Unfair-Chapter 115: Inside Looking Out (Patreon)

Chapter 115: Inside Looking Out

I was on!  I was really on! Right in front of my face, intractable with my own fingertips, was MistuhGwiffin.web!  

Yes!

Oh yes!

The feeling and exhilaration was damn near orgasmic.  I never thought I’d be happy to see this website for anything other than trash posting, venting, doom scrolling, and reading ridiculous conspiracy theories.  

Yet here I was: In a crib, smelling like baby powder, and so used to the sound of lightly rustling plastic that I barely noticed it anymore.  I was stuck in every sentient Little’s worst case scenario; with only my sense of self and my captors’ consciences keeping me from going over the edge and into a lifetime of idiotic babbling and sucking at an Amazon’s tits.

That last thought made me shiver a bit. I’d already done something close enough to that one.  My bruised ego tried to remind me that I was tricked into it and didn’t know what I’d been gulping down. My disgusted paranoia reminded me that most Littles who were breastfeeding didn’t know what was going in their mouths either.

Amy did. Ivy did.  Probably a lot of the kids at Little Voices too. Same difference, though. They might not be mindfucked in the most logical extreme sense of the word, but they’d still been broken by what the giants had thrown at them.  

They’d given up, no different than any other Little strapped into a stroller.  They’d just tricked themselves into smiling so their Mommies and Daddies wouldn’t pacify them.  Remembering that you’re an adult trapped as a baby doesn’t matter if you’ve stopped trying to escape.

Thanks to Tracy, I wouldn’t be trying alone anymore.  More than likely, the tablet she’d given me sped up my release date.  I could reach out for help. I could get glimpses past the propaganda again.  I could start to free my body by expanding my senses and freeing my voice.

But where to begin?

A cry for help, of course. I’d put my situation out there, let people know who I was and what I was going through, and see if I could get the attention of locals. See how things play out from there.

To be clear, I wasn’t imagining an elite team of Littles to burst into Janet’s house with smoke grenades and pepper spray.  Or for ninjas to stealth in among the shadows and spirit me away into the cool night air.   I was just hoping for some sympathetic free Little or Tweener to be able to look the other way.

Escapes didn’t happen often, (that we would admit to) but they did happen, and success depended on Littles and Tweeners on the outside helping those of us on the inside.  Yes, there was always the legendary unicorn of an Amazon who didn’t want to baby a Little, but that was an unrealistic expectation.  For a split second I’d thought Janet was one of those…

As far as realistic expectations went, I was conjuring up scenarios of benign feigned ignorance. A Tweener with a car willing to let me hitch a ride in their trunk.  Somebody with an apartment or a house that I could ‘break into’ for a few days to hide.  Or maybe a cell phone I could ‘steal’. Somebody with something sharp to shear off snaps and cut off tapes and some adult clothes in my size would be lovely. Even a dead drop situation where I could get those materials would be a life saver.  

With a twenty minute head start and a smidge of luck, I could use a box cutter, some plain boring clothes, and maybe something for my hair to make a dynamite disguise. Amazons would be looking for a so-called baby waddling around, not a Little adult going about his everyday business.

I couldn’t ask Tracy to do it. She was in too deep as it was. When that Little escaped years ago, I’d been grilled as a potential collaborator even though I didn’t know the kid. . Tracy would be thrown into the hot seat as soon as word got to Brollish.

0That was fine. Expecting Tracy to do something like troll all the daycares in the area like some kind of private investigator and expect to maintain her own freedom or job was asking too much of her.  I wouldn’t need to ask much from a stranger though. A phone. A car ride. Hell, even looking the other way and forgetting they saw me could help.

All I really needed was to get out into Misty Brook or some other Little-centric neighborhood on the fringes and go from there.  I’d be uncomfortable for a few days; probably have to hunker down and hide in the back room of a trailer until the heat died down.  I’d have to work to get a new source of revenue. Something relatively anonymous paying under the table or online to obscure my identity, but I could make it work.

It would all be harder than how I was imagining it, of course. I wouldn’t be able to stay in the county for starters. The state might be off limits, too.  Legally speaking, Clark Gibson didn’t exist anymore and being in a town where he’d lived and worked for so many years would only put me in danger.  Then there was the matter of stopping my bedwetting and re-potty training myself so that I could hold it in without being in distracting agony.  That was gonna suck.

