Best Friends
By
Douglas Greene
douglas_greene@hotmail.com
1-8-02
If only I hadn’t been so nosey!
A week ago, I decided to visit an old college roommate. At thirty years old, Jerome was a millionaire several times over, a true ‘dot com’ self-made man. We’d always gotten along famously, so when he invited me to spend a week or so with him at his home in south Miami Beach, I jumped at the opportunity.
The first couple of days went by so quickly. He took me out on his boat, and we did the nightclub scene; we had so much fun! Then, in the early hours of the morning, as we sat at his place smoking pot, everything changed. He told me he was gay, and that he always had a ‘thing’ for me in school.
I can’t say that I was surprised; I had my suspicions. Jerome was very good looking, but never spent very much time around girls. And the way that he looked at me at times made me feel very uneasy, but I never asked, and he never told.
I let him know right away that although I valued his friendship, I had no interest in that kind of relationship. He was obviously embarrassed, and stumbled off to bed.
The next morning, I was up first. I decided that Jerome wouldn’t mind if I used his computer to check my email. I couldn’t resist checking out his bookmarks. There was nothing unusual there. Taking it a step further, I looked at his ‘history’ files as well as his ‘cookies’. As Jerome slept late, I perused all of his favorite sites and stumbled upon some very weird stuff.
“Find anything interesting, Chad?” Jerome asked, suddenly peeking over my shoulder.
“Sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Mi casa es su casa!” he exclaimed, “Care for some coffee?” He handed me an enormous cup of black brew. Nodding at the computer, he grinned oddly. “I see that you’ve been poking around, so I guess I’m busted.”
I sipped nervously; the coffee was bitter. “We all have secrets. It isn’t that big of a deal; I’ve seen guys in diapers on television talk shows. A lot of people are into it.”
“No, you have it all wrong,” he protested. “Those people are adult babies. I’m into age regression.”
“Age regression?” I parrot, taking another deep drink from the cup.
“Yea,” he shook his head up and down vigorously. “I mean, think about it. What if you had the power to make people younger? How would you use it?”
“I don’t know. I’d make my Mom and Dad younger I suppose.” Where in the world was he going with this conversation?
“Of course you would,” he agreed. “Do you know what I’d do?”
“Uh-uh.” This was getting too strange!
“I’d use it to keep the people I love from leaving. I’d make them little again, so that they’d always have to stay with me.” He smiled broadly and waited in silence for some sort of response.
I didn’t know what to say. What could I say?
“That’s why I live here, Chad. So I could be close to the source.”
“The source? I don’t understand.” I took another drink from the large mug. Suddenly I was feeling very relaxed and comfortable.
“The fountain of youth. It’s right here, practically in my own back yard,” he chortled gleefully. “I put some in your coffee; you should feel it by now. It gives you a rather unique buzz, doesn’t it?”
Only slightly alarmed, I tried to get up, but my legs wouldn’t support me. Jerome placed his hand on my shoulder and pressed me back into my chair.
“Relax, my friend. You’re beginning a wonderful journey. Your whole world is about to change.”
An invisible hand covered my face, forcing my eyes to shut, sending me into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The first thing that I remember thinking when I woke up, is that I was tangled up in the sheets. Layers of fabric seemed to be bunched up between my legs. I was lying on my back in a bed surrounded by wooden bars. Stuffed animals and baby toys were all around. My first instinct was to raise my hands to my face. I was horrified at what I saw; pink stubby fingers attached to soft, fleshy palms. It wasn’t until Jerome reached in and easily enclosed both of my hands in his that I realized how tiny they were.
I remember trying to call out, but the words wouldn’t come. It was as if the connection between my brain and my tongue was cut; all I could do was babble. I recall screaming when those two giant hands descended, utterly terrified as mammoth fingers tightened around my torso and lifted me from the bed.
It’s incredible how the human mind seems capable of adjusting to anything. I’ve been like this for nearly a week and my daily routine, by design, makes life seem almost normal.
My physical body is, I’m guessing, about three months old. I wear a diaper. I take all of my nourishment from a baby bottle. I can’t walk, and crawling is an effort. I’m unable to ask any questions, and Jerome hasn’t volunteered any information. I don’t know if I’m doomed to stay this way forever, or if I’m gradually growing like any child. Perhaps I’ll wake up tomorrow to discover that I’m an adult again, but somehow I doubt that will happen.
Every morning begins the same way. His smiling face suddenly appears, peering over the wooden bars of my crib. He makes small talk as he hoists me out of the crib and onto the changing table, asking me if I slept all right, or if I was warm enough. He strips me slowly down to my diaper, again, talking to me the whole time, asking me questions as if I were capable of responding.
“Remember Jackie, that girl you took out our senior year in college?” he asks as he peels the flannel sleeper off of my body. “Did you keep in touch after graduation? You two really had a thing for each other.” The cold plastic mat on the changing table makes me shiver and Jerome notices immediately. “Kinda cool little buddy? Sorry about that.”
That’s his nickname for me; I remember him using it the very first day. I’m his ‘little buddy’.
“I think that I’ll look her up sometime. It would be fun to invite her over, don’t you think?”
I hear the distinctive sound of the corners of my diaper being pulled apart, and feel the cool air hit my wet skin. Jerome knows enough to hold the diaper over my tiny penis as I reflexively spurt a short blast of urine into the absorbent paper.
“All done?” he asks before lifting my legs and sweeping the disposable diaper away. “Did I tell you that we’re going with a cotton diaper service? I think that you’ll be a lot more comfortable.”
He bathes me in a plastic tub that fits over the sink in the kitchen. I’ve always thought of Jerome as being uncoordinated and clumsy, but he handles me with great care, meticulously and gently wiping every part of my body with a small washcloth. Although frightening at first, I must confess that I’ve come to discover that bath time isn’t completely unpleasant. I find it extremely disturbing that I seem to be adjusting to my new life.
Jerome has mounted a little mirror to the side of my crib. He always puts me back into my bed after my bath, and I lay on my stomach while he picks out the clothes that he will dress me in that day. I still can’t believe that the image of the naked little baby staring back at me in the glass is mine.
“So what do you think, little buddy, ready for a big day?” I feel his mammoth hand softly brush my inner thighs and my backside just before he flips me over to my back. “I don’t suppose you have a preference.” He holds up two tiny outfits for my inspection. “I thought not. Let’s see what you look like in this.” He throws one outfit aside and tucking the chosen outfit under his chin, lifts me effortlessly, returning me to the changing table.
He sprinkles baby powder over my tiny manhood; all the while talking to me as if changing your friend’s diaper was the most natural thing in the world. Softly caressing the powder into my skin with his fingertips, I immediately harden under his touch. My miniature erection elicits a grin from Jerome, who continues to fondle me, ever so gently, until I squeal and squirm on the cold plastic mat.
“I could probably arrange for Jackie to do this. You’d like that, wouldn’t you little buddy?” He lifts my legs and slides a clean diaper under my rump and tapes it together at my hips. “Men are such pigs.”
In a few minutes, I am dressed, and sitting cradled in Jerome’s arms in the living room. The television is on, and he’s watching one of the morning news programs as he slips the latex nipple between my lips. I want to be stubborn and refuse to nurse. But as always, my mouth betrays me and I rhythmically begin to drain the sweet, warm liquid from the bottle. Rivulets of formula run down both cheeks as my arms and legs twitch spastically.
The thing that horrifies me the most is that I’m beginning to accept that this is now my life. I’m my best friend’s wet little plaything, to care for, to hold, and to love. I’m his constant little companion, his little buddy.
I’m now not sure that I’d want it any other way.
TO BE CONTINUED?