Ultimate Headspace (Patreon)

Chronocon is amazing!  You got here just last night and you already feel so...so...YOU!  Most everyone is wearing diapers and baby clothes and puppy hoods and fursuits.  In vanilla space you might refer to these things as “costumes”, but in a weird way everyone seems to be more like themselves, their truest selves.    These aren’t costumes, just play outfits for cuddly and cute littles just like yourself.  

That’s been the unspoken best part: You can really be yourself at Chronocon.  Everyone here can.  Even when they’re not acting like silly little kids or babies, everyone is fundamentally themselves.  

Dinner and drinks last night were great, and you really hope you can remember the name of whoever’s room party you crashed last night.  If you were lucky you’d run (or crawl) across them and remember to thank them and give whatever their name was a hug.  Lots of hugging going on around here.  Another neat thing about ageplay cons like this one.  People are more open and willing to let their barriers down.  

Mommy is still sleeping off the tequila from last night, but she got up long enough to change you and dress you in your cute honey decorated onesie.  She’ll catch up to you later, you know, but for now you have time to explore the convention space and get a real lay of your surroundings.  You think of it as a self-guided tour, a chance to look at the menu before you decide what to order first (because chances are you’re going to do EVERYTHING at least once.)

Breakfast found you gazing longingly and hopefully at the adult sized highchairs in the dining room.  Bucket list right there. You would have put yourself in one of them, but eating in a high chair just isn’t the same without Mommy to feed you.  You wanted the full experience.  Maybe for Lunch.

You were already a little wet by the time you finished breakfast.  You’ve been drinking like a fish (water and more grown-up things), and have no reason to hold it in.  Walking around in it makes you feel so babyish.  You’re practically drunk on your own dopamine, you’re so excited.  

A slight rumble in your tummy dampens your excitement just a bit.  Your bowels are starting to wake up.  It’s nothing urgent, but it’s there.  Public messing is still not allowed at Chrono; which makes sense; but the options left to you aren’t great for headspace.  The options are to go to a bathroom, pull down your wet diaper, use the toilet LIKE AN ADULT (BOOOOO!) and then pull your wet diaper back up; or to go back up to your room, mess and then change, (so why not just go use the bathroom?).  The options are sensible, but this is one instance where your big kid body and your baby brain are at odds with each other.

Knowing that you’ll be able to hold it in for a good while, you decide to check out the space.  It’s still relatively early, and most people are sleeping off last night’s crinkly karaoke.  But there are still crinkles; still people walking the halls and taking in all the amusements for themselves. The only time that you don’t hear the plastic rustling in your ears is when you stop, and even then you can hear it coming from others as they pass by.

It’s a shame that this will only last a long weekend.  A long weekend really isn’t enough.  But there’s no time to bemoan the future when the present is at stake.  So you begin your journey.

There are little play stations everywhere:  Just mats with blocks and legos on them.  This is a nice touch, you think.  You’ve seen them up in the hallways where your hotel room is, too.  A clever use of space, you think.  Maybe even ideal to make a friend passing by. 

Two littles are playing and building a spaceship or something at one.  You’re tempted to go up and ask to play, but you’re curious as to what else is around.  Gotta see the whole menu before you place your order.

Another area is a kind of game room, with board games and card games.  It looks okay, but no one is really using it now.  You’ve got enough vanilla geek friends, anyway.  You can play Magic: The Gathering any day.   Cons like this don’t happen often enough, not that you get to go to anyway.  

The changing room is fairly standard.  Curtained off privacy areas, you assume with padded mats or massage tables behind them.  That’s where the bag check is, too for people in the overflow hotel or people that just don’t want to carry everything around. 

You look to your swag bag turned diaper bag and consider checking it.  It doesn’t feel very babyish to be toting around your own diapers.  Sadly, onesies and wet diapers don’t have pockets, and the bag also has your cell phone.  Gotta stay in contact for when Mommy wakes back up.  You wouldn’t want her to worry.  Your brows knit together a second as you check the sharpied on number on the bag and compare it to your con badge.