Then there was the matter of finding and breaking out Cassie.

“One thing at a time,” I breathed to myself.  “One thing at a time.”

I clicked the Login button on the site, brought up the keyboard function on the screen, and tapped in my screen name and password.  

Instead of bringing up my account, I was redirected to a plain white screen and a message. I narrowed my gaze:  “You seem to be logging in from a new location. To confirm whether or not this is you and to protect against fraud, we have sent a confirmation code to the email registered with this account.  Please check your email and enter the confirmation code contained therein.”

My nose wrinkled. “Shit,” I hissed. “Damn.” I sighed.  “Fine.”  This was going to be annoying but I had the time.  I wasn’t escaping tonight; not even close; I was just looking around and putting feelers out.  Maybe I could get some feelers out to the Brauns or my folks.

Annoyance compounded into frustration with my email.  I got basically the same message asking me to prove that it was me, except this time it was sending a text to my phone.  My phone had gone into the garbage with my wallet, keys, and snapless clothes months ago.

I practically needed my old life back so that I could get my old life back. This was right up there with telling me that I wasn’t allowed to piss outside my pants because I hadn’t used a toilet and I wasn’t allowed to use a toilet because I kept pissing my pants. “Typical” I muttered.

My eyes darted briefly to the closed door.  The lights were still on in the hallway and were seeping through the space underneath and there was no. Neither had I heard the sound of approaching footsteps. I rotated my head and checked to make sure that the monitor wasn’t recording.  It wasn’t.

I took a deep breath and exhaled, letting the frustration build up and then exit my body. Me not being able to access my old email and my old account was a very minor bump in a very big and still long term operation.  

Nothing would be lost if I made a burner account and an email to go with it. Though in absence of the familiar, I was left to ponder the new. In the presence of the new, the same careful, cautious, neurotic, anxious thoughts that I’d lived with for years creeped back into my consciousness.

What name should I use? Should I be discreet, or something obvious like ‘ClarkGibson2468’. If it was obvious, what if an Amazon saw my name and made the connection? MistuhGwiffin wasn’t impossible to infiltrate.  If it were discreet and unrelated, would any Little who knew me recognize me enough to help? If it were obvious, would it be too obvious and people would shun me thinking it was a transparent trap?  Would any local Little even remember me…?

I tugged at my hair with one hand and bit my lip. Emotionally speaking, it was easier when I was just looking to cause pain and the possibility of escape still felt far off in the horizon. I’d prepared and groomed myself my entire life to reduce the likelihood of Adoption while still interacting with Amazons. But Escape?  This was all new, and so terribly, terribly real!
Oh the pain of hope renewed!

Another deep breath. Another exhale.  I leaned back and snatched Lion out of the corner of the crib and laid him out on my lap as a tablet cushion.

I didn’t have long.  Less than half an hour.  I’d want to exit out of this secret mode that Tracy had installed before Janet’s timer went off.  Counting on her to trust the parental controls to shut off like they were supposed to was folly.  She’d be back to take my new toy away so that I wasn’t up all night trying to crack her code.

I also didn’t need that long. There wasn’t going to be an escape tonight no matter what.  I had time to mull over possibilities and consider my options. I didn’t need to have an account or an email tonight. I only needed an account if I wanted to post and reply. I could still lurk and read the forums; do some intelligence gathering. Dip my toes back in the water over cannonballing in.

“Yeah,” I thought out loud.  “Let’s do that.”

I proceeded as guest and started searching through the site.  Nevermind the National or International rumors.  Rumors about hypnotic Yamatoan documentaries on the west coast that affected Littles and Amazons differently were none of my immediate concern.  Doom scrolling about events I had no ability to react to or affect was a sick kind of leisure.  

A few more clicks and I found more localized forums, organized primarily by state with specific subsections dedicated to specific cities.  Oakshire wasn’t big enough to warrant its own section, but Elizabeton was.  Technically it wasn’t; the sub forum was titled ‘Elizabeton and Surrounding Areas’.  Oakshire was one town over, so that might count.

I immediately started checking dates all the way back to the first week of school. I didn’t see anything in the titles that might make it about me.

