This work is copyright 2000-2008 by Xaltatun of Acheron (A Pseudonym). It may be posted on the Internet to any free forum. It may be reformatted to match the forum's look and feel, and the forum editor may make minor spelling and grammer corrections. Otherwise it must be posted in its entirety, including these notices. It may not be sold, or included in any compilation that is sold, or posted on any forum that requires a fee for access, without my written permission. My permission will require payment, terms to be negotiated. For purposes of this notice, sites guarded by Adult Check or similar packages are considered pay sites. Posting on any site must include this copyright notice.
Adult Content Warning - this story contains adult themes, including non-consensual bondage/slavery and forced sexual acts. If you are under the lawful age for such materials (18 in most jurisdictions) or if you would find such material offensive, please go elsewhere.
Safety Warning. This story may contain descriptions of practices that are decidedly unsafe, either in general, or if performed by someone without adequate training. There are a number of good books available on safety in the BDSM scene. Most large cities, and some not so large ones, have organized BDSM groups that will usually welcome a newcomer. I'm not going to point out which practices are safe, and which aren't. Any practice is unsafe if performed by someone with inadequate training and experience, or if performed when not paying attention. Please think before you act. Don't make yourself a candidate for a Darwin award.
Now on to the story...
Chapter 4. This stuff is regulated?
Chapter 5: The Iron Rose Society.
Chapter 12. After the Honeymoon.
Darlene Smitts pulled up in front of her house, grabbed her purse and hurried to the door as fast as her fashionable executive career woman heels would allow her to walk.
“Honey, I’m ho...” she started to stay and then stopped.
Her husband, Roger, was lying sprawled on the living room floor busily doing something with a laptop. That wasn’t, however, the surprise. The surprise was in how he was dressed, if one could call it that.
The first thing that assaulted her eyes was what looked like a ruffled diaper cover. On his butt. The t-shirt with the ‘my little pony’ motif entered her astounded awareness second, and the way he had his hair arranged in two tails, with cute little bows, third.
For a second she thought she was in the wrong house, but she quickly realized that she wasn’t, and that the figure on the floor was her husband, who was looking at her in surprise, and was also beginning to turn beet red in embarrassment.
Darlene took a deep breath and put her executive saleswoman skills to the ultimate test. “Honey, I’m surprised you didn’t trust me enough to tell me!” She knelt to give him a big kiss, and then got up. “I just stopped in for a file I forgot to take with me this morning.”
She hurried in to her workroom to collect the file and came back out. She knelt again to give him a kiss on the other side of his face. “I like the look.” She put some steel in her voice. “Keep it for tonight.”
She hurried out, being careful to close the door carefully and make sure it was locked. When she got into her car she paused for a second to take another deep breath and put the scene aside. It wouldn’t do to be distracted during the upcoming meeting, after all. That account billed several tens of millions a year, and the regular bonuses kept her coming back for more. After all, as the saying went: ‘too much is never enough.’ She wasn’t sure if it was possible to have too much, but she was quite sure that what she had wasn’t anywhere near that possibly mythical limit.
Back in the house, Roger lay sprawled on the floor, what she had said running through his head: “I like the look.” He only came out of his daze when the feeling of cold, clammy diapers managed to intrude on his awareness.
Back in the office, Darlene hung her suit jacket on a hanger and moved all the material from her briefcase onto her desk. She spent an hour dealing with it, turning the meeting into a dozen e-mails to colleagues, notes on the various people and products, and items on her things to do list.
Finally she finished and had time to sit back and think a bit. She sipped at her coffee and considered the scene. Some kind of baby fetish, no doubt. Roger had been getting awfully despondent about not being able to find a job and being dependent on her. For gosh sakes, two years was a long time, but the job market was awful and the market for his skills was worse. She’d suggested taking the time out to complete his degree, but he hadn’t really been interested.
Her honed saleswoman’s mind busily tried to put pieces together as if he was a prospect and she was trying to sell him, what? The only thing she was able to come up with was a couple of bedwetting incidents.
She was sure there was a humongous amount of material about baby fetishes on the net, but now was definitely not the time to go after it. Her company’s IT department maintained thorough surveillance of everything that people did on the network. The excuse was that they didn’t want corporate secrets leaking, but they were also death on anything that smacked of porn on company time. They’d fired a nice-looking young man in Billing just last week for looking at girlie pictures on his terminal.
She snorted. She was sure there were a half dozen girls in Billing who would have been more than happy to pose nude if it was their pictures he had been salivating over. In fact, she was pretty sure that at least one of them would have been willing to come to work nude if it would have gotten her a date instead of getting her fired on the spot.
She snorted again. At least she knew why he liked to wear his hair long.
Darlene hesitated slightly before putting the key in the lock. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d find! She took a deep breath. The one thing she was sure of was that hesitation here would probably be as bad as looking unsure in a sales meeting. She put the key in the lock and turned it.
“Hi Honey,” she said as she took in the scene. Roger was where she’d last seen him, sprawled on the floor, dressed, if one could call it that, in a t-shirt, diaper cover and sandals. She put down her purse and the package she carried.
“Honey?” he said as he scrambled to his feet. She swept him into a hug and a kiss. Her hand strayed down and felt the diaper cover. It squished.
“You’re wet,” she said once they parted.
“Oops. I’ll change.”
“No, you won’t change. I’ll change you. Show me where you keep the diapers,” she said, an edge of steel in her voice.
“Uh?”
“You’re wet, you need to be changed. Momma changes baby, baby doesn’t change herself.”
“Oh.” Roger led the way to one of the closets and rummaged around in the back. He pulled out a package of adult disposable diapers, a neatly folded stack of diaper covers and t-shirts, and a diaper bag.
She spread a large towel on the living room floor and pointed at it.
Roger walked over to it and lay down. Darlene efficiently stripped the diaper cover and diaper off, wrinkling her nose at the smell. She dropped the sodden diaper in the diaper bag and closed it up. Then she thought a second and went to the kitchen, returning with a can of corn meal. A couple of minutes later she had her big baby neatly diapered and with a new diaper cover.
She gathered up the pieces.
“Baby play while mommy cleans up and makes dinner,” she told Roger while pointing at the floor. Roger looked at her with an incredulous expression, but obediently sprawled out in front of the laptop.
Now what, she thought to herself as she stepped into the shower, was going on. Should she run with it, put her foot down on it, or what?
It seemed like there were four possibilities, she mused as she dried herself off. Kick him out, demand he stop it, demand he go finish his degree, or turn him into the baby he’d been unable to give her. Well, she thought more as she slid into a pair of slacks and a loose blouse, number two probably wouldn’t work: he’d just keep right on doing it behind her back. At least that’s what the women’s magazines said about that kind of fetish. Finish up his degree? It hadn’t stuck the last several dozen times she’d suggested it, there was no reason to expect it would this time either. At least now she had a reason, or at least a theory, about why he wasn’t interested enough to put out the effort. And if she expected that to stop it, fat chance.
Kick him out? She shuddered at the kind of divorce lawyers her income would attract. Not to mention what the notoriety would do to her career.
Go with it and see how keeping him as a baby works out? That had a kind of really bizarre attractiveness.
She looked at him sprawled on the floor, ruffled diaper cover sticking up and two ribboned tails sticking jauntily from the sides of his head. Him? Maybe ruffles was all he could get in that size of rubber panty, but she kind of doubted it. The hair style screamed ‘little girl.’
Time for shock therapy. “Time for dinner, Jenny,” she called.
Roger jerked up and looked around, startled.
“Coming, dear?”
“But...”
“You like being a baby girl, you need a girl’s name, and mommy gets to pick it. As long as you’re a baby girl, you’re Jennifer, Jenny for short. Dinner’s on the table, sweetie.”
“Uh...”
Darlene laughed. “Want mommy to come in and hold you while I feed you?”
“Uh, no.” The newly named faux baby girl rolled to her feet and grabbed her chair.
Darlene opened the restaurant door and looked around. The restaurant itself looked like a fairly middling Italian family restaurant; decent but not outstanding.
“I’m looking for the Donner party,” she told the hostess.
“They’re right back there,” the hostess pointed at a large table with several people sitting at it.
She made her way back and asked the nearest person: “Is this the BDSM munch?”
“Yes,” the guy answered. He was, she thought, pretty much a guy. “I’m Mike. I guess you’re Darlene?”
“Yep,” she said as she pulled out a chair and sat down.
“And you’re wondering what you’re getting into,” he added as the woman sitting on his left laughed.
“Exactly.”
“So let me start off. Ethel here is my wife and, um, I’ve got to quit saying slavegirl.”
“Oh, why?”
“Changes in the last few years. We don’t have a contract; the way we play there’s no real need for it, and these days the term slavegirl suggests a Registered Submissive contract. At least where we play. So what do you do?”
“Well, my husband is an Adult Baby. We’re getting into it more than a bit, and I figured I should look for some people to hook up with.”
“So you hunted around on the net and found the Iron Rose Society.”
“Right. The site is remarkably uninformative.”
“Besides pointing at lots of stuff that’s pretty common knowledge on other sites,” one of the other men said. “Oh, I’m Abner, by the way.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise. I think we’ve got an Adult Baby SIG somewhere. That would be, um, Bart’s thing?”
“I think so,” Ethel said. “I’ve never figured out what anyone sees in it, but then you don’t diss other people’s kinks.”
“Not and keep a good rep in the Society, anyway.”
“You said something about a contract?”
“I’d better say something about the Society first,” Mike said. “There used to be a dozen or so clubs and organizations in this county that were loosely related to What It Is That We Do, today the Iron Rose has pulled all of them into one organization. A lot of that’s due to the legal situation.
“It has its advantages. We’ve got enough members that we have a small permanent office staff, our own secure server and a reasonably decent relationship with the county and state prosecutors and the various police forces.
“We’ve got several classes of membership. All of us here are General members. There are also Dominant, Registered Submissive and Professional memberships. General members mostly don’t do things that require specialized training or contracts. Ethel and I backed off a little bit on what we were doing when things got organized; we didn’t want our relationship to get out of the General class.”
“So where is the line?”
“Well, attended light bondage is fine, so is a dominant / submissive relationship as long as the submissive is managing her own affairs and wouldn’t be left hanging if the relationship breaks up. It goes over the line if it could result in a trip to the hospital or the welfare agencies. Or a whole host of other things that are farther out there.”
“I think age play is fine, as long as it’s private,” Abner said. “You’d have to ask Bart for the details.”
“I think that SIG is closed,” a blonde at the other end of the table said as she punched buttons on her phone and looked at results. “Yes, it is. Members only. Oh, I’m Dottie, by the way.”
Darlene shrugged slightly. “So we join. No big deal.”
“Until you get to the legal orientation,” Dottie said and then giggled.
“Oh, what’s so bad about the legal situation?”
“You remember there was a flap a few years ago about a Supreme Court decision they handed down just before Christmas?”
“There’s always a flap about Supreme Court decisions!”
“Well, this one was on December 22, 2012, and it’s called State of Georgia vs. Mr. Smith.”
“When it isn’t called unspeakable things,” Dottie said.
Mike said: “She’s right. Lawyers say it’s the worst decision they’ve ever seen. Technically it was 5 to 4, but there were not only 4 dissenting opinions, but also 2 concurring opinions. None of the opinions agree on much of anything, nor do they agree with the trial court or the appellate court decisions.”
“Consequently the legal situation is in a tizzy,” Dottie added.