OOPS!  The numbers don’t match!  Looks like you accidentally swiped Mommy’s bag.  You couldn’t check this thing if you wanted to.

 As you walk away, you look back at the changing room and smile a little to yourself.  You’ll be back here, later, you’re sure. Mommy won’t want to take you all the way back to your hotel room to change you.  Not coincidentally, you feel your bladder twinge again, and you make your diaper squish just a little more. 

The classrooms are easily the least altered spaces in the convention area.  They’re just hotel conference rooms.  Nothing more, nothing less, but they’ll serve their purpose.  You look forward to attending tomorrow’s class on “maximizing headspace”.  A flaw of yours that you’ve noticed is you sometimes get too analytical for your own good; often spending so much time in your own head to enjoy your own headspace.  Maybe the presenter, someone called Fellowdisguise (What a weird name), can give you some tips.

You’d already checked out the vending areas near the other side of the hotels.  Wow.  Too crowded. “Too many people. Come back later,” your brain screamed at you.  “Mommy’s got the money anyways.”  There must have been some kind of early bird special you didn’t know about.  That and the babs are probably stocking up on diapers for the con.  Get shopping out of the way to maximize their play.

The ageplay rooms were the real attraction for you, and they do not disappoint.  You wander into the first middles room.  Already a couple of guys have taken up positions at Guitar Hero and are jamming out.  Next to them an intense game of Super Mario World is going on.  The posters on the wall and the bookshelf filled with middle school leveled books and comics are a nice touch too.  You doubt that anybody is going to actually read this stuff with so much loud colorful distractions, but it’s a nice touch; really makes the room look and feel like a place where 5th or 6th grade boys would hang out after school.

Next door the corresponding girly middle room is equally breathtaking.  There’s a mirror and makeup station, a comfy couch for lazy cuddling (currently in use, you notice) and “Clarissa Explains It All” playing on the big screen.  The aesthetic of the room kind of looks like Clarissa’s bedroom.  The bookcase next to the makeup station even has Judy Bloom books in it. Nailed it!

You inhale deeply and nod appreciatively as you waddle back out into the main hallway.  These spaces aren’t your spaces per se; little you is much too tiny to do anything like videogames or sit still and watch tweenage dramadies.  But yikes, they’re so well done.  It’s like walking into a 3-D art display or at a period piece re-creation.  

 You might just have to get over yourself and come back in a few hours, anyway.  Based on the occupants, you wouldn’t be the only baby that was into classic video games, and it might be nice to snuggle with Mommy and watch some tween friendly shows

The pet play room was decorated like a forest or a jungle along the walls, with big doggy beds and little tunnels to crawl through scattered throughout.  A desk had a bin of laser pointers and cat toys.  Everything looked collapsable as far as you could see, and the stands and hoola hoops made the gears start turning in your head about a pet obstacle course.  

Nice!  Not specifically your thing, but the attention to detail and potential was astounding!  You thought about a few of your pup friends from online.  It could be really fun to play fetch with them in here, or to find a kitten to chase a red dot.  

Next up is the preschool room.  You take a look in here and see some littles diligently cutting and pasting, coloring and folding.  Very arts and crafts.  Very quiet too.  You’re almost too scared to move in deeper, but the urge to explore is too great. 

One of the walls has a large bit of poster board with a schedule on it:

“Art Time with Miss Karen 10:00
Sing along with Mommy Meow Meow 12:00
Story Time with Papa Doug  1:30”

Oooooh.  Curated experiences.  Maybe some light roleplay in a way.  That could be nice.  You looked down at your onesie.  Maybe little you was old enough to attend preschool.  Preschool didn’t have to mean potty trained.  Come to think of it, Mommy wanted to go to a Big’s social tomorrow.  Wouldn’t it be cool if there was overlap and she left you here?  It’d be almost like daycare.  You feel a tingle in your spine at that thought.  

