"Business or pleasure?" "Pleasure," I say. The customs officer flips to my passport page with a single hand and holds it up. His eyes flit between my portrait and me. I crack a smile. For whatever reason, his professional silence compels me to speak more. "I'm going to a resort," I explain further. He flips my passport and places the barcode against the scanner. "Oh yeah? There are lots of resorts up here. I suppose yours is on the island, yeah?" He asks, handing my passport back to me. "Yep, on the island." "Pretty place up there! You have a safe trip and a good time. Next!" -------------------------- "Alex Milford... is it?" The receptionist asks, raising her eyes from the computer screen. It happens at a bad time, since I'm currently trying and failing to suppress a yawn. With a hand over my mouth, I nod. She cracks a polite grin. "You're one of our last to arrive. As I'm sure you're aware, there's an orientation period tomorrow morning to prepare our new cohort of guests for the resort. Instead of immediately showing you to the room in which you'll stay for the month, every guest spends their first night in a temporary room in this building, the reception building," The receptionist explains. I'm too tired to protest that I remember reading no such thing, so I just slowly nod. The woman gestures with a hand at someone in the lobby, but I'm equally too tired to even look. "Miss Kim will help you get up to your room, sound good? Have a great night's sleep, Alex!" The secretary declares. I mutter my thanks as the sound of high heels against the marble floor ring out behind me. I'm holding onto one of my suitcases, and I feel a set of fingers slowly replace mine on the handle. "Hey Alex, let's get you right up to your room, okay?" The voice says behind me. It felt a little strange to have my luggage taken by a woman, but... well, I remember picking this resort because of its clear male-oriented bent. At least it isn't too on the nose. Like the receptionist, Kim wears a smart, professional uniform. This is just her job. Besides, the website didn't promise hand-and-foot service from glorified hooters waitresses, it promised fun! Adventure! A beautiful setting! Calming solitude if one wanted it. For now, though, the long hallway of temporary rooms look more like a regular big-box hotel. Carpet tiles on the floor, numbered doors, peepholes at average eye level. Kim seems to pick one of them at random as I follow behind her, tapping her dangling badge against the door. "Here we go, Alex!" She declares as I step in after her. The room is a tad bit more sparse than a regular hotel room. No microwave, no mini-bar. Just a TV, a twin bed, a desk, a desk chair, and a door that's clearly to the bathroom. The TV is on, and the remote rests right atop the bed's sole pillow. "So," Miss Kim continues, "I know it's late, but we ask that you complete a brief questionnaire using the TV and the remote before you go to bed, okay? We divide our guests into cohorts for the month, so to give you the best experience, please fill it out tonight! Preparations will start as soon as you submit your final questions." I nod slowly, knowing full well that I'm going to immediately crawl under the comforter and fall asleep as soon as she leaves. After a quick good-night, she tucks my suitcases next to the bed and quickly exits, shutting the door behind her. I'm never one to dress-up for travel, so I'm already effectively ready for bed, just as soon as I kick my sandals off. I push the remote to the side, letting it drop off the pillow, and slip my feet and torso underneath the comforter. The TV is blaringly bright, though. Black text on a white background, with a big fat yellow button that says "BEGIN". I fumble for the remote, assume that the big red button in the top left corner is for power, and press it hard as I point it at the TV. Instead of the screen going dark, it blinks and displays the first question. One of ten. "When you're on vacation, do you like to travel solo, or in a large tour group?" The two options are displayed, color-coded red and green, on the bottom half of the screen. Ten questions, each one as simple as this one? Fine, I'll do it tonight. I weigh the options over, but it's a pretty quick decision. I feel awkward getting to know new people, esepecially in the unstructured context of a resort. I hit red to mark myself as a solo traveller by preference. The screen immediately flicks to the next question, two of ten. "Do you prefer having one staff member dedicated to your experience, or would you prefer multiple staff members assisting you and a group of other guests?" Another yes and no question. I hit red again. Being a solo traveller lends itself to preferring a single person, of course. As the next question appears, I sit up in