“Well, it’s clarified a bit in the last few years.”
“If you can call it that.”
A brunette on the other end of the table said: “Some of the unintended consequences are neat. Like the battered women situation. Oh, I’m Fay, by the way.”
“And she’s got a one track mind. So tell us. Again.”
Fay laughed. “It used to be you had a lot of guys who’d come home roaring drunk and beat up their wives and kids. Cleaning that up was one of the unintended consequences.
“The courts started holding that if she didn’t complain about how he was treating her, there was an implicit contract to allow the behavior. The women’s groups didn’t like that at all! However...”
She drew the pause out a moment. “Then they started holding that beating her while drunk was an unsafe workplace practice, and then the Health Service got into the act by declaring that hospital visits because of injuries were billable as avoidable health problems.”
Darlene giggled. “I didn’t know that was going on!”
“Well, the women’s groups are still spinning; most of them don’t know what to do when they get what they want by totally unacceptable means!”
“So what happens if he comes home sober and beats her up?”
“The cops tell them to join us so he can learn how to do it safely and without disturbing the neighbors.”
Darlene laughed so hard she almost fell onto her plate. “So then what?”
“We’ve got some pretty decent courses on settling domestic issues without resorting to violence,” Mark said.
“And some more on maintaining discipline and control with your submissive,” Fay added. “Again without resorting to violence.”
“Most of them drift out of the Society once they get their family situation straightened away. About one couple in ten stays.”
“And the cops get a lot fewer domestic violence calls.”
“Sounds like a win all around.”
“Except for the feminist ideologs,” Fay said.
Roger politely showed Darlene in the door of Beagle, Benson, Bird, Chatham, Dewey, Hedges, Howe and Associates, Ltd. The law offices hummed with decorous activity as briefly miniskirted, and quite pretty, staff assistants bustled between desks and offices carrying files.
“Mr. Filene will be with you in a few minutes,” the equally pretty receptionist murmured as she showed the two of them to seats.
Roger had the impression it was a movie set rather than a law office, an impression that was only strengthened when he thought he saw one particular blonde carrying the same file to one office, then another office, and then back to a file cabinet. And then repeating with the same file and same two offices not once, but at least four times.
“Mommy, isn’t she repeating herself?” he mentioned to Darlene.
“Either she’s having a lot of blonde moments, or the paper is multiplying in the cabinet,” his wife replied, soto voice. “That’s what legal paperwork does: it breeds while no one is looking.”
Roger laughed.
They watched the show, including the hapless legal clerk carrying the same file folder on its triangular journey several more times, when finally the receptionist came over.
“Mr. Filene will see you now.”
They followed her into a spacious office. Mr. Filene turned out to be a nondescript man, just beginning to go bald. He was almost the perfect image of the video family lawyer or maybe accountant.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs., Mr. Smitts,” he began. “Have a seat and we can begin.” He took his own chair and opened one of the ubiquitous files.
“You’re here to sign a transfer of power contract. You, Roger, are going to give your wife, Darlene, a great deal of power and renounce your right to dispute her decisions in a number of matters. Is that correct?”
“Uh, yes.” Roger answered.
“Yes,” Darlene said at the same time.
“Good. I’ve got the right file. I’m never quite sure until I check.” He chuckled grimly. “What’s going to happen next is that all three of us are going to verify our identities at the ID machine. Then you’ll put on the verifier helmets and I’ll ask you a number of questions based on the contract. We can discuss any issues as they come up. Once the verifier agrees that you both understand and agree to the contract terms without reservations, it will be in force.”
The three of them went through the ritual with the ID machine, and then settled back with the verifier helmets on their heads. It looked, Darlene thought briefly, like they were getting their hair styled.
“Before we get started, I’ve got a general question,” Roger said. “Why are we doing this? I mean, the people we talked to at BDSM society meetings said we had to, but I’m not at all clear on why what we’re doing now isn’t good enough.”
“That’s a very good question,” Mr. Filene said. “Let me ask one in return. What’s your weekly schedule? How many hours a week are you being kept as a baby?”
“We do four evenings a week, all day on Sunday, and she spends four nights a week in her crib,” Darlene answered.
“I see. That’s four evenings at four hours an evening, for sixteen hours, sixteen hours on Sunday makes 32, and another four nights at eight hours comes to 64 hours a week. The exact numbers may be a bit higher or lower, but the critical point here is that you’re spending a lot more than 20 hours a week. That’s the federal standard that separates part time from full time.”
“How does that apply?” Darlene asked.
“Well, technically it shouldn’t. Are you familiar with State of Georgia vs Mr. Smith and all the repercussions?”
“It gets mentioned a lot, but it sounds messy enough that I haven’t gotten into the details,” Darlene said.
Roger shrugged.
“The background is that the Supreme Court decision in State of Georgia vs Mr. Smith was a bit less than seven years ago, and we’re all scrambling to sort out what it all means. The Congress doesn’t want to touch the issues and the Legislatures in most states don’t want to look at it either. What we’re running on is an out-of-state law, California to be precise, scattered and mostly contradictory court decisions, any Federal law or regulation that seems to be relevant, what the police and prosecutors regard as reasonable, and a lot of Law Review articles, mostly written by grad students.
“The police and prosecutors seem to think that 20 hours is a workable dividing line between ‘light’ BDSM and practices that have to be regulated by a contract. There’s a lot of opinion that it ought to be less, but at least 20 is a nice, round number, and it’s got the advantage that the man on the street, or more to the point the man in the jury box, can relate to it because the Wages and Hours laws have made it well known.
“There’s a second issue as well. Having him sleep in a crib at night is technically unattended light bondage, and that can get you in real trouble if there’s an accident that needs police or emergency service intervention.”
“Light bondage?”
“Developing law says that there are three categories: light, normal and heavy. Light bondage is anything that the submissive can get out of easily, even in a panicked emergency. Normal bondage is inescapable, especially if the submissive is in a panic. Heavy bondage adds the element of physical stress and the potential for damage if physical limits are exceeded.”
“I see,” Darlene said. “Now, there were a lot of things about the contract that puzzled me. I suppose the first one is why it’s with the county BDSM society?”
“That’s a key observation. There are actually three contracts. Roger will have one with the BDSM society as a Submissive; you will have one as a Dominant, and you will have a second one that assigns Roger to you.
“I know that sounds like it’s more complex than necessary. There’s a reason, and that’s to protect your interests, Roger’s interests, and, indirectly, society’s interests. We’re in a reasonably large city of a half million people; the surrounding county brings it up to three quarters of a million people. The county BDSM society has several thousand members, which is enough to have a professional office staff and also to have group insurance to fund the various obligations in the contracts.
“Let’s take a hypothetical example. Say we have a dominant named Tarl, and a submissive named Dena who’s his willing and enthusiastic slavegirl. Eventually he gets tired of her and kicks her out on the street with only what she’s wearing at the time.
“Ten years ago that would have been a very messy situation. Depending on the jurisdiction Dena may have been in deep trouble, the prosecutors may have gone after Tarl in a very messy case, or any number of other possibilities, very few of them positive for either party.
“Today the situation is different. Without a contract, if Dena showed up at a welfare office or homeless shelter Tarl would be liable; in many jurisdictions, including this one, the legal case would be very straightforward and not at all in Tarl’s favor.
“With contracts the way we do it, the BDSM society will find someplace for Dena to stay and something for her to do while the Dominants who want a new slavegirl are looking her over. It fines Tarl for transition expenses, most of which will be refunded if Dena goes to a new Dominant fairly quickly. The case doesn’t go near the welfare offices, the prosecutors or the courts.”
“I see.”
“In fact,” Mr. Filene continued, “Tarl wouldn’t kick her out. He’d advertise her for sale to the interested Dominants. When someone bid enough, he’d tell her to pack and her new owner would pick her up. He might or might not tell her that she was for sale.”
“That sounds like a slave situation.”
“That’s exactly what it is. We are, after all, a BDSM society. Having the contract with the Society protects the slave’s interests because she’s got the Society as a backup: societies like this are notably risk-aversive.”
“I see. I’m not sure why I’d ever want to get rid of Roger, though.”
Mr. Filene shrugged. “Most young marrieds think it’s forever, but the divorce statistics don’t agree. What statistics we have suggest that the situation we have in the BDSM community is worse.”
Darlene frowned. “That makes sense. Unfortunately.”
“I know it’s not funny, however leaving the situation unregulated is even less funny.”
“Indeed. Now these are very short contracts; that’s one of the things that was puzzling me.”
“Most of the meat is included by reference. You’re promising to abide by the Society’s current bylaws, and they can change at any time. The bylaws that apply to Dominants are fairly general; nobody knows what you’re going to be interested in five years from now, or ten, or twenty, so a good contract outlines your responsibilities in general terms.”
“I see. I did look through that material, and I didn’t come up with anything that really bothered me.”
“Good. Now let’s move on to Roger.”
“Um. Why the gender change clause? Not that I’m really complaining.”
“That’s a good question. Remember those tests you took? I’m putting the standard masculinity / femininity scale on the screen, with your score marked.”
“That’s a standard bell curve?” Darlene asked.
“Right. Mean is 100, standard deviation is 15. You’ll notice that he’s on the feminine side, but not by what looks like a whole lot. Looks can be deceiving, so let’s break it down a bit.
“This is the same thing, but genetic males and genetic females are normalized separately, and the two plots got glued together by matching raw scores in the middle.”
“I see. There’s a lot of overlap.”
“Exactly. And the outline isn’t a smooth bell any more; there are two pronounced humps. If we broke out declared gays and lesbians it would be even more complicated.
“The takeaway here is that Roger is at the tenth percentile for masculinity from a genetic male’s viewpoint, but he’s at the twentieth percentile for femininity from a genetic female’s viewpoint. From a male viewpoint, that puts him on the edge: somewhat more than half of all genetic males would think he was a bit too sissy for their tastes. From a female viewpoint, with appropriate training around 95 percent of genetic females would regard him as acceptably feminine.
“The other piece is that he doesn’t have a strong attachment to either the male or female social role. That means he wouldn’t have any real objection to being trained to behave and live as a female, and he would almost certainly be somewhat happier.
“The Society always puts that section in when the tests indicate it. You can remove it if you want before we finalize the contract, but it won’t change anything and I’d recommend against it. There’s a significant demand for she-males as personal servants, and if it comes to office work a pretty girl who’s comfortable being a pretty girl is a lot more in demand than a guy who’s not very masculine. If your current relationship goes sour, you’ll almost certainly be retrained as a female, regardless of whether that section is in the contract, and it will be very much to your advantage.”
Roger thought a moment and then grinned. “The other side has prettier clothes.”
After a slight pause, Darlene said: “The material used the word own for submissives. That fits with your little story about Tarl and Dena?”
Mr. Filene said: “There’s a lot of discussion about the right word, but most of the dominants and a majority of the submissives are quite happy with chattel ownership as the model. It might be a bit more accurate to say that the Society owns the submissives, and the dominants lease them, but it’s still not entirely right. Generally, a lease implies a fixed term and renegotiation, while the actual contract is indefinite term. There’s no renegotiation. He’s yours until you no longer want him, or he invokes one of the bailout options. That’s what most people think of as ownership.”