Digging into your bag, you look at your phone and check the time.  Dang it.  It hasn’t quite been fifteen minutes since you finished breakfast.  Mommy probably hasn’t woken up yet, and if she has, she’d need to get food, too.

You weren’t done exploring yet.  

The sound of excited shouting and the clacking of hard plastic and thick cardboard, pulls you into a large open area labeled “Playground”.  The pee in your diaper isn’t entirely voluntary, (or so you pretend) as you look around.  Ball pits!  See-Saws!  Slides. 

Your feet are slapping against the carpeted floor as you run-waddle over.  You ditch your diaper bag in a nearby corner and get in line for the slide.  So many kids here!  You giggle to yourself as you realize that you just mentally referred to a bunch of adults in diapers as “kids”.  THIS!  THIS is headspace.  

Your trip up the slide is a short one, but the way down seems magically fast, and you throw your hands up in the air with abandon.  You even let loose a “WHEEEEEEEE!” and hear the giggles of the other kids watching you.  

Instead of getting into line, you keep looking around.  You’re little self is too excited and too stimulated to stand still in a line, even if it is only 4 or 5 people long and moving fast.  You’ve got to do EVERYTHING!

Hmmm….

The swings are taken.  There’s at least ten littles playing with cardboard bricks, making a gimongous tower and with the way it’s swaying as each brick is added, you know that it isn’t long for this world.  You haven’t seen those in ages, but you don’t know anyone among them and your shyness is flaring up hardcore just now.  That same shyness keeps you from getting any closer to the seesaw.  No one’s playing on it and your voice suddenly feels very quiet when you think about calling out and seeing if anyone wants to join you.

The ball pit though!  It’s so huge that a step ladder is required to climb in and out.  It’s practically an above ground pool!  But filled with balls!  You barely register that you’re bouncing on the balls of your feet just thinking about it.  You toddle up and worm your way around a few kids just talking to each other and approach the big mesh lined attraction.  

Peeking in, you see that there are only two other littles in there.  Perfect!  Not too many, but you won’t be alone.  A sign posted up on the front corner gives you pause, however.  It reads: “No wet diapers in the ball pit.”  Your nostrils flare out a bit as you exhale your disappointment.  

That’s a dumb rule, you think.  The whole point of diapers is to hold in wetness and messes.  It’s not like being diaper adjacent is going to contaminate the balls.  Even the hotel restaurant let you and Mommy come in while wet.  Your diaper had to be covered so as not to gross out the staff, and that was fair.  And you had to keep your shoes on, but that was no big deal.

This though?  No wetness at all?  In a ballpit?  It was a safe bet that places with ball pits had diapered kids in them three hundred and sixty five days a year, and there was no chance that the diapers were clean one hundred percent of the time.  What would be so bad about a ball pit that only saw action a couple times a year, tops?

You look down between your legs, and subtly squeeze your diaper through your onesie.  It’s not that wet.  It’s still covered and contained by the onesie, and no one came after you and wiped your seat down after dinner.  Nobody will know anyway…

You approach the ladder and stop.  You chew on your tongue.  No.  It’s not right.  Rules are rules.  They’re like written boundaries or consent.  It’s not your ball pit (Lord almighty you wish you had your own ball pit).  You’re not going to go against the person who put up the ball pit’s wishes, even if you do think it’s a stupid rule.

You exhale and turn around for your diaper bag, as a little boy climbs up the ladder and jumps in.  You catch a glimpse of the faded patch on his Little Paws.  So much for no wet diapers in the pit.  You huff and promise yourself that the ball pit will be the first place you’ll go as soon as Mommy changes you.

You leave the playground and snake your head to the right to the quieter sound of tinkling music.  You strain your ears trying to pick up the tune and then you catch it.  It’s a lullaby rendition of Nirvana’s “Come As You Are”, and you know exactly where it’s coming from.  To your left, are two giant double doors swung open for all to enter.  The sign next to the door reads: “Nursery”.