bed, holding the remote lazily with one hand. The website did say all-inclusive, but I begin to wonder if some things may be add-ons. "In my ideal resort experience, my stay would focus primarily on..." Underneath the main question are five buttons in a single row. The far left one is labeled "rest and relaxation!" while the far right one is labeled "excitement and adventure!". The middle one is marked "no preference", while the two in the middle of the labeled buttons are unmarked. The cursor blinks abvove "no preference". I think a bit, and then click the cursor one to the right towards relaxation and hit enter. "I want my stay to feel like..." Two options. left button says "home away from home", right one says "a new and exciting place." I pick home away from home. New and exciting place feels more... rope courses and canoe trips. I don't think I want this to feel like summer camp. "Do you want to feel like you're in charge, or do you want the resort to make the decisions for you?" I purse my lips, shifting to sit up more in bed. This is a tough one, but my tiredness slowly pulls me, like gravity, towards the latter. The survey questions are general, but have an odd specificity to them that keeps me engaged, even if the call of sleep rings loudly in my head. "Do you want the resort staff to recognize you as a guest, or treat you more as a member of a living, breathing ideal community?" I pick being recognized as a guest. The idea of playing pretend like I'm living here just makes this entire experience seem more like a retirement home than a vacation. "Would you like an in-depth orientation, or just what you need to know about your stay here at the resort?" Easy question. Just what I need to know. "On a scale of 0-9, how pampered do you want to be at the resort?" I feel my cheeks warm up a bit, and I narrow my eyes at the screen. After a few seconds, a little graphic of the remote appears on the screen, highlighting the number pad as the way to answer this question. My eyes drift down to my backpack on the floor, and I contemplate cracking my laptop open, but finally I press seven and that strange choice of word disappears. "On a scale of 0-9, how regimented do you want your schedule to feel?" I hit two. I second guess myself too much to hit zero or nine to either of the questions. "Would you like to review your answers in the morning?" I look down at the bottom of the screen and see that this is the last question. As soon as I hit yes, the TV shuts off and the room goes pitch black. No thank you, no have a good night... nothing. I shrug to myself and slowly shimmy down underneath the covers, letting the remote just drop to the floor. My answers are only going to matter in the morning, of course. Sleep hits me quickly. -------------------------- The sound of seagulls leaks through the window as I wake up. Vancouver Island, of course. Seagulls probably abound in this place. The seabirds get one, maybe two screeches off in the distance before I realize that something's amiss. It's hard to say what I become aware of first, but one moment I'm waking up peacefully, and the next I realize several things are wrong all at once. There's something in my mouth. Instead of my tank top and sweatpants, I'm wearing some outfit that covers my whole body. My crotch and bottom feel damp and clammy. All of this information comes in before I even open my eyes. As I fling them open, still piecing together what I'm feeling, my eyes adjust to the light and see... Bars, vertical bars, ringing the bed. A colorful mobile above my head. I hear the buzz of an electric lock opening, and then the door swinging open. It takes real effort, far more effort than before, to turn my head. It's not long before the person comes to me. A tall-looking woman, pale with long black hair in a tight ponytail, looms over me with her hands on the upper edge of the crib bars. "Oh, someone's just started to wake up! How'd you sleep, Alex? Like a baby, huh?" She says, giggling at her joke. My heart beats faster, even though there's not a single sinister note in her voice or laugh. "Alright," she continues, "let's see... where did they leave your file for me... probably in the diaper bag, right?" She says, mostly to herself. The need to get up is overwhelming as she steps away from the side of the crib. It takes a lot of effort, but soon my head lifts from the mattress, and then my upper back, and then my lower back, until I'm sitting up, my body from my hips down still covered in a light blanket. Even though I'm no longer laying down, the bars are still far above my head. I hear a zip, and I turn my head to see the woman slipping her hand into a pastel-colored bag. As the opening widens, I see her grab a clear folder out between two rows of neatly-folded diapers. No, not