There was a moment of hope and fear when I saw a post tiled ‘Karma’s a bitch’; I thought it might be about a preschool teacher who turned a blind eye to captured Littles in the classroom next door. I cringed just clicking on the link.

Fortunately those emotions immediately dissipated after the first paragraph. Some Amazon working in a coffee shop in Elizabeton got a taste of her own medicine.  She’d shit herself in public and gotten Adopted by a coworker, but the similarities ended there.  

I wouldn’t have believed it, except there were pictures and UsBox videos of her dressed up like a toddler.  Her hair was in pigtails and she wore dresses too puffy to be functional but too short to be modest. Black patent leather shoes on her feet and badge that said ‘Special Helper’. The sheer white tights made her legs look paler instead of disguising the puffy Amazon sized diaper beneath them.

Honestly, if not for the scale of the environment and the customers that she was giving coffee to, I’d have mistaken her for a Little.

“Oh Mrs. Thompson!” one called out as soon as he got his coffee. “I think someone needs a new diaper!”  He patted the girl’s bottom, checking her diaper.  “Yup!  Definitely stinky!”  From the look on the diapered woman’s face, she either didn’t mind the casual violation or liked it.

There were enough clips and variations in outfits to get across the idea that the young woman wasn’t exactly wearing a costume. This was what she wore. It was practically a scaled up version of Ivy’s wardrobe!  

All the videos had a homemade amateur handheld quality of people uploading videos from the phones.  These were less professional productions and more like when people film street performers.  Following the links showed almost a dozen different accounts, with credits to the coffee shop. A link to the coffee shop’s account only made me know that I didn’t want to watch any of their videos.

Updates revealed that the place had rebranded itself ‘Le Grand Bebe Cafe’ and it had become something of a minor hotspot.  A few unconfirmed rumors speculated that a Tweener had been added to the mix, but there were no pictures or videos to confirm.

The comments that weren’t total schadenfreude suspected that she’d been spiking Little’s drinks with a training chocolate syrup variant and had finally mixed up the ingredients and poisoned herself.  Things spiraled accordingly from there.  With some commenters suspecting she’d been given just enough special cartoon time, and others speculating that she’d just been humiliated and praised so many times that she’d been conditioned the old fashioned way.

That sentiment made my eyeball twitch.

“Mommeeeeee!” The strange Amazon whined in a clip. “Can I peeeease have my baba?!”

“Of course, Gwenny,” a woman closer to Melony’s age came in and gave the babied giant a bottle filled with something chocolate colored, but something about the way it sloshed around made me think it wasn’t quite milk.  

‘Gwenny’ (if that was her original name) drank the bottle with gusto using both hands. The phone camera started picking up slight burbling popping noises and panned down blow her waist. There was a light sound of applause and cooing from off camera of “Good baby!” as the burbling noises increased to long muffled farts and the expanded and drooped inside her tights.  The camera panned back up to her face, still drinking and showing no signs of struggle, internal or otherwise.

I recoiled backwards and clicked out. This woman was either the world’s greatest actress for a very specific niche or she really had been broken and mindfucked back into pseudo-infancy like any Little.  

“Ew. Gross! Fucking hell!”   As darkly satisfying as it was to see what was very likely another Raine Forrest get her noggin scrambled and her butt padded, it would only result in more Littles being snatched up, and strapped down to a changing table.

Stuff like this should be proof that Maturosis didn’t exist, but I knew in the right hands this would just prove that it did.  Maturosis only expressed itself primarily in Littles. Technically anyone could succumb to it. They might even say that this poor schmuck of a lady had some Little genes in her family tree.  

Amazons: Sacrificing one of their own to hide their bias.

“Typical.”

I would have exited the cringe inducing clip show entirely, but near the bottom of a thread, amidst the heckles. a question was posed.

“Should this one go into the Candid Cradles Gallery? Or does it not count?”

Candid Cradles? Wasn’t that a prank show from a few decades ago? No, that was Candid Cribs.    My finger hovered over the hyperlink. I shouldn’t be going down more rabbit holes, I knew. I should be searching for evidence of Cassie, or a way to contact the Brauns.

I clicked, anyways. MistuhGwiffin is not an easy site to navigate. That’s a bug and a feature. It’s a very chaotic and disconnected site, partly by design, partly by necessity.  Moderators, contributors, and web designers can get Adopted, same as any other Little so their projects remain unfinished or taken over by someone else with a different skillset or a different vision.