Another spurt of wetness enters your diaper as you pass the wide open doors and behold the playspace in all of its glory.   This one is a long one too; it’s like your bladder is finally relaxing and a sense of tension that you didn’t even realize was there leaves out of you.

This.  Here.  This is where you belong.  

The playground was endless uncontainable energy that infected you so that every step you took was.  Here though, in the nursery, you walk around carefully.  You take everything in, your smile only getting bigger and biggerer.

Giant rocking horses and other animals (rocking ducks, rocking elephants, rocking dinosaurs), are spaced out around the room. You see wheeled walkers with play trays and little knick-knacks and spinner toys. There’s a big playmat that is hemmed in with rail guards, and filled with foam building blocks. A table filled with toy trains and matchbox cars is off to the side.
An entire wall is taken up with little play mats for lying on your back and batting at things.

You gawk at a giant play pen that you can already tell is taller than you and has to have at least two king size mattresses for the base.  

And everywhere is toys toys toy!  Tinker toys, and stuffie toys, and quiet toys and noisy toys!  This is exactly what you’d imagined when you heard there was going to be a nursery at Chronocon.  And so much of it is so scaled up, you can’t help but feel tiny and babyish just being surrounded by it all.  You’ve never felt so babyish in your entire life...not that you can remember anyway.

And the environment is just perfect.  Not too many other babies (heh, you did it again), not too few.  Boys and girls are playing with everything: A little boy in overalls is riding the heck out of a rocking horse, and a little girl with rhumba panties is pedaling a big ol’ trike and squeaking the horn, for example.  But there’s still plenty of room to play and be a baby in.  There’s still an open walker available, for example, and nobody is playing with the foam blocks right now.  It’s a perfect mix of opportunity to make friends and options for solo play if you want.

You reach into your diaper bag, (you’re starting to drift so far into headspace that you can’t think of it as a swag bag right now) and pull out your phone.  You flip it open and smile to see that Mommy has texted you.

“Up.  Getting breakfast.”  She texted you not two minutes ago.

You text her back. “I’m in the nursery.”

“Ok honey.  Be there after I go shopping.”

You frown.    “I don’t get to go shopping?” You type back to her.

“Babies don’t get to pick out their outfits. ; ) “  And you melt all over as you read that.

Words are getting hard.  “Luv U,” you text.
“Luv u 2” Mommy texts back.

That dopey grin hits you yet again.  Great trip.  Money well spent.  And you haven’t even done anything yet today.  Time to ditch your diaper bag and do some serious play.  

You wander up to the back wall towards the giant cribs.  Wow, such craftsmanship!  So tall, too.  You couldn’t get up there without a running start, a stepladder, or a boost from a very helpful Big.  No Bigs are around at the moment, as far as you can tell; or at least there are no switches currently in Big mode.  Every butt in here is well padded, you can tell, and if they’re not on complete display, they’re doing a terrible job of hiding it beneath onesies or peaking out from under skirts.   Even the babies in the Oshkoshes have enough bulk around their behinds so that it’s obvious at a glance that they’re not potty trained.

A familiar sign greets you as you put your foot on the given step ladder:  “No wet diapers in the crib.”   Followed by, “15 minute time limit.”  You actually l scowl a little bit about that and feel like pouting.  

Really?  Really?  The rational part of your brain is completely overwhelmed by the surge of pure petulance you feel.  No fair! No fair!  

You huff a bit to yourself and wave it off.  Cribs were no fun anyway.  Cribs were for sleeping in, and sleep is not on the docket this weekend.  Better to just shrug it off. 

Something that is definitely not a crib catches your eye:  A big sturdy oak changing table, complete with decorated changing pad.  Whoah!  That’s nice.  Very cool detail. So impressed you are, that you almost don’t notice that “For Display Only” sign posted right on top.  Almost.  

That one’s not as bad on your excitement level. Diapers were meant to contain messes, yes, but keeping dirty diapers in the nursery area presented some logistical problems in a con this big.  There weren’t too many babies in the nursery right now, but over the next several days thousands of diapers would go by the wayside and the risk of stinking up the playspace with limited staff and resources and far too many diapers wasn’t a viable option.