cheap medical ones, or the expensive fetish ones. Real diapers. I catch a peek of Winnie the Pooh on one of the folded rectangles. My eyes shoot wide. For a little bit, the woman seems more concerned with the form than with me, so I plant my little hands on the mattress and push upwards, slipping my legs out from underneath the blanket. As soon as I start to push up onto my feet themselves, I get a clear idea of how weak my legs are. Even just standing up has them wobbling, but I'm determined all the same. I grab onto the bars of the crib and hold on for dear life. "Alex Milford, twenty-five years old. Software development! Cute guy, even cuter baby... Source of ad click... age regression archive! Current age... eight months. That all tracks! It is the physical regression month, after all," The woman says. My jaw drops, and the pacifier that was filling it falls between my feet. The black-haired lady finally looks up from the open folder to visually check on me, and her face immediately shifts to a wide grin. "Got nothin' to say in your defense, little mister?" The woman jokes, sinking down in the desk chair, "Go ahead, give it a shot! Try and plead your case and your mommy for a month will do her best to guess what you're trying to say..." It takes me a few more seconds to recover from my state of total dumbfounded-ness. Eventually I try, but even without the pacifier in my mouth, what few words I say come out hopelessly garbled. "Mmmguhbah... bih-buh!" "Big boy, huh?" The lady says, "We'll see about that... if that's what you meant to say, that is. Regardless, you don't seem too upset staying in that pee-pee bedtime pamper, so let's go over your answers, shall we?" The woman plucks the little packet of papers from the folder and turns the first page over. I see my passport photo printed in color on the front page, and my cheeks burn bright red. The lady reads in silence. "This all makes sense! Solo traveller, you want a single caregiver, a bit more of a homey experience, but you also don't want to feel like you're just living a normal life in utopia-ville, right?" I stare back at her from the crib. "Gosh, look at your red little cheeks! I love physical regression month the most! You look like you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar...!" She gushes. "Alright, I really don't think we need to go over question-by question. You remember your answers, and I already know what that means for our month together. We've got a bit of a drive ahead of us, and you've got your morning orientation questionnaire, so... let's get you changed!" Yes, a change! The wetness and clamminess has really started to get to me. I start to nod as she sets the little paper packet aside. I know I'm probably going to have to put another diaper on, but... Oh, wait. Wait wait wait... It should have been obvious to me from the get-go, but the sudden epiphany strikes me right as the woman gets up from where she's siting. I'm not going to be changing myself. She is. As she takes a step forward towards the crib, my hands release the bars and I take one clumsy step back. That little move is enough to send me tumbling back down onto my bottom with a squish. The black-haired woman puts her hands on her hips. "Oh, I know that move. Not quite ready to part with your first diaper, honey?" The lady coos. My cheeks burn. She turns and goes back to the diaper bag, slipping the file inside and zipping it back up. "That's okay, sweetheart! It's a thick one, so it'll hold plenty well on the drive to the condo. I do think, before we get out there, I should tell you something! None of the guests are different from you. We know who they are, and which site brought them here. We only run ads on places where we'll get guests like you, after all!" She explains. Other guests. I forgot that there even are other guests for a second. I thank my lucky stars that I didn't pick a big group. "You, however, brought a laptop, and we analyze those by policy...!" My blood runs cold. I didn't see any of my luggage or backpack around this morning, so...! "So imagine our shock when we take a peek inside that silly little hard drive and find that one of the new guests is ~you~, of all people! I'm the lucky one that got assigned you, of course, but all the ladies at the resort know exactly who little Alex is. Even if it's not their thing, nobody can deny that you're a talented little guy, right? Unreleased, unfinished stuff too! I hope you don't mind me taking a bit of a peek." I don't even know how to respond, even if I somehow was able to talk like an adult again. Unfinished stories, plotless little ideas, one-shots written clearly while I had my hands wrapped around my dick... she'd seen it all. All of a sudden, a diaper change doesn't seem nearly as revealing and invasive. "That's