He paused and then continued. “Let’s cover the basic Submissive contract. The essence of the contract is that the submissive gives the owner the right to make all contract and legal decisions in his behalf, without retaining the right to either reject or approving them. To be blunt about it, it’s a slave contract, and the submissive is in the same position as a slave. His owner can do anything with him that isn’t prohibited by law, regulation or legal precedent. Depending on the jurisdiction, that can include legal matters such as name changes.
“On the other side, the Society is legally obligated to take care of its submissives. It’s also obligated to take due care that dominants aren’t abusing their submissives.”
“You said there were bailout clauses?” Roger asked.
“Yes, there are two of them. The first is that you can complain to the Society about basic incompatibility. That happens. People change. If the Society finds that you’re no longer compatible with your dominant, it’ll be the same as if you owner wanted to get rid of you. If they find it’s something that can be worked through, they’ll take that option instead. That kind of investigation doesn’t usually reflect well on the dominant, either – the general opinion is that she’s the responsible party; she should be out ahead of you.
“The second is a complete bailout from the Society. That’s final. There’s a small re-entry payment that might be sufficient to reestablish yourself. The longer you were a submissive, the larger it will be, but it’s not going to allow you to live in luxury for the rest of your life. You won’t be allowed to rejoin any BDSM society anywhere in the country again. You also lose all of the insurance coverages.”
He paused again for comments. Then: “let’s cover the other clauses.
“The first one declares that you don’t have an outside job, and you don’t want one. That makes you a full time submissive; you work at whatever your current owner wants you to work at. A lot of submissives have outside jobs and want to keep them; that’s a completely different situation. Their contracts say that if they lose their outside job the Society is obligated to help them find a new one, but if they can’t find one in a reasonable amount of time they’ll go to being full time submissives.”
“I presume that’s called motivation,” Darlene put in.
“In one direction or the other. Now, the Adult Baby section says that, if there’s a suitable Dominant who wants an Adult Baby, she’s got first call on your contract, and that she has to maintain you as an Adult Baby for a certain minimum number of hours a week, with appropriate care so you don’t go stale. Since you’ve declared that you don’t have, and don’t want, an outside job, she can have you as an Adult Baby full time, but that’s her option, not yours.
“I think that covers it. Questions?”
“You said work at. Are there limits?”
“Hmmm. That’s another area that’s still being defined, but in this county there are two limitations. One is that it has to be a service or support type occupation. That covers personal service, but it also includes a lot of low level business jobs. Agricultural work or factory work are excluded.
“The other is something we call the two degree rule. The person receiving the service can’t be more than two steps away from the actual owner. That mostly rules out any large business.”
“I’m not sure I see the limit,” Darlene said.
“Let’s take a restaurant as an example. There aren’t any at the moment, but it’s been considered. The restaurant owner would be the owner of record. His direct reports would be the shift managers; that’s one degree of separation. Then the kitchen supervisor and the service supervisor would be the second degree; the cooks and the waitresses would be the third degree. So he could have Registered Submissives as wait staff, but he couldn’t get big enough to require another layer of management.
“Or take a large estate. The head of household would be the owner of record; there might be a chief housekeeper as a household manager, a groundskeeper and a maintenance chief to keep the estate up. The housekeeper might have a couple of departments, such as the cooks, the cleaning maids and the personal servants, but it couldn’t get any deeper than that.”
“I see. That does put a strict size limit on things.”
Roger sat there a moment. Then he squeezed mommy’s hand. “Let’s do it.”
“Mrs. Smitts?”
“I’m fine with it.”
“Good. Give me a minute here.” He touched a few keys on his system. “We can get out of those verification helmets now; the contract was accepted at the depository.” He bustled around removing the equipment.
“One last thing before you go,” he added as he opened the door to usher them out. The receptionist handed him a file folder. He opened it, looked inside, and handed it to Darlene Smitts. “Your Certificate of Title. You now own one Registered Submissive. Congratulations.”
Mrs. Smitts walked up to the door that said: “Iron Rose Society”, her fashionable executive heels clicking on the floor. She opened the door and paused a moment to take stock.
“May I help you, mistress?” the girl behind the receptionist’s desk asked as she slid out to stand before her. Darlene successfully repressed a tendency to stare: the girl was dressed in a single sleeve tunic decorated with black and white diagonal stripes. Her rich brown hair tumbled over her shoulders, held back by a contrasting green ribbon. The iron collar around her neck, that had something indecipherable engraved on it, provided a contrast.
“Darlene Smitts, for Mrs. Clinkscales,” she said as the girl gestured to take her coat.
“You’re expected, mistress. Mistress Daphne will be with you in a few minutes. May I get you some coffee and a roll while you wait?”
Mistress Daphne turned out to be the kind of woman who made an immediate impression: a bit taller than average, solidly built without the appearance of being the least out of proportion, and standing as straight as if she had swallowed a poker. Her attitude said she not only expected the world to acknowledge her right to rule, but fully expected that it would feel grateful for the opportunity to pay her homage.
Darlene knew the type, and made an instant decision. “I suspect you wonder why I called this meeting,” she said, almost without a pause.
The girl in the barber-stripe tunic froze for a moment and then glided out of the room, her movements not quite as fluid as they had been a moment earlier, possibly because she was successfully stifling a laugh.
“That’s one way of doing it,” Daphne riposted without losing a bit of her regal poise. “Have a seat. I like to have a bit of a chat with our new Dominants, and explore some ways of maintaining control without getting into serious trouble.”
“That sounds like a very good idea.”
“First, let’s explore the legal situation. Have you read the bylaws and contract inclusions yet?”
“That’s quite a sea of verbiage. I suppose that the lawyers like swimming in it.”
“That’s certainly a way of looking at it! I expect that Counselor Filene explained that, um, Roger has surrendered all of his rights to us?”
“That’s what it sounded like to me.”
“He did. The first thing we do with a full-time Submissive contract is to get a court order declaring incompetency, and assigning us as the legal guardian. That’s been done, and we’ve appointed you as our agent in exercising the guardianship. He quite literally can’t make any contract, or buy anything with other than cash or using a limited credit card that you provide him.”
“Poor baby,” she said with saccharine sweetness.
“Precisely. Now in your case we took one other step: we filed for divorce on your behalf. You’re no longer married.”
Her eyes flew up. “Divorce?”
“Yes. Your contracts with us have parallel provisions that specify termination of a marriage if it exists. That protects you both if the relationship goes sour: you can get rid of him by simply terminating the lease and returning him. We take care of maintaining him while we find him another owner.”
“Oh. This is going faster than I thought I wanted,” she muttered.
Daphne laughed politely. “Most new dominants say that when it’s their spouse who has become a Registered Submissive. The reason that Counselor Filene didn’t cover it with you is that we prefer to discuss it without the submissive present. Whether or not you tell him that he’s no longer married is up to you; we aren’t going to tell him.”
“Oh.” She looked away for a long moment. “I suppose it’s for the best; I can pray that our relationship doesn’t collapse, but if it does it won’t do either of us any good to prolong the agony.”
“Good. You can have Counselor Filene file a motion to change your name back to your maiden name if you want. We don’t do that as part of the petition we file. That’s completely up to you, of course.”
“Next,” she let the word dangle for a bare half second, “we need to discuss maintaining control with your Adult Baby. There are several things you can do that maintain control very unobtrusively; that is, they reinforce the role as part of the routine. One of those is day care.”
“I’ve heard that there is a day care facility for adult babies, but what does it have to do with control?”
“Real mommies have to put their babies in day care if they’re working. Even for a part time Adult Baby, day care has a lot to recommend it. Professional minders know how to keep the baby in role no matter what she does: they’ve got the training and experience. You can keep her in role for much longer periods if you use day care facilities for part of the time. To give one real obvious example, a lot of part time Adult Babies have never messed their diapers. Wet them, yes. Mess them, no.”
“Now that you mention it, Jenny usually doesn’t except on Sunday, and then she gets real cranky until I force her to let go. I had to put a lock on the bathroom door.”
“Exactly. If you sandwich a day care session between two evening and overnight sessions, she’ll be in role for a good 36 hours: she’s not going to have a choice. Do it for a few weeks and she’ll quit worrying and let herself mess her diaper whenever it happens.”
“That makes sense. I have to admit being a bit puzzled that there are day care facilities for Adult Babies.”
“If you remember from your orientation, we have several thousand members. We have around a hundred Adult Babies.”
“That’s more than I would have thought.”
“Exactly. That’s enough to maintain a nice day care center. Look up the Aramis Adult Baby Day Care Center on our secure server.”
“OK.”
“One thing we didn’t anticipate is that our day care center lets some of the little darlings go full time: some of those haven’t been out of role in several years. Their mommies and daddies put them into day care every day, or at least every weekday.”
“Like real babies, I suppose.”
“Now, another point is to maintain a distinct role separation. That’s one of the things about our minders: they never see your baby out of role. That’s a continuation of what you’re already doing for parties. It means that other adults never see your baby switch roles, and most of them never see her out of role at all. Likewise, there are very few people she’s going to see from both roles. Also, the babies your baby plays with don’t ever see each other out of role except in rare circumstances.”
“That would do it, I suppose.”
“Well, it helps.”
She paused slightly.
“Now, another question. Is there any reason why Roger has to maintain a presence in the community as Roger?”
“I can’t think of anyone besides myself who’d miss him if he vanished. Why?”
“Once he’s in day care regularly, you should consider changing his gender. That can start with a full body hair removal. There are some quite amazing products available these days that are much better than the old lasers at permanent hair removal. There are also products that can thicken and lengthen head hair so it’s a lot more feminine.”
“You know, that sounds like an excellent idea. Jenny would look a lot more like a baby without all that ugly hair.”
“Right. And that will let you ease into changing her gender.”
Darlene thought a second. “Counselor Filene did say that if our relationship broke up he’d be retrained as a woman, but why should I do it now?”
“There are two reasons. One is that Jenny is likely to be significantly happier than Roger.”
“Hm. That could be. The other reason?”
“He’s doing your housekeeping?”
“Some of it, yes.”
“Training Jenny as an effective and respectful housekeeper and maid is likely to make you happier. Especially if you keep her as a she-male so she’s sexually active enough to keep you purring.”
“That’s one of the things I like about him. He is good in bed.”
And not for much else, Daphne politely didn’t say.
“The other point here is that you’re much more likely to keep a maid and housekeeper for the long term than you are to stay interested in playing with an Adult Baby.”
“That does make sense. I’m going to have to think about it.” She smiled. “I’ll probably do it, but not right away. Is there anything else?”
“Several more things. You should change his name to Jennifer legally. You can get an alternate ID in his old name for when he has to go out as Roger, but he will have to use Jennifer for anything official, including identifying himself at an ID machine. You can have Counselor Filene do the paperwork.”
“Hm. I think I’ll wait on that until I start having him retrained.”
“Well, then get an alternate ID for Jennifer. It will simplify her role as an Adult Baby.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. More stuff to mull over.”
“OK. You may not have discovered that he no longer has top level administrator privileges on any computer system, down to and including his cell phone, music player and other gadgets. Any systems he had top level privileges were transferred to us, and we transferred them to you. You’re going to need to review his permissions to make sure they’re appropriate. Can you do the admin, or should we send someone over?”
“I can do it. It’s not like it’s hard, it’s just picky.”
“Good. One of the things you’ll need to set up has to do with our day care arrangements. You might know from chatter at parties that we keep them at about ten or eleven months physically: that’s just before they’re able to say more than about three words, and before they can walk. We can’t do that mentally: they’d go crazy and we’d be shut down for abuse.