Plenty of changing tables were outside the nursery with a lot more privacy, anyways.  When Mommy changes you, she prefers privacy in fact, and you aren’t typically one to complain.  Maybe at least once this trip, you think, you can convince her to take you back up to the hotel room for a “special” diaper change.

It’s just a shame that so much of this cool stuff is limited.  No wet diapers here.  Only 15 minutes in this space there.  But practicality demands compromise.  Maybe if this was a smaller convention with fewer people there’d be less restrictions.  People still have to get off the rides at DisneyLand when they are done.  They can’t just go around on a loop as many times as they want.  You shove your selfishness aside and decide to make the best of this still amazing setup and situation.  You turn on your heel and stop...

An idea pops into your head and you smile.  It’s a very detailed changing table, not just a modified massage table with kiddie bedsheets pulled over it.  There are shelves and compartments on this thing.  If it were a real changing table, it’d be a place to put diapers...or to stow away diaper bags.  

How convenient!

You take the manilla colored canvas bag with your supplies and phone in it and quietly shove it onto a shelf, confident that no one will take it.  And with no signs saying you couldn’t...okay maybe you’re taking a not so nuanced interpretation of that “For Display Only” sign...it’s not like you’ll get in that much trouble.  If anyone catches you, you can just apologize and say you misunderstood.  

Ta-da.

Diaper bag stowed away, you look around.  You see that nearby one of the baby playmats is open, the kind with a scaled up version of a dangling mobile for infants to paw at.  Yeah.  That seems like a good idea.

You crawl onto the mat.  Looking down you see it’s a colorful farm layout, with simple depictions of Old Mac Donald and friends.  You shift over onto your back, lay your head down on a pillow and feel the mat support your weight and almost cradle you as you lay down and look up at the ceiling.  Tiny little farm animals dangle above you; a cow to paw at your left, a sheep to smash to your right, and a horse and a goat to get kicked respectively.

A wicked grin spreads across your lips.

Here you are:  In a onesie.  In a wet diaper.  Kicking your legs up in the air at tiny mobile toys like a total baby.  And you are surrounded by people who are doing the same kind of stuff.  You are home.

Your ears dance at the infantile sounds all around you, the other babies become just as much a part of the environment as the farm animals you’re physically assaulting in the way that only a crawler can.  You hear the sound of the trike horn squeaking and the fidget toys whirring.  You hear other littles giggling as they shake against the railings of the playpen. Somebody found an old speak and say nearby.  “The cow goes...mooooooooo.”

Keeping your legs up, you paw at the air and just breathe in deeply. Another sound, a toot, comes out of you, and you blush, hoping no one will notice.  You always get gassy when you have to poop.  It’s still not an emergency, and you’re pretty sure no one heard or will have the chance to smell it.  You reach down to your pacifier clip and pop the paci in your mouth, working the bulb to hope it covers up for the blush.  

Is farting in public as bad when you are wearing a diaper?  You don’t know.  Best not to think about it.

Another, newer sound intrudes on your thoughts.

BEEP! BOOP! BOP! BUP!

You look up and notice something you hadn’t before.  A sit-n-spin aka the Mad Hatter’s Tea Cups baby brother.  You sit up and stare at it.

BEEP! BOOP! BOP! BUP!

Why is it making that sound?  Overwhelmed with curiosity, you sit up, your diaper squishing as you boost yourself up to your feet and travel to the spinning disk.  

BEEP! BOOP! BOP! BUP!

So cool!  It’s not just a sit-n-spin.  On top of the wheel in the center, a game of Simon is mounted.  And the rotating platform is painted to match! Green, blue, red, and yellow.  Four spaces for four babies.  But Simon can also be a one player game.

And no one is using it.

You have now found your purpose in this nursery.  You have to try this.  You are going to try this.