all I really wanted to say about that! Don't worry, none of the other guests no, and we've all been instructed to keep the fangirling to a minimum by the matron herself, but don't be surprised if there's a nod or two to your niche celebrity! Now that's out of the way, let's get this show on the road!" She moves too fast for me to get away, but I know that's just because I'm so slow now by comparison. She has enough time to shoulder the diaper bag and approach the crib again before I can even muster the coordination to scoot backwards away from her in my wet diaper. My body feels so heavy, but the way she lifts me by my armpits makes me seem weightless. I'm shifted until I'm perched in the crook of her arm, the other arm holding the diaper bag reaching up to support my back. She seems to huge now that she's so close. I'm so lost in my thoughts that I barely recognize the scenery around me as I'm carried down the hall and into the main lobby. There's no receptionist at the front desk anymore, mostly because there's no need for one. All the children are boys, all the adults are women. From what my rushing thoughts allow me to process about the people all around me, the oldest looks to be around two and a half, and the youngest few guests sleep as newborns in chest-carriers. A pair of women breastfeed on one of the lobby couches. Around half the boys look to be paired up with a member of the staff. The others are in groups of around a dozen, divided by age. The oldest big group all hold onto plastic rings that dangle from a long rope. A younger group sit strapped into little plastic wagons. The last and youngest group lay in double-deckrered carriers, attached in neat rows to a four-infant stroller. There's talking, there's laughing, there even looks to be some reunion-ing, but I hardly notice. My entire vacation has now been turned on its head. I had assumed that, by this point on my first day, I'd have gotten showered, and would now be waiting in line for the waffle iron, sneaking in a quick breakfast before the resort orientation. Now... this. What do I even make of this? The lady holding me leans in to speak in my ear, all while she keeps one eye on navigating through the crowd. "Remember that story you wrote that was set in that high school..." She begins. I can't help but roll my eyes. A lot of my stories are set in high schools. "I don't think you finished it..." She continues. Another eyeroll. Now the shame of being bad at finishing stuff burns a tad brighter than being wet. "But there was this scene in it! Oh, of like... the gym being divided, one set of bleachers being students, the other being parents. Names were called by the principal, and then they'd walk onto the gym floor, be regressed, and then get handed off to their parents. That was hot!" "Mmuh!" I finally vocalize. I'm glad someone likes my writing, but having it shared here is... "I know, baby. I'm not supposed to fangirl. What I mean by all this is that... that final image of all the regressing being done and the parents are all socializing on the basketball court, it's kinda like this, no?" Finally I look around. After a few seconds, she starts to comfortingly bounce me. "C'mon, I know you see what I mean! I'm just trying to get you a little excited, little guy!" More people have spilled outside in front of the main lobby doors, but thankfully we don't dawdle. She makes a beeline for the parking lot, fishing a set of keys out of her pocket. Of course, a gigantic, garish, matronly van flashes its lights, beeps, and unlocks. She opens the sliding door behind the passenger seat and slips me into a rear-facing carseat. I'm greeted by another screen, attached to a little arm, right in front of my face as she fixes the straps of the harness. "This is where you'll get your second survey, okay? It's too far away for you to use the touch screen, so you're going to have to answer the questions verbally!" She explains. I fold my arms and give her a glare. She chuckles, her red lips parting to reveal a dazzling smile. She is a beautiful lady... "C'mon, cutie, it'll be adorable! Get excited! This is going to be all of the fun stuff." The door shuts next to me, and she clambers into the driver's seat. A turn of the key causes the minivan to burst to life. As it does, the screen in front of me flicks on as well. The first questionnaire was clearly sparse in order to not arouse suspicion. This one... starts out by playing the Rugrats theme, bright pastels pouring from the bright screen. I'm reminded of quite a few other of my stories, but for reasons that make my skin crawl. There's no sign of anything like that yet. Instead, it's just... children's media puree. Big Bird and Bluey both dance to each other's theme songs while Buzz Lighyear and Woody salute. It's all