“So we give them a lot of toys that would be more age appropriate for five or six, and give them access to a computer to do art, play games, listen to music, read and watch videos. Everything they can access is carefully selected to keep them happy and engaged without giving them much information about the adult world outside or allowing them socially inappropriate content.”
“That sounds like it’s very well thought out.”
“Well, we try. As I was getting at, you can get the same computer feeds at home that we use in the day care center; in fact it’s the same account so if she’s, for example, doing some artwork she can continue at home or at the center. You have to authorize that for the computer she’ll be using at home; she can’t do it herself.”
“That makes a lot of sense.”
“Now the last piece on the network angle is that you’ll want to set up a link from wherever you work. There’s an ‘At Work’ facility that limits access to things that are safe for work: nothing pornographic or even controversial, for example. It’s mostly for mail and messages for meetings and parties that you need to respond to during the day.”
“Mrs. Colander can see you now,” the petite brunette secretary said as she got up from behind her desk.
She held out a hand, and the two visitors rose to follow her into the office, the statuesque blonde leading her husband.
“Call me Rose,” the lady behind the executive desk said. “I’m pleased to meet you, Darlene and, um, Jennifer, right?”
The man blushed slightly as his wife nodded. “Pleased to meet you as well, Rose.”
She gestured slightly, and Darlene sat in the chair that the secretary held for her; then the secretary seated Jenny.
“I’m pleased to welcome you for your baby’s first stay at the Aramis Adult Baby Day Care Center. We’ve got a couple of those niggling little details to take care of before we can get Baby Jenny started.”
“I thought we had all the paperwork in,” Darlene said.
“You do. Most of it’s automatic since you’re both Society members, and Jennifer’s contract as a Registered Submissive specifies she’s to be kept as an Adult Baby much of the time.
“There are a few things we don’t tell our clients before their first visit. Just to make sure we’re on the same page, you’ve probably discovered that we keep our babies regressed to about ten to eleven months?”
“Um, yes. I was wondering about that. Isn’t it awfully young?”
“Well, yes and no. Keeping them at that age helps us maintain control. Babies don’t usually start walking before 11 months. If she’s being breast-fed she hasn’t been weaned yet. Babies at ten months babble, but about the only words they know are “mama” and “dada”; they can also recognize their name. At that age babies are most definitely not potty trained, and they don’t have the dexterity to pick stuff up with a thumb and one finger.
“We enforce all of those limits. What we don’t do is make sure they’re limited to age appropriate toys. If baby wants to try solving a Rubik’s cube, for example, that’s fine as long as she can manipulate it with baby mittens on.”
“Baby mittens?”
“Like these.” Rose brought out a pair of cute pink gloves. “Hold out your hands, dear,” she cooed at Baby Jenny.
The young man obediently held out both hands. Ruth quickly slid the gloves over his fingers and slid the little locks on the wristbands closed.
“As you can see, they’re a mitten, not a glove. They’re constructed so that baby can’t move her fingers independently. She can, for example, pick up a bottle and suck on it, but she can’t manipulate anything complicated. All the locks and latches we use are too hard for our little darlings to do anything with, while they’re easy for our minders to snap shut and open.”
“I see,” Darlene said. “Can I buy a set?”
“Of course,” Rose answered. “They’re in our online store. Now the next thing is something I already mentioned: babies at eleven months can’t talk. They can babble, laugh, cry, yell and whatever, but they can’t talk. That’s usually one of the harder things for an adult baby to learn, or rather to unlearn, so we start them out right with a pacifier.
“Our minders will train her to babble rather than talk, and also to babble in a baby girl voice. That’ll happen a bit at a time over several months. It won’t be that long before she won’t need a pacifier most of the time if you bring her in twice a week.”
She took a brightly colored plastic pacifier with a gay ribbon attached from a shelf. “Open up, dear,” she told the surprised big baby.
He obediently opened his mouth and she popped the pacifier in, swiftly snapping the latch on the ribbon behind his head.
“One more thing and we’ll be ready to take Baby Jenny to the changing room.” She lifted a bright red ribbon off of a shelf and wrapped it around his neck. It quivered a moment and then settled into place.
“This lets us monitor her pulse, breathing and so forth. We find it’s a useful safety precaution.”
“Um. I think I’ve seen them before?”
“Possibly. They’re fairly new on the market. They’ve got some really amazing capabilities, but the programming to take advantage of them is sadly lacking. We aren’t the target market, and I gather that sales are so small that the vendor isn’t putting any effort into improving it. We’ve got some programmers locally that are trying to put it through its paces, but I’m not expecting anything tomorrow. Maybe in five or ten years it’ll be really something else.” She shrugged.
“Well, we’re ready.” She led the two of them out the back door to her office and down a short corridor. “We’re scheduled for Changing Room 3,” she remarked as she opened the door and waited for the two of them to enter. “Bethany will be the Minder who will get Baby Jenny ready.”
“Mistress,” the young woman in the room sketched a curtsy as Rose walked in. Darlene noticed that Bethany had one of the red ribbons around her neck. “And this is Baby Jenny? Oh, how cute!” she cooed. “Up on the table,” she slapped the barely visible turntable in the center of the long part of the L shaped faux leather covered table for emphasis.
Baby Jenny hesitated, and Bethany took her by the shoulder and slid the startled adult baby onto the table. She pushed a button and the turntable in the middle of the changing table spun ‘Baby Jenny’ part way around, forcing her to bring her legs onto the tabletop. Bethany pushed her over and put a strap across her chest. “Citchy coo!” she said as she tickled the faux girl under the chin until Baby Jenny wiggled and snorted behind her pacifier.
Bethany went right to work; she efficiently stripped off Baby Jenny’s shoes, socks, pants and underpants. Then she powdered the adult baby’s crotch area, added some powder to a bulky absorbent cloth diaper and patted Jenny’s butt.
“You use cloth diapers?” Darlene asked while Bethany was busy working on Jenny.
“Yes,” Rose answered. “We have our own laundry on site, and they’re easier on the environment than disposables. They’re bulky enough to remind baby that she’s wearing a diaper, and of course we use the cutest diaper covers with them. Then we can double them up easier than disposables if baby is here overnight.”
“I might have to consider them,” Darlene commented.
“Well, that’s up to you; your balance between convenience and environmental friendliness is your concern.”
Bethany had finished powdering Baby Jenny. “Up,” she commanded.
Jenny raised her fanny enough for Bethany to slide the diaper under her. Bethany put a flat box on Jenny’s tummy, and then had the girl spread her legs so that her minder could bring the diaper through and fasten it snuggly.
Bethany took an object from a shelf and shook it out. “Look,” she cooed, “your diaper cover.” Jenny looked at the shocking pink, ruffled garment. Her mouth twitched in what might have been a smile behind the pacifier. She obediently lifted her legs so that Bethany could slide it up, and then lifted her butt without being told. Bethany finished sliding the diaper cover up, and then ran her finger over the waist and legs, sealing the garment to Jenny’s skin.
“Now for the next bit,” Bethany said as she took a strip of something off the shelves. “Mistress told you that we don’t allow our babies to walk, right?”
“Yes,” Darlene answered.
“This is how we do it.” She applied the strip to the bottoms of Baby Jenny’s feet. When she took it off, whatever had been on the strip had fastened itself to the faux baby’s soles.
“If baby attempts to stand, this stuff hurts like, if you’ll excuse the expression, Hell. I’m told it triggers all of the nerves, not just the pain receptors. I had to try it once during training; fortunately I was wearing a diaper at the time.”
“That’s, um...”
“Cruel? We’re not sadists, ma’am. Or at least most of us aren’t. I won’t make her stand so she can find out what it’s like. Either she believes me, or she doesn’t.” Bethany’s smile wasn’t reassuring.
She put a pair of gaily decorated soft baby shoes on Jenny’s feet.
“Now this is the next piece.” She took a different strip and swiftly applied it to the lower part of her charge’s knees. “This is a knee protector; she’s going to be doing a lot of crawling, and with her heft she would scrape her knees raw without some protection. It’s not the same as the stuff on her feet; it’s got a time delay. She can kneel for a few seconds before it kicks in, and it starts out gradually and quits promptly once the pressure is off.”
She turned to the table and drew a pair of straps across the adult baby’s legs, and then removed the strap across her chest. She rapidly removed the baby’s shirt and undershirt. Then she took a bright pink dress out of the closet and held it up.
Jenny looked at the dress; her mouth might have attempted to smile again, but it was very hard to be sure. She sat up, holding her arms out so her minder could slide the garment over her head. Bethany zipped it up and stepped back. “Doesn’t she look cute!”
Jenny tried to look disgusted. “That’s a good girl,” Bethany chirped. Jenny tried to look even more disgusted and then gave it up as a bad job. She briefly considered trying for cute, and started looking around instead.
“Sit up on the turntable, legs under you,” Bethany commanded, sliding a hand under Jenny’s back to start the process. In a moment, the faux baby had struggled to a sitting position.
Bethany touched a button, rotating the turntable so Baby Jenny was facing away, looking into the mirror. Jenny’s eyes widened as she took in the sight: her pink dress barely came down to her legs, dimpling slightly in front and leaving her ruffled diaper cover clearly visible.
Bethany picked up a brush and made the turntable drop so Baby Jenny’s head was at a convenient height before she took the clasp off of the little girl’s hair. A few swift strokes changed her hair style so that two tails were sticking up and out jauntily to either side. Jenny looked at her image in the mirror, wide-eyed and apparently fascinated.
“Doesn’t she look like the cutest thing,” Bethany gushed as she pushed a button to rotate the turntable so the faux baby faced her audience.
“See, she’s getting into it,” Bethany said. “Now, let’s just get her into her little stroller so we can take her to her playroom.”
She brought the stroller over from where it had stood in the corner. She brought the turntable up and spun it so baby faced the mirror again. The stroller’s seat slid up the shafts.
“Bring your little tush up a bit,” Bethany instructed, using her hand on the baby’s rump to emphasize the motion. She slid the stroller forward so that Jenny’s butt was just above the seat.
“Sit.” Jenny dropped the half inch into the plastic seat, her diaper cover squishing slightly. Bethany brought the front piece across and snapped it into place, and then snapped the crotch piece between the faux girl’s legs.
“Keep your legs up,” she commanded as she raised the seat another inch and then drew it back. She reached under, grabbed the swinging strap and snapped it into its receptacle, holding the adult baby’s legs under the seat.
She twisted a control, and the seat dropped almost to the floor, leaving a scant inch of room for the baby’s legs. “Wheee!” Bethany caroled as the seat sank.
“You know, she almost looks like a real baby,” Darlene said.
“That’s the point,” Rose commented. “Take her to the playroom.”
“Yes, mistress,” Bethany sketched a curtsy and took the stroller out the back door from Changing Room 3.
“What’s next?” Darlene asked as her ex-husband vanished through the door.
“You’ll be back to pick her up between 6 and 8, right?”
“Closer to six unless I have to work late on a client project.”
“Great! That’ll give her between eight and ten hours for her first experience. If you like it we can work out a day care schedule.”
“Suits.”
“If you’ve got the time now, there are a couple of things I’d like to mention.”
“I like that stroller. It looks like it’ll make a great high chair.”
“We have several mommies who use it for that. There’s a tray attachment that can also be used to pinion baby’s arms so she can’t wave them about.