People are paranoid of having their accounts traced back to them and try to hide their tracks, constantly.  Threads that get updated aren’t bumped back up to the top, necessitating a user to scroll back to their favorite topics again and again and again, or forget them and start over again.  Links lead every which way and some subjects can’t be accessed directly on purpose. It’s rumor incarnate and a nightmare to navigate.  For some things you honestly just have to know where to look.

What loaded up was yet another subforum.  At the top of the screen, was the full name of this particular section.  “Candid Cradles: DON’T LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOU!”

I quickly checked the address to make sure I was still on MistuhGwiffin.  I was. This, however, was more like a picture gallery, with photo thumbnails of Little men and women littering the screen.  

I clicked on two or three pictures to try and figure out what this page was about.  Pictures of Littles, all Adopted based on the appearance of their clothing and surroundings. Baby pictures, scraped from the internet, organized into galleries. All looking a combination of absolutely humiliated or just too mindfucked to care.  One set of pictures showed a Little girl lose herself in timelapse, from screaming in a crib all the way to gloriously eating birthday smash cake wearing nothing but a pointy party hat and a diaper.

The comments underneath the pictures ranged from sympathetic to cynical.

“Poor thing. Never had a chance.”

“Literally too cute for her own good.”

“Once they get you, you might as well be dead. All you can do is delay the inevitable.”

“I’d just go catatonic. Not eat. Not talk. Not move until they forced me to watch cartoons and melted my brain.  Get it over with. At least I wouldn’t be suffering anymore.”

“No way. I’d kill whoever tried to put me in a diaper. Even Amazons gotta sleep sometime. ”

“I’d escape. Won’t say how, just in case the wrong people are reading this. But I’ve got plans.”

“I met some relatives of hers after the fact. She loved wearing short skirts and skimpy clothes. She probably bent over and Daddy couldn’t resist.  She’d probably still be wearing panties if she’d have stopped flashing them.  Protip: Stick to ankle length, ladies! Also avoid light pinks and blues. Nothing too colorful! Earthtones will save you!  They won’t take you if you don’t give them a reason!”

A flamewar developed below, mostly revolving around what works and what doesn’t as far as avoiding and warding off Amazons.  The comments admonishing victim blaming were largely ignored, or written off.  “Okay. You go around wearing a crop top, and a skirt so short that somebody can see your ass and tell me what happens. Oh wait. You won’t be able to. Cuz you’ll be Adopted.  Can’t wait to see your face here, loser.”

“I do not appreciate you all taking family photos from my social media account and making fun of my baby girl. She’s a sweet Little angel and we are very happy together. Someone ought to find you brats and teach you some manners.”

That particular thread was locked immediately afterwards.

My cheeks flushed hot in the darkness of the nursery.  A gallery for Adopted Littles; gossipping, mourning, and mocking people who’d been knocked back down the social ladder all the way to infant.

As distasteful as it was, I saw the benefit.  It was practically an obituary for Littles whose adult lives had ended prematurely. Good way to keep track of friends and family who had gone missing. A good way to find Cassie.

Format wise, it was about the same as the other parts; with sectioned off threads and galleries based around geographic locations. The ones near the top just had yet to be sorted or archived. I scrolled and clicked and scrolled and clicked until I’d narrowed it down to Elizabeton and Surrounding Areas.

I grit my teeth, opened the gallery and started sorting through dozens of Little pictures. Many faces weren’t familiar. Others, sadly, were. No sign of Cassie, though.  That didn’t mean anything. I didn’t see the pink haired girl from Little Voices, or the two block fanatics. This listing was hardly comprehensive.

Curiosity got the better of me and I clicked on a picture of Mandy.  Her gallery consisted of pictures both posed and candid. Posed baby pictures with her in embarrassing dresses and bonnets and candid shots of her covered in mud, or with hands full of sauced spaghetti noodles.  She looked incredibly self conscious in every picture.  

The last one was an overhead shot of her lying naked on a changing table, one hand cover her face and the other trying to shield her breasts.  The screen grab had a caption beneath it. “If I don’t see the diaper change, it didn’t happen.”

