Flash Fiction: Company Time (Patreon)
Content
Company Time
You love shitting on company time. Thatâs what you call it most every morning when you go to use the office toilet. Calling it that started out as a way to get over your own public restroom neuroses. The cramped little room with just a sink, a mirror, and a toilet all surrounded by walls thin enough to make you feel like you were going in front of the whole office would make anybody a little gun shy. Over the years, the thought has mutated into your own quiet act of rebellion.
With the way the economy is you might never own a house or go on vacation or ever have enough money to retire. Like everybody else youâre still living paycheck to paycheck since moving out of your parentsâ place. But the thought that the office technically pays for you to sit and zone out on the toilet for five to ten minutes everyday makes you giggle like a toddler. As soon as you thought of it like that your bladder and bowels became a little less nervous; talk about a different sort of potty training.
The roar of the toilet flushes announces your departure from the bathroom and you do a wide right turn into the office kitchen past Susan by the copy machine. Barry is leaning against the counter, nursing from a mug. âCoffee?â he moves out of the way so that you can get to the boiling pot beside him.
âNo thanks,â you say. Normally you canât function without your morning cup of joe. Itâs another one of those tiny conveniences that you like to avail yourself of if only to feel like youâre taking advantage of the company. For whatever reason, youâre just not feeling it today. Perhaps itâs because youâve already taken your morning dump, thus the coffee would only serve the purpose of making you more alert.
Dang, youâve been here too long. You canât even remember when you started working here. All the days and faces have just sort of blurred together through the years. You really need to get out of this place. Quit this job and find someplace else to work. But then what would you do? Shit on your own time? No thank you.
Nothing in the morning box of donuts looks particularly appetizing, so you grab a bagel and start waddling over to your desk.
Waddling?
You blink, but your eyes stay wide open. The air itself goes static like the space between channels on a beat up old television. Whatâs going on?!
On your last exhale you were at your job. On your next inhale you are somewhere very, very different.
Youâre in a place for kids: A daycare. Maybe a preschool. A giant one. The ceiling is as high as a ballroom. Toys litter the floor and colorful posters with cartoon characters on them encourage you to âbe a good babyâ, âforget your troublesâ, and âobeyâ. In your hand where the bagel was is the biggest teething ring youâve ever laid eyes on.
As for yourself, youâre standing barefoot while wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a soft poofy diaper. Whatâs more, you feel a distinct lump resting in the back of it. You smell it too.
Two giant arms grab you and launch you skyward. You let out a shriek as an incredibly loud voice proclaims. âUpsy daisy!â If you had anything in your bladder before, you certainly donât now.
Youâre pivoted around and draped over the giantâs shoulder. You feel the impossibly large hand pat your padded bottom and squish the diaperâs contents up against you. âSomebody needs a changey!â
You almost call out for help, but when you look out into the pastel colored coliseum all you see are other giants, compared to whom you are a toddler at best, and your coworkers; also dressed in babyish garments and thickly diapered. The only difference between you and them is they all seem to be having a blast while they babble and drool on the floor. Sharon is chewing on a cardboard book and Barry is nursing from a baby bottle!
A few strides later, youâre staring up at the ceiling while the giant is rummaging around for powder and wipes with one hand and pinning you with the other. You must be on a changing table of some sort.
âPlease! No!â You shout as her hands go for the tapes on your diaper.
She stops, her eyebrow arching in curiosity, but not fear. âBeg pardon?â.
âIâm not a baby!â Itâs all you can think to say.
âOkay,â she chirps. âDo you still want out of this messy diaper, sweetie?â
Of course you do! Youâre not even supposed to be wearing one of theseâŠthings! âYes!â
SCRITCH-SCRITCH.
Thatâs enough for her to rip the velcro tabs off and start wiping your privates down. Your protests are drowned out by her cooing while she dusts your bum with sweet smelling powder and slips a fresh diaper beneath you.
âDenise!â the giantess calls while she tapes the infantile undergarment around your waist. âCan I get a fresh bottle? Someone hasnât had their âmorning coffeeâ yet!â
A rubber nipple finds its way to your mouth and your lips begin to automatically suckle, as if by reflex. âThatâs right,â the giant praises. âGood baby. Drink it all up!â She giggles to herself. âDrink it all up and go bye-bye. Youâre not a baby. Youâre an adult. Itâs not baby time! Itâs company time! Thatâs right! Yes it is! Yes it is! Now go do big important business stuff!â
A few involuntary swallows later and the world blinks again.
Youâre sitting at your desk, sipping from a full mug of freshly made coffee. The scream of existential terror rattles out of your throat, but no one seems to mind it over much despite this being a place of business.
âOoof,â you hear Barry say. âSomebodyâs not a morning person. Sounds like the coffee hasnât kicked all the way in.â
âI feel the same way,â Sharon agrees. âI really need to get out of here and find a new job.â
âYup. Now if you excuse me, I got some business to attend to.â
âIn the bathroom?â
âIf you gotta go, go on company time.â
They both laugh. You drink more coffee, hoping it will help you forget and ignore the obvious bulk in your pants.