“Now, the first item. I noticed that her contract has the gender change section; do you want us to start the process by removing her body hair?”
“It would certainly make her look more like a baby. What’s it involve?”
“We’d have to send out for a quick genetic analysis. The body hair removal is built into a cream that’s applied in a massage, and the hair augmentation is in a shampoo. It needs to be applied at least once a week for several months, but once the treatment is done, it’s permanent. Existing body hair will fall out immediately, but it’ll grow back unless you keep at it. Head hair won’t suddenly get fuller body and be longer, but new hair will as it replaces the old hair. Your baby’s hair looks like it’s about a foot long naturally?”
“Um, yes. He doesn’t cut it; that’s how long it’s been for the last few years.”
“Some of it will start to lengthen immediately but a lot of it won’t. You might consider trimming it so it’s got a definite bottom rather than just straggling off. Normally it would take about two years before it filled out to that length; hair only grows about six inches a year. We can add some stuff to speed up growth so it’ll only take about three months to fill out to that length.
“That sounds like a good idea. Get the analysis and give me an estimate. I’ll probably want to do it.”
“OK. Now the last item is that we like to have babies arrive and leave as babies. We will change them here like we just did for Jenny, but we think it’s better if they’re in role when they go between your house and day care. That reinforces the notion that it’s mommy that determines when little Jenny is a baby and when she’s all grown up.”
“What’s that involve?”
“Unfortunately it’s pretty expensive. You need to have your car modified to take a wheelchair. The strollers fit into a standard wheelchair mount so you can put her into her stroller for the trip. She’ll come out of the stroller when she’s in the playroom.”
“That sounds expensive, especially if I have to get a new car! However,” she added thoughtfully, “the rest works: my house has an attached garage so nobody will see me take her between the car and house, and I can certainly see your point about it reinforcing the role.
“Is there anything more?”
“I’m done,” Rose said.
“So am I – at least for the moment!”
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Smitts,” Rose said formally as she ushered Darlene through her office into the waiting room.
Bethany wheeled the stroller with her faux baby down the brightly lit and gaily decorated corridor, past widely spaced doors that were neatly labeled as Changing Rooms, Individual Playrooms, Group Playrooms and Function Rooms. She slowed in front of Individual Playroom 4. The sign by the door listed Supervisor: Bethany, Caretaker: Carol and, last but not least, Baby Jenny.
The door opened silently before her. She wheeled the stroller into the room, letting the door close just as silently behind her.
“Mistress,” the young woman in the room said as she sketched a curtsy. “And this is our new Baby, Jenny, right? I just know we’re going to have a lot of fun together!” She squatted next to the stroller and unclipped the fastenings. Then she slid her hand behind Baby Jenny and urged her forward.
The surprised faux baby fell forwards onto her hands and knees. Bethany slid the stroller backwards. “See! You’ve learned how to get out of your stroller already! That’s a goooood baby!”
Carol massaged Jenny’s diaper cover. “You don’t need to be changed yet. Go ahead and explore.”
Jenny looked around and noticed Bethany park the stroller in a corner and leave. The adult baby sat back on her heels to look around the brightly painted playroom. She felt the way her heels dug into her diapered bottom, and attempted to frown at the hair she saw on her legs and arms. Her pacifier, of course, masked the frown.
She looked at her mittened hands and tried to curl her fingers. They curled fine, but try as she might she wasn’t able to twist them on her palm. Her thumb wouldn’t move to the side either. That sucked, she thought, not noticing that she attempted to suck on the nipple in her mouth as she thought.
She looked around at the playroom. One corner, the far right from the door, held what looked like a large wooden cage. Crib? she thought to herself. She crawled over to it and curled one of her hands around a flimsy-looking vertical rod and pulled. It didn’t budge. Figures, she thought disgustedly. Just like the crib at home. Probably the same manufacturer.
The back of the room seemed to have two shelves of toys, with a flat table of some kind on top that looked like it was just a bit too high for her to reach comfortably while she was sitting. Above it was a long mirror that stretched the length of the back wall.
The left wall also had two shelves of toys for about half of its length. There was a door in the middle with a baby gate, a table and chair for Carol, and the sink that was part of the changing table. The changing table itself took up most of the front wall; the stroller had been neatly placed between the door and the right wall.
The faux baby sat back to survey the shelves of toys that covered two sides of the room. Just about every marketing fad from the last forty years seemed to be there: Rainbow Brite, Barney, the Smurfs, Diaperman, Hello Kitty, My Little Pony, Care Bears, Glow Friends, Telletubbies, Gummi Bears, and too many more to bear looking at. She even thought she saw Raggedy Ann and Andy sitting forlornly in a corner.
Fortunately there were some boxes. She crawled over to look into one. Blocks! She reached out with her mittened hands and managed to get them around the box. A moment later she’d pulled it off the shelf and scattered the gaily colored rectangles around the floor.
Carol sat back and watched as Jenny busily set about trying to grasp the blocks in her mittened hands so she could arrange them into something. Or other. She nodded and then pulled out a manual so she could start studying her next assignment while she kept an eye out for her charge.
A couple of minutes later she heard a crash. She looked up quickly to see what had happened, and found that Jenny had scattered the blocks all over the playroom.
Good girl! she thought as she watched Jenny start to crawl after them and pile them up again.
She looked up from another homework problem just in time to see Jenny carefully place a block on top of a teetering stack of blocks, and then sweep her hand through the edifice. Crash! Carol could almost see the faux baby girl smirk behind her pacifier.
Carol looked at her watch and made a small bet with herself.
Beep! Beep! “Baby made wettums in her didi,” an obnoxiously robotic baby voice proclaimed. Carol took a hasty glance at her watch before looking up. Jenny sat behind a half stacked pile of blocks, legs spread wide and what might have been a look of surprise behind the pacifier. At least what Carol could see of Jenny looked surprised as she looked downwards to where the voice was coming from.
Carol swiftly put her book down and got up, smoothing her skirt, to walk over to Baby Jenny. She crouched down to where she could slide a hand underneath the diaper cover and squeeze, producing a squishing sound.
“Baby wants a fresh diaper?” she chirped brightly.
Jenny shot her a look of pure loathing as she nodded vigorously. Carol laughed. “Baby needs to crawl over to the changing table,” she said. “Nanny is not going to pick you up and carry you.”
Jenny grimaced but obediently dropped onto her hands and knees to make the trek across the room to the changing table. Carol opened the cover in front. Jenny looked at it, and then turned around and crawled backwards. Her diaper made a squishing sound as she plopped her backside onto the turntable. Carol pushed a button, and the turntable rose and turned.
Carol held her hand behind Jenny so she didn’t lay down immediately. She then slid her hands up the front and back of Jenny’s dress. Jenny obediently lifted her arms so Carol could remove the garment. Carol checked the hem and nodded, it was still clean.
She put on a pair of disposable plastic gloves and gave Jenny a gentle shove to prompt her to lay down. She obediently lay, lifting her ass so that Carol could slide a towel under her. Carol took off the baby’s diaper cover and sodden diaper, throwing them both into a diaper pail. Then she wet a sponge and washed her charge’s diaper area, finishing by drying and powdering it. A minute later she had applied a new absorbent cloth diaper and diaper cover that was decorated with a bright purple dinosaur on the front and a pair of pink hearts on the back, where they’d show while she was crawling around.
Another gentle nudge on the baby girl’s back brought her upright. Carol held her dress in front of her; Jenny put her arms up without prompting. Carol slid the garment on and zipped it up. Jenny repositioned herself on the turntable, again without prompting, and Carol sent it to the floor. She stood aside as Jenny tumbled out and raced on hands and knees toward the blocks.
“You really don’t like this pacifier, do you sweetums?” Carol said as she held the diabolical device in front of Baby Jenny’s face.
Baby Jenny shook her head vigorously.
“Tell you what. Babies your age can’t talk. They can make a lot of other noises, including babbling, but talking isn’t one of them. IF, and let me repeat that IF, you promise not to talk, I’ll let you go play without having this in your mouth. Would you like that, sugar?”
Jenny opened her mouth, and then thought better. She nodded emphatically.
“There’s one thing to remember: if you talk deliberately, I’m going to paddle your bottom until it lights up the room.”
Jenny’s eyes widened at the threat.
“For a second offense I’ll add itching powder to your diaper. Do you think you’ll like that?”
Jenny shook her head really vigorously sending her two tails flying.
“Good. There are times I’m going to use the pacifier, too.” She reached over and attached the plastic plate with the nipple to the front of the faux baby’s collar so it dangled in front of her dress. “Go play,” she instructed with a slight shove.
“Damn!” Darlene thought as she looked at the clock on the office wall. “9:00. Jennifer is not going to be happy with me for leaving him at day care this long.” Then she grinned. “Well, ‘Baby Jenny’ is just going to have to get used to Mommy having to work long hours to support the family. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.”
But not this long, a small voice reminded her. She looked at the clock again and tried to organize her schedule. Then she picked up the phone.
An urgent message blinked on Stephanie’s display. The strawberry blonde early 20ish girl looked at it and shrugged almost invisibly. There were days when all the adult babies in Group Playroom 6, known as the Rainbow Brite playroom, left on schedule. Those days were few and far between, and today certainly wasn’t one of them. The second shift playroom minder didn’t particularly care; all of her girls had either gone home or been put down for the night by the time her shift ended, and the longer they stayed the less time would be available for cleaning.
She studied it for a few seconds, and then considered the schedule. She shouldn’t have a problem. Only three of her faux babies were still here, and two of them had been scheduled to be staying overnight. In fact she should start getting Donna ready to put down; the girl was beginning to fuss and yawn.
She took three bottles of milk from the warmer and distributed them. She slid one of the folded up cribs out of the closet and moved it into place. In a minute she’d gotten the ungainly thing unfolded into a cube of thin bars, a bit over six feet long, three wide and three high. She pressed a button on the side, and the crib locked into place. She heard the gentle hiss of a small motor pumping air into the built-in air mattress.
She gently tapped Donna on the back and pointed at it. Donna nodded as she sucked on the bottle. Steph went to get the second crib set up, confident that Donna would head for the changing table as soon as she finished her pre-sleep feeding.
A minute later Donna’s diaper monitor went off. Donna, like most of the adult babies who stayed overnight regularly, normally messed her diaper before being put down so that she wouldn’t do wettums during the night. It didn’t usually work, but it did mean she got a pretty decent block of sleep before a cold, soaking diaper woke her up and the night minder had to change her and put her back to sleep with another bottle.
It also meant she was gradually turning herself into a ‘Betsy Wetsy.’ Since most of the adult babies had been trained out of having any bowel or bladder control while they were diapered, they all occasionally did wettums while they were being fed. Stephanie knew perfectly well how to leverage that occasional occurrence into the consistent pattern of a ‘Betsy Wetsy’, and she also knew how to avoid doing it. She could also train a baby out of doing it, and she could train one so she could only soil her diaper while being fed.
Donna’s records showed that she’d started becoming more consistent a few weeks after her mommy had started leaving her in day care overnight. Stephanie didn’t mind in the least; she found it easier for her to schedule a Betsy Wetsy than it was for her to react to a room full of faux babies that needed feeding and changing at random times that seemed to be calculated for maximum inconvenience.
If she had her way, she’d train them all, but the full-time submissive was, of course, forbidden to unless the baby’s mommy ordered it as a special service.