This is going to be so cool!  You lower yourself and climb onto the platform, and grip the wheel in the center.  You give yourself a gentle test spin to make sure.  Even the squishy diaper beneath you does nothing to hamper your balance.  You look down at the colorful electronic memory game in the center.  You rotate.  It doesn’t.  

Oooooo...a challenge.  Spinning AND games!  This might be one of the most babyish things you’ve ever gotten to do.  With both hands, you grab the wheel and give yourself a real spin before pressing the start button on the game.

BEEP!

WHOAH!  Nice!

You reach over and touch the matching Color.  

BEEP!

You take the pause as a chance to keep your momentum going.

BEEP!  BOP!

The disk lights up and you copy the sequence, being careful where you touch as it seems to spin around and around.

BEEP! BOP!

Another spin.  Oof! You’re starting to feel it a bit.  You glance at the blinking lights to keep focused.

BEEP! BOP! BEEP!

You reciprocate.

BEEP! BOP! BEEP!

The game advances and you spin more.  The world blurring out behind you.

BEEP! BOP! BEEP! BOOP!

Easy.  You grab the wheel and turn it hard for good measure.

BEEP! BOPT! BEEP! BOOP!

And it goes.

BEEP! BOP! BEEP! BOOP! BUP!

And goes...

BEEP! BOP! BEEP! BOOP! BUP! BOOP!

And goes…

BEEP! BOP! BEEP! BOOP! BUP! BOOP! BEEP!

You find yourself entranced by the blinking lights.  So pretty.  And you don’t dare stop the spinning.  The spinning only enhances the experience.

BEEP! BOP! BEEP! BOOP! BUP! BOOP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BOOP! BUP! BUP! BOP!

You’re on a roll!  You’ve never gotten this far before.  It’s the spinning!  It must be!

BEEP! BOP! BEEP! BOOP! BUP! BOOP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BZZZZZT!

The buzzer sounds as your concentration finally breaks.  With gleeful abandon you roll off the sit-n-spin and the world goes topsy turvy for you as you tuck and roll.  

Now.

Now you feel the spinning.  You’re barely on all fours but the world won’t stop.  It just keeps going around and around as you drunkenly crawl around, unable to so much as stand up. You feel goofy and silly and kind of stupid, but in the good way.

Then something else happens.  You feel your stomach cramp and before you’re conscious of it, your gut is pushing.  You're not farting this time, and it’s not just gas that’s coming.  Your breath comes out in short gasps and the corners of your mouth turn towards the floor.

You’re pooping.  You’re pushing a mess into the back seat of your diaper.  And you can’t stop.  You feel more than hear the seat of your diaper expanding outwards to accommodate your mess, and a solid, mushy warmth coming out and caking your backside like mud.  But it’s not mud.

Your bladder joins in, depositing what feels an ungodly amount of urine into the thirsty padding. Apparently your minor case of constipation was also putting pressure on your bladder, and now both pathways are clearing yourself.  The world is no longer spinning, and you reach down to grab your paci; shoving it into your mouth to stop you from screaming from embarrassment.

Your stone cold sober now. This has never happened before.  Fun time is over.  Panic mode: Engaged.  You pick yourself up and feel the mess shift downwards, yanking downwards and being cradled by the diaper and the onesie containing it.  You turn around slowly, trying to get your bearings.  You know you have to get back to your hotel room.  

Already a plan is forming in your head.  The smell will spread soon.  People will know it’s not just a fart this time.  People will know.  This is the kind of thing that people get banned for. You know what you have to do.  You’ll run out, get back to your hotel room, take the stairs if you need to, better than being trapped in an elevator...and...and…

Shit.

Mommy’s shopping in the vendor space on the other side of the hotel.  But you can’t double back to get your own diaper bag.  Too many people.  They’ll know.  They’ll know!

No time to think, must act.  You get your bearings and start speed waddling toward the entrance.  Every step, every shuffle, makes you feel the load in your baby pants bounce a little bit mushing up against you as you slap your feet on the carpet.  

