much smaller than it should have, at least to me, and it skewed my perception of the world around me; it was though my brain thought that I was supposed to be a toddler, two or three, and my entire adult life had been but a long dream. Another tinkle and the warmth would finally breach the confines of the diaper, as my bladder emptied for too long, with too much power. A small puddle would form underneath me, soaking the sheet of the bed, but I could hear the rustle of plastic underneath, which proved I was expected to have such oopsies happen. It was uncomfortable though, to be leaking, and I felt tears involuntarily well up in my eyes. “MOMMY!” Why had I known to call out to her? Why did I assume that she would come running to make everything better? But she did, and in her hands, she brought a bottle of milk. I wasn’t hungry though, nor thirsty, I was just uncomfortable! I had difficulty in circling the square when I saw her face. I knew that her face belonged to the woman I’d felt passionate love for, who had refused to elope with me, whenever we’d been caught two-timing. She wasn’t my actual mother, especially since from what I could barely remember, she was only a year or two older than I was. No words could leave my mouth to explain this though, and while my higher consciousness was highly aware of who she actually was, my lower consciousness was fully drenched in the belief that she was the one who nurtured me, who cared for me, and I was but her baby. “Oh, my poor baby… What’s wrong?” She would coo, a free hand coming down to stroke my hair, and with a tearful sniffle, I would gesture broadly at the urine stain on the bed. “I made p-pee-pee, an’… an’… Diapee leaked!” As she took my hand, having helped me out of the makeshift crib I’d been stuck inside, she would then lead me toward the floor where a changing mat had already been set up. On my way, I’d catch a look at myself in the bedroom mirror, and I’d notice the incongruity of my mind’s eye when compared with my real one. In my brain, I could only think of myself as a toddler, and so that’s all I could see, even when looking down at my hands, or tummy, or feet. In the mirror though? I was still the full-sized adult man, now wearing a bloated, sagging adult diaper, and with my body hair completely removed. Aside from my shaky memories, it was the only proof that I had, that I’d ever really been a grown-up in the first place. That mirror trick, unfortunately, only worked one way. As it would turn out, and as I would come to learn in the coming days, weeks, or months, my awareness was different than that of my roommate’s girlfriend. I’d been allowed to keep more of my former perception than she had, so no mirror would ever inform her to my real form, nor would any other oddity that should have been noticed about the ways I differed from a tot. Well, that wasn’t completely true either. Mommy had two ‘modes’, and it was because of those two modes, that she would never be able to see past the illusion that we’d been caught inside. When we were at home? When it was just us? She saw me as her toddler, as her naughty little preschool boy, and that was how she treated me. Whenever we were in public though? Or whenever we had company? She saw me as something else altogether, and it was by design, to deal with the inconsistencies that would otherwise trouble this perfect little nightmare. In public, I was a ‘special needs’ adult. I ceased being Derek the tyke, and my adulthood was returned to me, but only so I could become Derek the retard. My own brainwashing, if that was the right term to use for it, reacted similarly, replacing the completely juvenile programming with one fit for a SPED classroom. I still wore the same type of clothes, the same type of diapers, and in many ways, my behavior didn’t change all that much, but I was allowed to see myself as an adult again, and my former life was allowed to be referenced. Because she wasn’t my mommy in public, she was my dutiful caretaker, and as far as everyone else knew, it was because I’d taken a nasty spill on my motorcycle. Anyone I had once known? Friends? Colleagues? They were all under the impression that my IQ had been reduced to a third of what it once was, and that I was little more than a diaper-dumping moron now. I could never prove that wrong either, with how I was compelled to act in front of them, and I’d long given up on trying to fight that role. It was why no one would ever come to rescue me from the life I’d been forced to take on, because they all saw me in a horrible new light. I’d seen horror in their eyes the first times that I’d saw them again, whenever I’d had my finger halfway up my nose, and drool was staining the front of my ‘Loony Tunes’ shirt. I’d seen the shock in their eyes, whenever mommy had explained to them what had become of me, and how she felt like she had to stand up to care for me. Then, inevitably during such conversations, I would get the distant look on my face, and I’d purse my lips tightly; I’d tighten my fists, I’d puff up my cheeks, and I’d feel the sweet relief of something hot and heavy dropping squarely in my seat. And then their noses would wrinkle, because the fumes of my droppings were inescapable, but for some, they would be too polite to say anything. They wouldn’t want to believe that, would they? It was bad enough to see me in such a disheveled, vacant state, but it would be that much harder to accept that I was so far down the retard hole that I was messing myself. That I was wearing diapers. But then, shamelessly, I would either inform mommy about the poo-poo in my pants, or she would casually check my diaper in front of the peers I’d once been seen as an equal by. Such had life been, for months, that I’d flit between the two roles. Some things ran in cycles too, possibly to keep it lively; in this current cycle, she was trying in futility to pottytrain me. She put my softening body in the briefs instead of the diapers, as if I had been promoted to Kindergartner in her head, which is why she became so upset whenever I inevitably befouled those too. It wasn’t as if my incontinence had been cured by the shift into a new cycle, which just meant I’d be making her mad every day, at least until the cycle changed once more. The diapers were honestly preferable, if only because they represented a certain simplicity. I’d rather keep running the same gauntlet, rather than be thrown into a new scenario on the whim of the cruel ringleader who’d concocted this illusion in the first place. Daddy. Or as I could just barely remember? Wyatt. The roommate that I’d betrayed. The man I’d tried to successfully cuckold. The formerly kind-hearted scholar with whom I’d played a very dangerous game. The man who now played the role of my daddy, just like his girlfriend played the role of my mother. If I could take anything from this, if I could make any of it out to be a learning experience, then it’d be to not make anyone mad who might have a degree in psychology. That kind of knowledge is a dangerous thing, after all, and a little therapeutic hypnosis can go much, much further than one would ever expect.