Donna finished her bottle, threw it to the side and crawled to the changing table, her diaper cover sagging with the load. Stephanie put on a pair of plastic gloves and cleaned up the mess; then she gave the adult baby a quick sponge bath, double diapered her and put a red flannel nightgown over her head. She tied it off at the waist so the baby could crawl to her crib under her own power.
Once Donna was safely in her crib she brought the nightgown down over her feet and tied it off. Then she removed the baby mittens and tied the ends of the nightgown’s arms. She finished up by putting a sleep headband on her little darling’s head. The headband covered her eyes and had earphones that played soothing pink noise with a pronounced heartbeat, canceled all other sounds, and had subsonics that would put the girl to sleep.
She watched the faux baby for a bit; she relaxed almost immediately and was asleep within a minute or so.
She looked at the other two girls. Trish, as usual, was still going strong. She caught the girl’s eye and motioned to a second crib. Trish shook her head violently; she wasn’t at all ready to be put down for the night! Steph kept looking at her. Trish dropped her eyes first. Then she took a deep breath, fell forward on hands and knees and very deliberately filled her diaper.
She looked at Steph as if to say: so there! as she waddled on hands and knees to the changing table. Stephanie had to work to avoid cracking a smile. Trish was actually one of the easier babies to care for: she always did what she was told – after making sure you knew that she was only doing it because the cruel minder made her. Fifteen minutes later Trish was sound asleep in her crib, and Jenny was the only baby left.
Jenny, Steph noted, was squirming a bit as if she was trying not to mess her diaper. It had to be that; the notes said that Jenny almost never messed her diaper while she was here. Apparently she made sure that she evacuated either before she came or after her mommy got her home. Tonight was the longest she’d stayed. In fact, it was the first time she’d been here long enough to see some of her playmates being put down to stay overnight.
Just then Jenny gave up the unequal battle, got up on her hands and knees and filled her diaper. She gave a disgusted squall as she crawled to the changing table.
Fifteen minutes later, Jenny was sitting in her stroller, looking around at the playroom. She’d seen it with more than two cribs; a few times she’d been here when it had its maximum of eight adult babies taking their afternoon naps. This was, however, the first time she’d seen it from her stroller. She sucked on her pacifier; mommy was going to pick her up shortly.
Steph took her out the door, down the corridor to a covered carport where Jenny’s mommy stood next to her mini station wagon. She’d already folded the right rear seat and slid it back, leaving a standard wheelchair dock. Stephanie positioned the stroller properly. The small forklift came out and brought the stroller up and in. She locked it down according to the federal safety standards.
Jenny’s mommy closed the door and drove off with her contented baby.
Twenty minutes later, Darlene drove into the attached garage and got the stroller safely onto the ground. She rolled the stroller into the nursery, decanted Baby Jenny and put her into her crib. The headset, as advertised, put her right to sleep. She took the pacifier out of Jenny’s mouth; sleeping with a pacifier wasn’t a good idea.
Baby Jenny hadn’t looked all that surprised! She’d meant to discuss the changes with Jennifer, but that damned problem with Clown Construction had beaten her to it. It did make sense; it was late and well past Jenny’s normal time to be put down for the night. If she had a problem with it, she’d bring it up the next time he was allowed to act grownup.
Also, Monday wasn’t one of the nights Jenny was normally scheduled to sleep in the nursery, but now that she thought about it, it did seem like one of the possible next steps. Tomorrow was another of the four days she usually left Baby Jenny at the day care center, and this let her streamline her Tuesday morning routine. She nodded thoughtfully, turned out the light and left the nursery.
As she drifted off to sleep, she thought of how nice it would be to be in a real man’s bed instead of sleeping alone. It puzzled her a moment, and then she realized that it wasn’t that Jennifer wasn’t a good sex partner, it was that she had never been in his bed, even when he’d been her husband Roger. It had always been her bed that he was sharing. She finished drifting off to sleep.
Chapter: Maids are girls, right?
“Honey, I’m home,” Darlene called as she walked in the door from the garage. She frowned slightly as Jennifer rolled off of where she’d been lying on the living room floor for her coming-home kiss. Jennifer was beginning to look more than a bit androgynous, what with her hair pulled back into a classic ponytail and the stretches of smooth, hairless skin that showed against the short sleeved shirt and shorts she had been having him wearing.
“I’ve been wondering,” he said when they released each other.
“Oh?”
“When are you going to have me trained to be a girl?”
“What brought this on?”
“This.” He gestured at himself. “I don’t really look like a guy any more, and when I go out people call me ‘miss’ a lot of the time.
“Besides, the contract said you can, and the lawyer said that if you ever got tired of me my next owner would, and you changed my name to a girl’s name legally, and I’ve seen how you and Terrance look at each other at parties, so it kind of follows...”
“You’ve what?”
“You and Terrance aren’t as discrete as you think, honey. I know I’m not your husband any more, and I’ve got no say in whether you get married again.”
“You don’t like being a baby any more?”
“I like it. I like being mommy’s baby. Really. And I think Terrance would make a great daddy. Eve really seems to like her daddy, and I’m pretty sure she’s full time.”
“She is, but how did you know?”
“People talk at parties, and, well, there’s something about how she acts. It’s like she’s forgetting everything about ever being adult. It’s not easy to explain; but the girls I play with all have little habits that are kind of grownup. All of them except Eve and Melanie. They’re really babies, the rest of us are just playing at it.”
“So you like being a baby, but...”
“It’s being Jennifer but not being Jennifer, if you know what I mean.”
“Hm. I hadn’t been planning on it quite yet, but you do have a point.”
“I’d like to change my schedule around a bit as well.”
“Hm. Your schedule is Saturday night through to Tuesday morning, Tuesday night to Thursday morning, and Thursday night to Saturday morning. How’d you like to change it?”
“I was thinking about moving my Wednesday session in day care to Thursday. That would give me two long sessions as a baby girl instead of one long session and two short ones, and also two days together acting adult, with a night in between.”
“If you do two long sessions a week, I might leave you overnight if I’m working really late.”
“Hm. It’s not like we get much chance to play when you work late.”
“I’ll have to think about it, honey.
“On your other question, though. I hadn’t been planning on retraining you for a while yet. What I’m wondering is whether you’ve thought it through?”
“Oh?”
“Just retraining you as a girl wouldn’t do a whole lot for me; you look quite feminine enough already. Ask yourself why someone would want you retrained?”
“Um. To be a maid?”
“You’re getting the idea,” she patted the front of his shorts, which had developed a distinct bulge. “Maid and housekeeper. Frankly, your housekeeping could stand to improve. Quite a bit.
“If, or I should say when, I do have you retrained, that will be the objective, and you’ll be my maid and housekeeper when you’re acting adult. Make sure you understand that: you will be my housekeeper and maid, and you will work out in that role and you will show due respect. That’s the final end of Roger, and the final end of whatever we had going back when we were married.”
She paused to give it time to sink in.
“I’m still having a lot of fun with my big baby, though, so it’s not going to be anywhere near full time.”
“Um. When?”
“You’ll know when I tell you, doll. Now get dinner ready while I change.”
“OK. Can I start wearing a skirt?”
“Minx,” Darlene said as she aimed a swat at his backside. “Yes, but I’m going to get you your first skirt and blouse set and it’ll be a little while.”
Just don’t be too surprised at what comes with, she told herself as she ducked into the bathroom.
“That was a good dinner, Jenny,” Darlene complemented her ex-husband. “You’re improving. Come into the bedroom after you clean up. Thirty minutes.”
Jennifer managed to get the dining room and kitchen spotless and all the dishes cleaned and put away in the specified thirty minutes. Well, thirty-two, but it was close enough; she knew that mistress was more likely to overlook taking too long than overlook a sloppy job. Her neck still throbbed in memory whenever she thought of the lessoning that had driven that point home. She’d learned that the red ribbon that encircled her neck was more than a tracking device. Her ego flinched as well; the embarrassment of cleaning up the mess after she had totally lost bladder and bowel control when mistress pressed the punishment button on her bracelet was still too fresh to ignore. Especially since mistress had stood there tapping her foot and holding a leather strap while she did the cleanup. Then her ass throbbed in sympathy when her ex-wife had used that strap to reinforce the twin lessons that the only acceptable form of obedience was instant, and the only acceptable level of quality on her housework was perfect.
What really got through to her, though, was that mistress had started leaving the red band around her neck full time, and had also started wearing that bracelet right after Jenny had asked to be retrained to be a girl, and had apparently been waiting patiently for the appropriate moment to administer the lesson.
That, as much as the critique on her housework and proper behavior administered between strokes of the strap, told her that her new role in the household was as mistress’ slave maid and housekeeper. She no longer had any slack.
Jennifer had not needed a second lesson, especially since mistress had shown remarkable patience in teaching her how to behave and do her housework.
When Jennifer got to the bedroom, her eyes lit up. There, spread out on the bed, was a complete blouse and skirt outfit, together with a variety of underthings and decorations.
“Strip!”
Jennifer didn’t need to be told twice. She took less than a minute to get out of her clothes and leave them stacked, more or less neatly, on a chair.
“That needs a bit of practice,” Darlene said with a glance at the chair.
“Yes, mistress.”
“This,” Darlene pointed to a skimpy panty, “is a gaff. It’s to hold your male equipment in so it doesn’t show a bulge. You’re pretty well hung, which is one of the things I like about you, so there’s no piece of cloth that’s going to give you a real female profile. That doesn’t matter as long as we keep your skirts fairly loose, avoid skin-tight pants and shorts, and you don’t get aroused.”
Jennifer picked up the gaff and tried to put it on. Darlene showed her how to tuck her equipment.
“That’s tight.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
“I suppose,” she made a face. “I thought I saw...” she dribbled off.
“Saw what?”
“A way of keeping it inside me, and still ready for your use?”
Darlene laughed. “I like the way you put that. That’s exactly what it’s for: my use. How much of my browsing did you look at?”
“Uh, not very much.”
Darlene sighed. “Well, I gave you access so you could look over my shoulder. So come clean. What did you see?”
“Well, there were these experiments...”
“Did you dig to find out how well they actually worked?”
“Uh, no.”
Darlene sighed again. Well, her ex-husband had never been noted for digging to find out the actual facts, and changing his name to Jennifer hadn’t fixed that problem.
“Here’s the background. You know that about ten years ago they made a major breakthrough on genetic surgery, right?”
“Uh, yes. I heard of it.”
“Well, it turned out that the basic material is relatively cheap. At least, it’s in a price range where umpteen thousand enthusiasts can afford it. Most of them, fortunately, aren’t much past the ‘screw up by following the instructions’ stage. That still leaves well over a hundred projects scattered around the world that have the combination of lack of ethics and intellectual horsepower to do serious work. The hair removal cream and augmentation shampoo we used on you came from one of those groups, and is one of the very few results that actually works reliably.”
“Um. OK.”
“What you looked at comes from one of about a dozen groups who are working on sex changes. Most of them are trying to get a cheap and effective male to female sex change, partially since that’s most in demand. The one you saw the advertising for is looking at she-males, since that’s also in demand.
“I dug far enough to find that they’re actually saner than most: they’ve got a lot of very puzzled tomcats and quite a few perplexed but functioning monkeys. Their experiments on real humans haven’t gone nearly as well: they’re promising the moon and haven’t got out of state yet. They might be far enough in a few years to make it safe to use their process on you, but for right now the odds of it working properly are, um, not good.”
“Oh.”