so over the top and goofy that, despite the perceived danger of getting my mind wiped, I can't help but crack a grin. A dinging sound rings out through the van, and the lady starts to slowly ease herself out of the parking spot. "Good morning, Alex!" A woman's voice rings out over the tinny speakers. The music downgrades itself to simple lullabies, and sinks low low low in the mix. The woman speaks as if to a toddler which... fair. "Welcome to Oakfjord Resort! Of course, that's not our real name, we advertise under several different names. Now that you're here, we can welcome you with our true name! Welcome to the Second Steps Resort for Boys! We're the largest and longest-runnning regressive resorts in North America!" I raise a brow. That means... Oh well, best not think too hard about it. Besides, even with the voice over, the cartoon characters are still doing their thing on the screen. "We're so excited you're here! Especially since you're a new guest! We hope your first stay will be memorable, and that you'll think of us again whenever you plan your next regression retreat!" I have to admit, the visual stimulation is kind of necessary. Even though the voice-over is nice, this is sounding like some kind of airline safety video spliced over Sesame Street. "Let's talk a little bit about your Mommy!" Immediately, the screen cuts to what can only be described as a fancam of the woman that's been with me since waking up. It starts G-rated. A professional looking headshot, a candid of her in the kitchen cooking eggs, a photo of her leaning over an empty stroller in a park, the handle of the stroller perfectly framing her low-cut sundress. "All the staff here are committed to making your experience the best it can be, but your Mommy is totally dedicated to you and your care!" Only a few seconds ago I was looking at baby show characters milling about in a flower-dappled field, but now I was staring at a close-up of 'mommy' stepping out of a swimming pool, and then of her in a form-fitting evening gown, and then of her in lingerie, stepping through the doorway of what looks to be a nur... "I'm sure you'll have a great time with her for the month!" There's simply no way. Even just my stories about that kind of stuff are... controversial, to say the least. No drama, of course, but it's clear that some of them get less traction than the ones that don't deal with that stuff. But this is... this is... this is ~real~. Realer than real. I start to feel funny. "We're not giving you her name, because baby boys never call their Mommy by their real name! Let's move on to the questionnaire!" No text. The first question is presented in the form of a voice-overed cartoon. A woman holds a young boy. Another woman steps into frame, and the first woman hands the young boy off to the second and steps out of frame. The frame then splits, showing the first woman talking and laughing with other women, not a child in sight. She sips wine. The second woman holds the young boy. "Since this place is meant to simulate being on vacation as a baby, Mommy might get a babysitter and go and do vacation things where baby boys can't come along. Do you want that, or would you rather the vacation be all about Mommy and you?" Silence falls in the cabin, and I realize that the question's been posed to me. I can't talk, so I barely know what to say. Eventually I just exclaim, "Muh-muh!" I hear a chuckle from the front seat, and my cheeks burn red. I forgot she could hear me. The screen shows that it's interpreted my answer correctly, so it moves on to the next question. The graphic for this one starts with no voice-over. A cartoon toddler boy hurry-waddles around a playground. As he suddenly stops, the camera zooms in, showing his slight squat and puffed out cheeks. I know what it's going to ask before the woman's voice even chimes in. "How often do you want to go boom-boom? Are you a super pooper, or just a normal little pottypants?" "Nuh-muh," I say immediately. "Alex, mister, try that question one more time," 'Mommy' chimes in from the driver's seat. I can't see her, but she presses a button on her steering wheel, and the video repeats. "Nowhere to hide, honey-bunch, I've read your stories. Be honest for Mommy, okay?" I hear her say. With my cheeks bright red, I decide to bend, "Suh-puh..." I mutter. Answer accepted. New cartoon. A young man stands in front of an empty background. Slowly he srinks down to a chubby little kiddo, kneeling where he once stood as an adult. "Hey little guy!" The voice-over says. The toddler on the screen points to himself. "Yeah, you! Right now it no longer works. You know what I mean..." The woman's voice says teasingly. The boy blushes, and his finger slowly sinks downwards until it's pointing directly at his crotch. "That's right! Don't