The double doors are straight ahead.  Didn’t they used to be open?  No time for that.  Less air circulating is a bad thing.  You need to slip out and try to find a way to clean up.  Maybe your puppy friend will let you use their shower if they’re still in their room.  What was their room number?

All of this stirs around in your head as you make a beeline for escape.  You see the little bar that you have to push to exit.  Hands outstretched, like a toddler trying to keep their balance, you reach out nad push.

Nothing.

You push again.

The door doesn’t budge.

All the while the mess is starting to cool, but you know it’s not smelling any better.

A hand taps you on the shoulder.  “What are you doing, honey?” an unfamiliar voice asks you.  You freeze.  You’re not sure whether you want to vomit or cry. Maybe both.  “You can’t leave the nursery.”

“I’m just going to my hotel room.”  You try to sound casual.  You’re fairly certain you fail.

“What?”

Your whole body pivots.  You’re now pressing your mushy backside up against the exit bar.  It’s still not opening.  “I’m just trying to get back to my hotel room,” you repeat.  

The face in front of you is unfamiliar.  She may be about your age.  Maybe a little older, but not much.  Definitely peer group.  She’s not dressed like you, however.  You’re getting serious Big vibes from her.  Shoulder length blonde hair frames a smiling kind face.  Below it is jeans, sneakers, and a simple t-shirt that says “STAFF”

FUCK!  

You’ve been caught.  Your paci drops back out of your mouth.

“I’m sorry honey,” the lady says, “But you can’t leave the nursery.  You have to wait until your Mommy or Daddy picks you up.”

That last sentence doesn’t even register with your conscious mind.  “I just have to go back to my room,” you repeat yourself.  “I’m not leaving the con, or anything.” Her nose wrinkles as you talk.  She caught a whiff.  FUCK!   “Actually, I am leaving the con,” you say.  “Gotta get in street clothes, y’know?”

Her brows knit together.  “Street clothes?”  She chuckles a bit.  “Where did you hear that term-?” she then calls you something you never expected to hear: You’re own name.

Not your “scene” name.  Your real name.  The name you don’t tell people.  The name you only expected to hear maybe in the privacy of your hotel room late at night with Mommy.  “How do you know that name?”

She points to your con badge.  “It’s on your name tag, silly.” 

You look down and feel a lump form in your throat.  It’s true.  Your scene name, the name you gave at registration is completely absent.  Instead it’s the real deal.  “How did…?”  You can’t even formulate the question out loud.

An unfamiliar hand reaches out and squeezes the padding between your legs.  “Let’s check your diaper.” Then, “Oh someone’s a wet little baby.”

This makes you drop your name tag and try to swat away her hand.  “Excuse me!” You cry out.  “Only my Mommy gets to do that!”

The lady doesn’t seem concerned.  “I’m just doing my job and taking care of you until your Mommy gets back-.”  Again she says your name.  Again it feels like a strange violation, just hearing this stranger at a kink convention call you by your name.  She reaches behind you and gives your bum a pat.  “Yup.  You definitely need a change.  C’mon.”

“RED!” You cry out in the nearly universal safeword language.  “RED!”  Stop!  Limit reached and passed!  End scene!  Do not continue!  Her grip is like a vice around your wrist, and you find that your feet aren’t in the mood to listen to you.  “RED! STOP! REEEEEEED!”

No one spares you a second look.  The other littles are still playing on their rocking horses, and walkers and playmats.  They look at you, recognizing your cries for help, but then go back to playing.  

You then realize there are about a half dozen other adult types in Staff T-Shirts around the room, and you don’t remember seeing them come in.   They’re all walking around and bending over and cooing at the little boys and girls, mommying and daddying them.  Giving head pats, hugs and encouragements.

The woman dragging you by your wrist looks over her shoulder.  “Yes,” she says as if she’s agreeing with you.  “Stop signs are red, like my shirt.  But I think yellow is a pretty color too, just like your onesie.”