“So we use the traditional method: a gaff. Now, that same group has a couple of other processes. Did you see them?”
“Breasts and hip expansion?”
“Right. The skinny on the breasts is that it’s been possible to grow breasts on a male for a long time: just shoot a lot of female hormones into him. That’s the natural signal: it happens when a girl reaches puberty. The trouble is that it shuts down the male equipment: that’s what they do for chemical castration.”
“Oh. Damn.”
“Well, partly. This group has a treatment that changes the signaling so that breasts will grow with testosterone rather than estrogen, and they’ve got it worked out so it’s pretty safe. So tell me why you’re going to use these falsies rather than growing your own.”
Jenny thought a moment. “I don’t know?”
“I didn’t change you to a blonde! If you did know, what would the reason be?”
“They wouldn’t go with being a baby?”
“Right. Babies don’t have breasts; we kind of ignore it when our faux babies come equipped with a set of boobs. Now the other piece.”
“The hips are the same thing?”
“Partly. The other half is that they don’t have all of the skeletal changes down properly, let alone have them integrated well. It’ll be a while until they’ve got everything put together. When they do, I want to shrink your shoulders a couple of inches, shrink your hands and feet a bit, and move your cheekbones a bit higher. Given the rate they’re moving, they may have the whole package put together in five years or so. Before then it’s simply too risky.”
“Oh.” Pause. “So what should I have been looking at?”
“Well, at a guess you should be looking for an analysis and tailoring package.”
“Ah. I see. Or rather I didn’t see anything like that.”
“Well, you probably weren’t looking. There is one for hair color changes. That’s a different group of experimenters who are concentrating on cosmetic changes, and they’re actually cooperating rather than sniping at each other.”
“You’re thinking of changing my hair color?”
Darlene laughed. “If I wanted to do that, I’d haul you out to a beauty shop! A gene change is a waste of money.”
“Oh.” Pause. “I could go with being a redhead.”
Darlene looked at her ex-husband. “Not with that complexion. And not blonde until you start channeling the Spirit of Practicality. You don’t need a boost on the ditz factor.”
Jenny tried to avoid giggling.
“Let’s get back to dressing. The next thing is your boobs. They’re in two parts. The first part is a cover that goes over your chest and attaches to you skin with a medical adhesive; the boobs fit on top of them. You need to take the cover off once a week so the skin stays fresh, we can do that during one of your two baby sessions.
Darlene looked at the screen thoughtfully. A skiing vacation, a cruise or just bum around Europe a bit soaking up Old Culture? It was going to be one of the three. Absolutely. Her boss had told her she was going to take her month’s vacation this time or else he was going to come personally and throw her on a cruise ship.
A fleeting grin crossed her face at the thought: it might be fun to make him do just that. Unfortunately he was happily married, and she really didn’t want to change their professional relationship.
Skiing, cruise or Europe? Well, if she hadn’t made up her mind by tomorrow evening she’d just flip a coin. Any of them would do to get the last vestiges of Roger out of her system. The basic problem was what to do with Jenny. Taking her along would be obvious once she’d settled in for her role as housekeeper and maid, and it would do to finish off the baby stuff as well.
However. She wasn’t properly trained. She was coming along well enough to go out on the street as Jennifer and pass as a young woman, but no way was she ready to be a full time maid. That, Darlene thought, was going to be remedied. Mistress Tania had an excellent reputation at training faux girls as housekeepers and maids, and she’d made a reservation for Jenny for the entire month of her vacation.
Still no decision. Well, heads it would be a cruise, tails Europe and edge for the ski resorts. She took out a coin and flipped it. The coin, perverse beast that it was, managed to escape. She eventually tracked it down to where it had stopped, with perfect aplomb, upright against the wall.
She went back to her desk, shaking her head ruefully. That wasn’t supposed to happen unless the Gods had Spoken, and then only in Diskworld. She didn’t believe in gods, let alone Gods That Spoke. However. She settled down to make reservations at a popular ski resort. It was, at least, on the same continent, and the exercise would do her good.
Darlene surveyed the apartment. Everything packed, cleaned, put away. One last thing to do: pick up Jennifer at the day care center, bring her back and then deliver her to Mistress Tania. Then on to the airport and a month of learning to ski in between having fun with single guys trying to make it with single girls.
She turned to the door when her phone beeped with an urgent message. She flipped it open – after all this work, it had better not be her boss with an urgent project!
Nope. This was from Mistress Tania. Abject apologies, but she would not be able to take on Jenny this month. Even more abject apologies for the short notice.
Darlene stared at the phone. Now what? She was not going to leave Jenny loose for a month; no telling what kind of trouble the ditz would get into. She took a big breath.
Mistress Tania was supposed to be a surprise. In fact, the vacation was supposed to be a surprise; Jenny hadn’t shown any signs of knowing about it. Once she thought it through, there really were only two options, and she wasn’t ready for one of them. She hoped she never would be. She made a phone call, put the trunks in the wagon, and headed to the airport.
Karri looked at the note that had just popped up on her screen. She was no longer supposed to be preparing Jenny for her mommy to take her home. Jenny would be staying indefinitely.
Karri knew what ‘indefinitely’ meant. It meant more than three days, and the baby wasn’t to know when she was going to be picked up and taken home. That meant Karri wasn’t to know either: what she didn’t know she couldn’t leak.
Most of the hundred or so adult babies in the Society were here one or two days a week. Some were here more frequently, but the usual day had around thirty adult babies in the five Group Playrooms. Well over half never spent more than the day: their mommies or daddies dropped them off in the morning and picked them up at night.
The rest sometimes spent more than one day, sleeping in a crib in the playroom at night. There were a bunch of reasons why a mommy or daddy would leave their little darling overnight, but most of the time it was just one night, or maybe two. The ones that stayed longer were usually because of vacations or family emergencies.
Karri shook her head in mild frustration. The problem with staying longer than a couple of days at a time was that the babies tended to lose track of time. A large part of that was deliberate. The carefully filtered computer access they were allowed had anything resembling a date or time removed. The wall had neither a calendar nor a clock. While the planners tended to assign babies to the same Group Playroom consistently, they shuffled the minders so that there wasn’t a pattern. Karri had taken care of almost all of the adult babies at one time or another; there were less than a dozen she knew only from the notes the minders maintained.
The first long stay was always a problem. Babies really didn’t like it when mommy didn’t show up when they expected her, and then didn’t show up, and still didn’t show up. It sometimes took a week or more for them to settle down and go with the flow. Then they were surprised when they were taken out in their stroller to meet mommy so she could take the little darling home. Most of them were really happy to see mommy, but she could remember a few who weren’t.
The second long stay was easier; baby usually figured it out once she’d been there longer than her usual stay, and got into the flow faster.
Karri looked over her charges. All six of them were busy at something. Jenny was one of the two girls sitting in front of a large screen on the wall. She was waving her hands in front of the screen; the other girl was raptly looking at a show.
Jenny looked at the picture on the screen critically. She carefully moved her right hand to pick up some red paint, and gestured with her left to indicate ‘two fingers.’ Then she drew a thick red line down the side of her current piece of finger painting art.
She giggled at it. This one was definitely not a keeper. She only had so many virtual magnets to stick artwork on her virtual refrigerator door. At least, it wasn’t a keeper unless one of her other pieces had mysteriously vanished, as they had a habit of doing.
The baby gloves on her hands really limited what she could do, although she did think she was getting better at both finger painting and stick figures. She’d even managed a somewhat recognizable picture of Evie. Once. That one wasn’t on the door any more, though.
She carefully moved her hand to pick up a dab of bright orange when she felt the sensation of her bladder emptying itself. She’d never quite figured out how to describe the sensation of the pee rushing through the channel to get to her diaper; it wasn’t quite a tickle, and it wasn’t quite a pressure.
The warm liquid pooled in her diaper and then moved upwards, around her hips and butt. She wiggled slightly at the sensation. She glanced at the yellow-haired minder who seemed to be blandly looking out over the room at nothing in particular. Should she make a fuss, or should she enjoy the sensation of the warm, wet diaper for a while?
She turned back to the screen, and deliberately drew a horseshoe of brilliant orange over the top and sides of what might have been a head, given enough interpretive liberty by a dotting mommy.
Karri noticed Jenny squirm a bit. A piece of one of the bright pictures that adorned the wall turned from kind of a blah green to yellow. Yep, she’d done a wee-wee in her didi. She decided not to change her immediately. Jenny was one of the ones that seemed to like the feel of warm pee on her skin. She didn’t like the cold, clammy feel of a sodden diaper when it cooled off one little bit, and she really put up a fuss when that happened. That, Karri thought, was the breaks. If she wanted to enjoy the warmth, she took a chance that her minder would be busy with something else when she really did want her diaper changed.
This time she was going to lose the bet; it was time for the mid-morning feeding, and feeding all six babies solids took her a good 45 minutes, so it would be at least an hour before she could change little Jenny.
She went into her little kitchenette and put the first tray on to heat. Then she came back out and looked over her charges. Donna, Evie and Jenny first, she decided. She slid Donna’s stroller out of where the six strollers were parked and rolled it up behind the faux baby. Donna looked over her shoulder and shook her head violently; she didn’t want to be interrupted at whatever she was building out of blocks. Karri looked at her and tapped one foot. Donna fell forward onto her hands and knees, scattering some of the blocks, and then dropped back into the stroller seat. Karri buckled her into the seat and rolled the stroller over to her table, positioning it on the other side. She brought the seat up to the right height and added the tray table, pinioning the faux baby’s hands so they couldn’t wave.
Then she did the same for Evie and Jenny. When she was done, the three adult babies were lined up in a semi-circle. Karri brought out the tray with the baby food and sat down. First a spoonfull for Donna, then one for Evie, and then one for Jenny. Then start over with another spoonfull for Donna.
Fifteen minutes later she had gotten all of the baby food into the three big little darlings, and was ready to reverse the process of getting them out of their high chairs. Jenny, as she expected, squished audibly as she crawled back to her finger painting. She gave each of them a bottle and left them happily sucking on it. Evie, as she expected, curled up with the bottle, the other two simply sat there holding the bottle between their mittened hands.
Faith, Nancy and Violet were left for the second group. Faith was always in the second group; she was not only a Betsy-Wetsy, she made a major fuss if her diaper wasn’t changed promptly. Most of the minders had put suggestions in her file to break her of the habit of fussing, at least until her diaper cooled, but it wasn’t going to happen; her mommy thought that the behavior was cute.
Terrance Drake pulled the chair out and smoothly slid it back to seat his date, Darlene Smitts. She smoothed her fashionable evening gown as she sat. He seated himself, and the waiter took their wine order. The Chez Frank, he reflected, was one of the most fashionable eateries in the city, and they’d be sure to get a couple of sentences in one of the gossip columns. Even if nobody knew, or cared, who they were.
“Tradition says I should do this on bended knee,” he began as he pulled a flat box out of his pocket.
“Well, hang tradition,” she answered. “If that’s what I think it is, hold it up so you can slip it on my finger while I say yes.”
He opened it to show her a diamond ring.
“Ohhh. Nice,” she enthused as she held her left hand out, ring finger extended.
“Will you marry me?” he asked formally.
“Of course, darling. I was wondering if you were ever going to ask.”
“Well, we did have a few issues to take care of first,” he said.
“What? Your place, mine or should we get a new apartment?” She giggled while letting the gem sparkle and break the light up into flashes.
“That was one.”