The comments were brutal.

“What a waste.”

“Pretentious clothing and having to eat with her hands: Talk about the worst of both worlds.”

“She likes it. You can tell. That’s why she’s blushing.”

“Probably doesn’t know how to use a fork anymore. Or go around mud puddles.”

“Ten to one odds, she’s one of those mindfucked dolls that stuffs everything down her pants.”

“Wonder what she did?”

In answer a photo ripped from a different FaceTome account clipped up. “They didn’t deactivate her account. Looks like she was a musician or something.” I stared in disbelief at a picture of my classmate on stage with her hair teased out and dyed neon green.

“Should’ve stayed local. That hair was begging for it.”

I exited, and went over to Tommy.  No info on who he used to be prior to Adoption, but his Amazon loved putting pictures of him in his current state up. There were pics as recent as last week were up.

“I don’t know what’s worse, all the baby costumes, or the Fall Festival one. So cringe!”

“Ew! He’s breastfeeding! Gross!”

“At least we know what his Mommy looks like. Someone to avoid.”

“Just put a bullet in his brain and get it over with!”

“I think he’s at one of those Maturosis daycares? They grind you down slow over there. Fucking sadists.”

“Is he smiling in that pic? He’s smiling!  They broke him!”

“They always do, bro.”

“They made him smile. It’s posed.  If its smile or get an enema and an ass beating, you smile.  What would you do?”

“What would I do? I wouldn’t get taken.”

“I don’t recognize him from anywhere. Was he local before?”

“Maybe he’s from one of the smaller towns. Shademire, Oakshire, Marbrooks. One of those?”

“Might be one of those vacationers from a Little run country. Those rubes always get snatched up. Most don’t last a day here.”

“Why would someone vacation in Elizabeton? There’s gotta be better places to go before it’s all over?”

Checking the clock and keeping my ears peeled, I kept finding my classmates.

“Idiot.”

“Loser.”

“Bless her heart.”

“He must have fucked up in a big way to get like that.”

“This stuff just proves evolution, imo. Amazons are just predators. This is one of the slow ones.”

“I hope my kids never grow up like this.”

“Did no one warn her? This is what happens when you get careless. Smh.”

My lip curled in disgust. The rhetoric was coarser and more mean spirited, but it sounded so similar to the things I’d long thought myself.  Be clever. Do everything you can to unconsciously dissuade the Amazons from thinking of you as a baby, and you’d be fine. All the Littles who’d ended up with padded bottoms were poor idiots who had failed to play it smart.

But what about Ivy? What could she have done to prevent being born in the strictest most Amazon centric country in the world? What could a literal child have done to stop her doctors, teachers, and her literal parents from forcing her backwards and keeping her in arrested development? Should she just have been less nervous? Not had a potty accident when she was five? Have genetics that made her grow tall?

What about Amy? She was a loon but she clearly knew a lot about and had a passion for animals.  Should she just not have been randomly attacked by a big dumb animal? Should she not have gotten a job at The Gardens’ zoo in the first place? Ignored what her passion had told her to do with her life and spent it hiding in a trailer park?

What about Chaz, who’d just barely graduated high school and was trying to explore the world.  Did he commit some kind of grievous tactical error by stopping in a humdrum nowhere place like Oakshire?  Did Annie wanting to be a nurse put her on the chopping block somehow?  Even if she wasn’t very good at it, did that strategically justify taking away her autonomy to the point where she was humping stuffies for sexual release?  

Morally, of course not.  But strategically?  

Was there anything else I could have done to wind up in my position? Should I have trusted less? Been more vigilant? How could I have possibly prevented the accident that started this all? And even if I could have prevented it, how did that make what happened to me, my fault?

If Raine Forrest or Dunwhich or Bankhead or one of my other coworkers had somehow found a way to force me to disrupt my guts and poop my pants before I knew what was going on, how was it my fault that they chose to attack me?  

That kind of thinking only works when the thing causing harm isn’t sentient or capable of reason.  Trusting an Amazon shouldn’t be the same as putting a fork in a socket. Wearing a short skirt in public wasn’t the same as handling a venomous snake.  

It wasn’t their fault! It wasn’t our fault!  It wasn’t my fault!