worry, there are no long term effects. Also... we can turn it back on again immediately! Now... do you want your little noodle turned back on?" My jaw drops as the little boy on screen starts to tap his chin. This is... but I'm... I catch a glimpse of eyes, and my vision shifts upwards. Dangling above the tablet screen is a little mirror. It points at a rear-view mirror that dangles off the main one, giving 'mommy' a clear line of sight, directly at my face... and now likewise for me. Our eyes lock for a single moment, before she turns her focus back to the road. Just one instant... it doesn't give me any indication about how she feels. I don't want her to be uncomfortable, but... Fuck it. If she doesn't want to do anything with my choice, it's her decision. She's technically the adult in the car, after all. "Noo-duh," I say. "Well done, Alex! That's all the questions we have for you now. These changes will take effect immediately. Enjoy your stay at Second Steps!" The tablet then shuts off, and the arm retracts to some place behind my head, and therefore out of my vision. I focus on trying to feel anything different about me, but nothing seems to be off. The exit of the screen reveals a handle that had been hiding behind it. Toys dangle off of it, my only form of entertainment. I stare down at my feet instead. They're encased in the soft, felty material of my footed sleeper. I try to move one, which kind of works. It's a jerky little kick, not exactly what I had in mind. "Alllllmost there, Alex. We didn't have breakfast before we left this morning, did we?" She asks rhetorically. I kick my legs again. Even the slightest movement of my hips causes my diaper to press against the harness keeping me in, psuhing it back up against me. Damp softness squishes against my crotch. It's a feeling like no other. All of a sudden, I feel my 'noodle' working again. There's no way I can... stealth one out, can I? Typically, when I write stories about this, I try to make it out in the open, or at least clearly visible for the mommy-character, but the thought of doing that seems mortifying. I kick my stubby legs again in the same bicycle-pedal motion. The feeling only grows. I tell myself that I'm keeping my eyes locked on Mommy so that I make sure she's got her eyes locked on the road and not looking back at what I'm doing. I know that's almost entirely a lie. The stiffer it gets, the more mileage I get out of every jerky kicking motion. I don't want to think about how small it is now. The temperature isn't good, but the texture is unlike any other. Sure, I know it's my own urine, but that really only makes it hotter. I can't see the road, so I can't see the stop sign coming up. I feel the slow braking 'mommy' performs as she brings the car to a halt. Before I can stop what I'm doing, I see her eyes flit upwards to the mirror. Regardless of whether my actions look innocent or not in her eyes, I freeze. "Uh oh, someone's doing something naughty back there...!" She coos, dilly-dallying at the stop sign, "I guess you had a plan for that wet diaper, right?" Despite clearly being caught, I pretend to act innocent again until the car starts moving. Truth be told, if I was any closer when she said those words, I would have finished. Even with the pause, I take a long look at her again, kick a few more times, and then embrace the wave of climax as it washes over me. The diaper's nowhere near on its last legs, so it gladly wicks away the resulting stickiness. All that's left after a few seconds is a slight difference in temperature around where my noodle pressed against the padding. Sure, it wasn't mind-blowing, ball-emptying, but it was really, really good for a teasing phrase or two, a pretty face, and some herky-jerky leg kicks. It takes a little while longer for the car to finally come to a stop. In my head, I'm quietly hoping that 'mommy' will just let the little kicking episode slide. She has other ideas. "Got a head start, sweetpea?" She giggles out as she opens the door. "I guess you were bored, huh?" Half of me wants to disappear, but the other half wants to immediately begin round two. Neither happen. 