You’ve been dragged back to the changing table, only now the sign that says “For Display Only” is nowhere to be found.  Next to it, you see a large diaper pail, one big enough to hold many diapers that are your size if not bigger.  “I wanna leave,” you say defiantly.  “I wanna leave Chronocon.  Kick me out if you have to.”

All you got in reply was a light laugh as your legs were scooped out from underneath you.  “We’re not gonna kick you out, silly baby! And you’re not even at the convention.”  You’re laid down on the changing table.  A single hand on your chest is all that’s needed to pin you down.  It might as well be Thor’s hammer.  “You’re at the nursery. Your Mommy dropped you off and we agreed to take care of you until she came back.”

“What?”

Hand still on you, the woman in the staff shirt bends over and takes something out.  It’s a mint green diaper bag; one with your real name on it.  “See?  She even left us your diaper bag.”

“That’s not mine!” You yelp, feeling stupid for even saying it.  “Those aren’t my diapers.”  But they are.  You made sure to pack the PeekABU’s.  One Racoon. One Wolf. One Dragon.  The Giraffe on your butt made all four patterns and matched your honey decorated onesie.  

The strap is yanked over your chest and the guard rail goes up, just in case.  You start yelling for help, but none is coming as the stranger’s hands unbutton your onesie. “Shh-shhh-shh.  It’s okay. I’m just gonna change your diaper.  Babies feel so much better after they have their diapers changed.”

“I’M NOT A BABY!” You scream.   

Your screaming doesn’t stop the tapes from being ripped open, and feeling a sudden wait as the front sags over your pelvis  now that the tabs aren’t holding it in place.  “Of course you are!” the stranger says.  She grabs your pacifier and puts it back in your mouth.  You feel a kind of shock this time as it enters your mouth.  You can spit it out if you want to, but some desperate part needs to keep sucking on the rubber teat.   “We only take care of itty bitty babies here in the nursery.”

Another person, a man in one of the caregiver outfits walks up.  “Everything okay?”  It’s not addressed to you. 

“I just think this little one is fussy and needs a new diaper.”

He regards you for less than half a second.  “You seem to have things under control here. Carry on.”  And he leaves to go check on another baby.  You weren’t even asked, even though you’d been screaming for help and safewording like crazy.

The blonde woman keeps changing your diaper, just like Mommy, and is cooing at you while she does it.  “If you weren’t an itty bitty baby, you wouldn’t be allowed in the nursery, and you’d have to go to the boring old grown-up convention.  Instead you get to stay here and have fun!”  

You do your best to look over the safety railing of the changing table while you get wiped down.  No big’s talking directly to you.  The other babies are all aware of your screaming, but pay no mind as long as it doesn’t directly affect their play.  Everyone can see you getting your diaper changed, but no one seems to care.  Strangers know your name, but you don’t know there’s.  You suck on your pacifier a little harder.

This.  This is the most little, the most babyish you’ve ever felt.

“Goodbye Giraffe,” the woman says, balling up your putrid used diaper.  “And hello Racoon.”  The new diaper is slipped under you and a small hail of sweet smelling powder follows.  “Someone’s feeling better,” she coos at you.  “You were just bein’ a fussy baby cuz you missed your Mommy and made boom booms.  Isn’t that right?”

Overwhelmed, you just nod your head as the new diaper is taped on, snugly and your onesie re-buttoned without incident.  You’re released from the changing table and scooped back up.  “I think maybe a little quiet time in the crib will help you.”  The Big boosts you fairly easily up onto the elevated mattress of the giant crib.  

The bars come up as the side is slid into place.  “If you’re still awake in ten minutes,” the stranger tells you, “ I’ll let you out to play.  But if you fall asleep, I’ll let you sleep and you can play after you wake up.”  Your head flops onto the pillow.  The pacifier doesn’t leave your mouth.  You don’t want it to.

As your eyes start to droop, you keep asking yourself a single question: “The fuck is going on?”

The End?

Author's note: This is just a little scenario that popped into my head after going to a certain convention. Should this continue?