It was a good thing I didn’t have an account right then. I would have said something awful and unproductive.  It pissed me off in ways I couldn’t describe with these random strangers’ comments.  They don’t know us. They hadn’t been through what we’d been through! They weren’t the ones suffering, just the ones judging! The people in Mrs. Beouf’s classroom were broken assholes, but they were some of the only Little friends I had left.

Finally, I mustered up the courage to find my own portrait and clicked on my own picture.  Ripped straight from Janet’s FaceTome were piles and piles of pictures, mostly from the earliest days when Janet’s enthusiasm was at its peak.  I saw myself, small and pathetic in the bathtub.  I viewed myself scowling from behind Lion while Janet and the judge who signed away my life smiled. I found the nicer picture retake I’d suffered through after the cinnamon trick.

The comments were no more kind to me.  More strangers wondering what I’d done.

Until, “He used to visit Mistybrook. Total Helper. Worked at an Elementary School with a Little’s Room. Didn’t do anything to help anybody escape.  He got what we deserved.”

“More like got what he wanted. No Little would get a job at a daycare unless he wanted to be enrolled.”

“Loser was probably dropping hints to his favorite Mommy and then just gave up and pissed his pants in front of her. Let instinct take over.”

“Hate to say it, but sometimes the Amazons are right. Some Littles don’t deserve adulthood.  What a waste of oxygen.”  

“I think he burned his house down first. Talk about committed. Fucker snapped.”

“What if it was cartoons? Are there cartoons that make people do that? Make you turn yourself in?”

The lambasting and rambling went on and on, but I couldn't make myself read anymore. I was getting too wound up.  No mentions of Cassie, either. No mentions of me even having a wife. As far as anyone online was concerned, I didn’t have one.

I closed out the program and set the parental controls back up the way Janet had left them with three minutes to spare. As predicted, she came back at the thirty second countdown.  “Okay, honey. Time to go to bed.”  She was wearing a honey colored nightie and her hair had dried.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, handing the tablet up to her.  It was for the best. It was good to know what the rest of the world thought of me; good to be reminded; but it was a decidedly sobering experience.  “Can I cuddle with you tonight? Please?”

Janet smiled softly, but shook her head. “I’m sorry, buddy. That wasn’t the deal. It was cuddle with Mommy or sleep in your crib.”

“I changed my mind,” I said. “I want to cuddle now!”  Another warm body would help to not think about everything I’d just seen and read.

She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped short of giving in.  “Then you can choose cuddle tomorrow night, baby. Simple as that.”

I pulled myself up and leaned on the rail. “It’s not a fair choice! I gave a whole night for thirty minutes for games that I wasn’t very good at.”

Teasingly, she winked at me. “Then maybe next time you’ll choose differently.”  She gave me a second good night kiss and left the room before I had a chance to form a counter argument.

“Mommy!” I said directly facing the baby monitor. “Come get me! Mommy! Mommy! Come get me!”  I waited for the sound of footsteps to sound back in my direction.  When none came, I continued.  “I hate you Mommy! I hate you! Mommy come get me or I hate you!”  

I kept it up for what felt like hours before I passed out.  Not once did Janet waver. I’d wet my diaper before I finally went to sleep.  Calls to come change me were met with equal silence and inaction.  

My sleep was troubled and filled with the mental echoes and accusations about me and my classmates.  I pictured faceless avatars pointing at me and condemning me.  Loser. Freak. Helper.  Idiot.  Asking for it. Wanting it. Loving it.  Didn’t deserve my own adulthood.  I didn’t wake up from them until close to nine in the morning; not even to pee.  My own bedwetting was keeping me trapped in my dreams for longer and without reprieve.

When Janet picked me up and changed me out of my sopping wet Nighttime Monkeez, the first words out of her mouth were a yawning “Good morning, Clark. I love you.”  Her hair was a mess and there were bags under her eyes. The sun was up and high in the sky, but she was half asleep herself.  “Mommy needs some coffee.”

She’d stayed up and listened to me rant and prod into the wee hours of the morning.  All night long pacing and wrestling with herself on whether or not to hold firm in her decision or to give in and take me into her bed just to shut me up.  

Just like I’d wanted from the beginning, I’d used the baby monitor against her.  Yet there wasn’t a bit of sorrow, or regret behind those tired eyes.  Just mine.