“Well, either yours or we get a new house. I want to live in my husband’s house.”
“Oh?”
“Well,” she said reflectively, “I want to feel that my husband is the stable rock in my life, and I can’t do that if it’s my house. If it’s his, even if we went shopping for a new house for us, then it means a bit more.”
“Hmm. I can kind of see that. I’m not sure mine is big enough. What do you want to do with Evie and Jenny?”
“I figured on keeping both of them.”
“Oh?”
“Jenny is getting tired of playing baby now that I’ve got her properly trained. It may surprise you, but she’s really looking forward to my marrying again. And she likes Evie.”
“I’m surprised.”
“Well, to tell the truth I am too, but looking back on it the whole thing makes a weird kind of sense. I should have spotted that Roger was trans and never gotten involved, but I’m glad I did. The whole baby thing was partly a reaction to being out of work and feeling useless; I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did. My going along with it was partly guilt, and partly the fact that I really am a dominant, and I like having a submissive to order around.
“Jenny finally broke through and has admitted that being my maid and housekeeper makes her feel useful, which she never did even while she was working: I made a lot more than Roger ever did. And she likes housekeeping and serving me more than she did her old job. She says that being my slave gives her a sense of foundation that she never had before. And she said all that under a verifier one day when I was feeling a bit jealous about something.”
“So where does that leave Evie?”
“I’ll having Aramis train Jenny in how to care for an Adult Baby. She likes Evie, and Evie has seen her as an adult and likes her.”
“What about?” he paused and almost blushed.
“Jenny being my lover? Are you feeling jealous?”
“Um. Honestly, yes.”
“There’s no need to feel jealous, guy. You tell me one. What does a woman look for in a man?”
“Um. Sex?”
Darlene laughed. “There are three things. One is the biggest, baddest alpha male around, because he’s going to be both a good protector and a source of good genes for the kids. Second is a caring male who will make a good provider, husband and father. Good sex is at the bottom of the list. That isn’t rational; that’s instinctive.
“You’re an alpha male. You’ve already proved yourself as a father and provider; in fact you make more than I do, which I like. We can afford to have me take time off, or at least cut back on my schedule, to have some kids.
“Jenny is a total washout on the first two points. First, she’s about as far from being alpha male as it’s possible to get and still be male. I could probably send her out for martial arts training, but so what? Being protective is as much attitude as anything else, and she hasn’t got it. Second, she’s a total washout on being a provider. Even if I stuck a blowtorch up her ass and told her to go out and work, she wouldn’t bring in a tenth of what I make or what you make.
“You, on the other hand, are making enough more than I do that raising a family won’t impact us seriously. That’s one of the reasons I want to keep Jenny: having a housekeeper will work out very well with children.
“You’re more than adequate as a sex partner. In fact, you’re the second best sex partner I’ve had, and I’m not at all interested in checking to find anyone better.
“So I’m going to keep her active. She’s not going to be in our bed, and she’s not going to be a regular treat, which actually suits her just fine.”
“That suits her? I’m surprised.”
“Well, you would be – you’re a sex fiend! Which is one thing I like about you. I had the Super Stud modification installed in her a while ago.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“One of the side effects is that she doesn’t actually need sex any more: it’s simply not the driver it is for most males. She enjoys it, and I know there are a number of women she’s got her eye on if I let her off the leash, but the times I’ve had her in day care for extended periods not getting it just doesn’t bother her. I think she actually likes chocolate more.”
“That’s not what I thought Super Stud did.”
“Well, it’s not one of the advertised effects. Super Stud was created for the sex trade, where if you’ve got the clients you want to be able to keep going, but if you don’t you shouldn’t be so overwhelmed by lust that you can’t think straight.”
“Now that makes a little more sense. So you’re keeping her as a housekeeper and as backup for when I’m away.”
“Right. We got our roles straightened out a few months ago; our previous relationship is dead, buried and, for the most part, forgotten. She learned the hard way that presuming on it gets immediate correction.”
“Hm. So what about Eve?”
“I really don’t know what to do with her besides keep her. She was your submissive, although I understand she wasn’t your girlfriend, when she went behind your back and got that disastrous DNA mod. That washed her out as a ponygirl, so you fell back on keeping her as a full time Adult Baby. She hasn’t been out of role for what, three years?”
“Closer to four.”
“Right. I’m not sure if she even understands anything that’s said around her any more. I wouldn’t have a clue how to rehabilitate her, and I really don’t want to even think about the stink sending her out for rehabilitation might cause, especially this late in the game.”
He shuddered.
“So I don’t see any alternative to keeping her. That’s another reason I want to keep Jenny; I can send her to Aramis to be trained on taking care of an Adult Baby, and we can tell our kids that she’s got major brain damage once they’re old enough to ask questions.”
“Hm.”
Darlene lifted her wine glass. “Here’s to the rest of our lives together.”
The glasses clicked.
Dottie got Jenny’s stroller from where it was parked against the wall, and brought it behind the faux baby. Jenny, as usual, was sitting in front of one of the screens embedded in the wall, waving her mittened hands in the air. Her gestures, in turn, were doing something with the puzzle on the screen.
Dottie tapped Jenny on the shoulder. The adult baby turned around and made a face, but she obediently came up on her knees long enough for Dottie to slide the stroller under her. Then she plopped down on the seat and let Dottie fasten her in. This time, Dottie finished by holding up the pacifier that dangled on its cord from a ring set in the front of the red ribbon around Jenny’s neck.
Jenny obediently opened her mouth and took the fake nipple. Then Dottie took the stroller out of the room and parked it in the corridor. Jenny sat back to look at the bland corridor, not that she hadn’t seen it many, many times before. It was simply a stop on the way to go home to mommy.
Another minder, Bethany, came up behind her and took the stroller. However, instead of taking it down the corridors to outside, she took it to another room. Jenny was so surprised that she almost missed the sight: Changing Room 2. She hadn’t been in a changing room since the first time she’d been here as Roger, several years before. And, oddly enough, the minder who had changed her then had been Bethany.
The minder dropped her off onto the turntable, which brought her up to working height. Bethany started tickling the adult baby. Jenny giggled behind her pacifier. Bethany looked at her sternly. “Get it all out into your didi, or I’m going to get strict.”
Jenny looked at her wide-eyed, but obediently let loose. The rich smell wafted through the room, and the diaper minder started its infernal beep – beep.
Bethany efficiently stripped the faux baby and cleaned her off. Then she gave her a quick bath and stood back. She opened a closet door, got out a gaff, falsies, bra and panty, and said: “get dressed.”
“Huh?” Jenny said, but she obediently slid her legs over the edge, hopped to the floor and slid into the gaff. She fastened the falsies on the pads on her chest and then slid into the bra and panties. The panties, she noticed, were gaily decorated in a slave maid motif, with the two most embarrassing pictures exactly where her panties would show if she bent over while wearing one of the very short skirted maid’s uniforms that mistress liked.
This uniform was different. It had a single shoulder and didn’t seem to have a zipper. She shrugged and slid it on over her shoulders. It hung in sags and then tightened by itself. She shook herself and noticed that the very short tunic skirt swirled slightly.
The mirror showed what she looked like. The one thing she could say was that it wasn’t fashion. In fact, it might be an anti-fashion. The tunic was patterned in three rows of large alternating brick red and canary yellow blocks. The top row highlighted one breast in each color. The second row girded her waist, and the third patterned her skirt almost like a cheerleader, except that it didn’t have any pleats.
Fashionable it wasn’t. Easily identifiable it was. She quit staring, fluffed out her hair and picked up the purse.
“What’s this about?”
Bethany shrugged from where she was sitting and watching Jenny dress. “You think they tell me anything? As if! All I know is you’re to come around to the carport through the office. I’ll show you the way.” She opened the other door and stepped out.
Two minutes later Bethany led Jenny out to the familiar carport. She looked around and saw mistress standing with someone by the familiar car. There was also a faux baby in a stroller. As she walked up, she recognized Evie in the stroller, and then Terrance.
Habit took hold, and she dropped a curtsy. “Mistress?” She paused slightly. “You got married?”
“Yes,” Darlene grinned exuberantly, squeezed Terrance’s hand and held up her left hand with the ring.
Jenny curtsied again. “Master.”
Darlene gestured, and Jenny flowed into her arms for a hug and a kiss. Mistress gave her a swat on the bottom as she released her. “Put Evie in the car,” she ordered. “You’re driving.”
Jenny cracked a smile as she opened the right back door and gestured. Mistress looked surprised, but she slid into the seat and let Jenny close the door. Jenny walked over to the other side and ushered Terrance in as well. Then she put Eve’s stroller into the back and locked it down in the position hers had been in so many times. She bent over and gave the faux baby a quick peck on the cheek before closing the door.
A minute later she’d slung her own stroller and diaper bag into the back and slid into the driver’s seat.
“Before we get started,” Darlene said, taking a small package out of her purse and bending over the seat back, “hold still.” She opened the package and took out a swab, which she applied to Jenny’s right arm. Then she injected something from a small disposable syringe.
“Pay attention, we’re going to the Leviticus Enclave,” mistress instructed while Jenny was still in shock. “Check the map for the route.” Jenny shook her head and obediently examined the map on the screen, memorizing the route to a little enclave she’d heard about but never seen. Then she started the car, and the screen shifted to show the usual driving display.
The Leviticus Enclave sounded biblical, but from what she’d heard, Jeremiah would have harangued himself into a fit preaching about it. Jenny drove for a ways in silence, and then ventured: “Mistress, I take it you’ve bought a new house?”
“Our new house, pet. Part of the prenup was that I’m keeping you as my maid, our housekeeper and Eve’s nurse. Also as a backup when Terrance is out of town on business, which he is quite a bit. That’s why Eve was in day care as much as she’s been.”
“So what did you just inject me with? A DNA mod of some kind?”
“Right. Your days as an Adult Baby are over. That’s going to finish feminizing you: you’re going to grow real breasts and your, um, equipment, is going to go internal. I wouldn’t be surprised if several of your other curves got a bit more pronounced as well.”
“I take it they finally managed to make it work,” Jenny said.
“Yes, quite well. Now pay attention; there are some rules you’ve got to know for the Leviticus Enclave. The first is that almost everyone is a member of the Iron Rose Society. You’re required to address anyone who isn’t a submissive as either sir or ma’am as appropriate. You’re not required to curtsy to anyone except me and Terrance, unless it’s a society officer giving you an order.”
“OK. That’s easy enough.”
“We’re setting up a little visual ID system: I’m going to put a little picture on the front of your control collar. We call it a cameo. Eve will have the same picture as yours. All the other families will be different.”
“Oh. Kay.”
Darlene laughed. “Now, I said almost. One of the things is that some of the slaves are convicts who’ve agreed to serve out their sentences with a private owner rather than staying in prison. You’re a society member; they aren’t. I’m told that we’re having a bit of an interesting time teaching them adequate discipline.
“The committee is trying to get us to take one. I’m telling them that I want you to be trained to handle one first; I don’t want to take chances.”
“Hmmm.” Jenny stayed silent for a couple of minutes while she drove the car down several streets. “I take it you’ve got all that planned out?”
“Not really; we bought the house, got married and then went on our honeymoon. We’re still moving in. What I do have you penciled in for is more feminization training, proper care and pampering of your mistress and also some time at Aramis learning how to take care of an Adult Baby. I am really looking forward to being properly cared for and pampered!”
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