'Mommy' reaches into the carseat, unstraps me, and places me back in her arms, just like before. She's parked on a driveway right next to a modest-looking suburban home. I hear waves, and I turn my head as she makes her way to the front door. The matchless Pacific Ocean stretches out no more than a couple hundred yards from the front door, the view unbroken by anything but tall conifers. It feels innapropriate to be in a state like this in such natural beauty. Mommy carries me into the house all the same. The house is one floor. The foyer seamlessly transitions into the living room, and the large kitchen is separated from it by a change in flooring, carpet to wood. Large windows give a view of a perfectly-kept lawn, as well as the backyards of the row of houses behind ours. "Nice place, huh? Perfectly sized for a tot and his Momma~" Mommy coos, patting my wet bottom twice and making a detour down a hall. There are only two rooms, and the doors are directly opposite one another. Mommy opens the one on the left. Immediately I see my name. "A-L-E-X", printed in baby block font across the footboard of the crib. The philosophy behind the nursery's decor is similar to that of the little introduction to the video-questionnaire. Brands and intellectual properties, as much as possible. To the point where it looks hyperreal. Nothing in the room is just generic baby stuff. The diaper pail? Oscar the Grouch themed. Pixar on the sheets of the crib. Bluey on the mobile. Even the stuff that seems generic is actually name brand. Fisher price, Gerber. Without another word, Mommy carries me over to the changing table and sets me down. There are little slopes on either side, so I don't roll over. Of course it's themed as well. Baby Mickey to be exact. "Is that 'I'm hungry' drool, or just 'I'm drooling', drool?" Mommy asks me as she begins to unsnap my sleeper. What...? Drool? I purse my lips and suck inwards and hear what sounds like fizzing. Mommy chuckles. "I guess we'll find out after you're fed, huh?" She comments. My sleeper's just a generic powder blue, but as I'm taken out of it, I see that it hides yet another property: Paw Patrol nighttime diapers. They're swollen and darkened, having wicked away most of my accidents, but there's no indication on the outside of the diaper that anything else went down inside of it. Mommy's fingers reach down, grab the corners of the tapes, and rip upwards and outwards. She pinches the front of the diaper and pulls it open. It separates from my skin. I see the inside of the front for a second before it drops back down open flat on the changing pad. The inside is a single, unform dull yellow color, no indication of any lighter coloration. "Trying to find out where your sticky went?" Mommy asks. My eyes widen. I thought I was being sneaky! "You're not exactly a stud this month, little guy," Mommy explains, tugging a couple baby wipes out of a nearby plastic tub. "Think... an eighth of a teaspoon, maybe less." I feel stiffening, but Mommy immediately quenches my coals by way of the baby wipe. My diaper was lukewarm before, but the sanitizing wipe is far, far cooler, and she places it directly against my noodle. I try not to get too upset at how fast it takes her to wipe it clean. "Biiiig issue, little guy," Mommy begins as she keeps wiping me down. First the crotch area, then the front of the upper thighs, then between the thighs, and then she finally gathers my ankles, lifts them up, and starts to work on one cheek at a time. "The super pooper thing you opted into... because you were being a good boy and telling the truth about what you want. That's about a dozen dirty diapers a day!" "Duh-din?!?!" I exclaim, causing her to giggle. She lifts my bottom up entirely off the wet diaper, which she then begins to slowly roll up with her other hand. "That's right, honey! A dozen. During the day. One or two at night as well, depending on how good you are at getting through the whole night. Regardless, your next pair of pampers is probably going to have a short shelf-life!" Big Bird's chosen as the victim, it seems. Mommy grabs one from underneath the changing table, unfolding and fluffing it out. In a reverse of what was done to the wet diaper, she slides it under my bottom. "Puh-puh..." I mutter, mostly to myself. "I do love it when you're talkative, cutie-pie," Mommy begins, "And yes! Your little tush is about to be very, very mushy. But that tummy needs to be filled! I'm sure your diaper will understand." So... casual! Mommy's read my stories, as well as half the people in this resort, so she knows how much I fixate on it, which is probably why she's telling me now. Talkative, though... I can't say anything, but it definitely is fun to babble. After a little drizzle of powder, the front of my diaper's pulled up between my legs. The bulk forces my thighs to spread, and a snug tape-job causes soft, dry crinkles to hug around my hips. "Just diaper will work for now, I think. Let's see if we can't banish the drool-monster with a little food," Mommy says. "Duh!" I declare proudly, and then relish the sight of her face instantaneously brightening. "Drool, right sweetheart! That stuff that's just rolling down your face at the moment! C'mon pumpkin, let's get you some food..." Up and off the changing table I go, and back into her arms. We head straight for the kitchen, where four regular chairs and a high chair are neatly arranged around a kitchen table.