I love staying with a friend of mine. Nowadays he lives in another town and we don’t see each other as often as we’d like to. But every time we do, it’s exciting and you never know what he’ll come up with. We’ve dressed up on more than one occasion; I’ve been his “damsel in distress”, his slave, and his mistress to name but a few things.
So it came as no real surprise, when he asked me to become a baby; his baby. It was the first night of a week-long stay, and he sat on the floor in front of the fire-place, and I lay on the floor, with my head in his lap.
“Come on,” he said. “It’ll be fun, you’ll see” he said, striking my long, blonde hair, the way only he knows I love. “I’ve already bought the things we’re going to need,” he said.
“You really do want this; don’t you?” I lazily asked, “And you don’t expect me to say ‘no’; do you?”
“Yes”, he confirmed, “I really do want this; and no, I don’t expect you to say ‘no’. For one thing, I know you’re far too inquisitive, and always have been, and for another; you have never refused in the past; so why start now?”
I thought about it for a while, before saying: “OK; for your sake, I’ll do it. But please; if I say ‘stop’, don’t argue?”
“Sure,” he confirmed, “I can do that! Now, come on; I’ve got everything ready the bed-room!”
We got to our feet; he took my hand, and led me to the bedroom. In there was, of course, his bed, but the one I used to use when I visited, had been replaced by a giant-sized crib. Underneath the window stood a table with a thick pad on the top, and on a smaller table beside it were a pile of diapers, thick ones as well as even thicker ones, and plastic pants. On a shelf were clothes of some sort.
“Oh,” I chuckled, “what would have happened, if I’d said ‘no’?”
“Oh,” he answered, “I would have made you one anyway!”
I wasn’t entirely sure he was joking.
He lifted me onto the table, put me on my back, and took off all my clothes, which he put in a plastic bag.
He took an electric hair-trimmer, and trimmed the hair between my legs to about a millimetre, then he took a razor and shaved it all off;” Babies don’t have any hair there; do they?” he said.
He took one of the diapers, lifted my pelvis and put it beneath me. He took the other end, lifted it up, and brought it up between my legs. He then took a pair of plastic pants and put them on me, using the snap-fasteners to hold them in place.
“There; how does that feel?” he asked.
“It feels nice and soft and weird, all at the same time.” I said. “But I suspect those pants will make me pretty warm.”
“I’m sure they will,” he replied. He reached over to the other table again, and got a pair of pink onesies, which he put on me. I noticed these onesies didn’t just have feet, but they also had pouches where my hands would go. I noticed the pouches were designed to make my hands almost completely useless.
He lifted me off the table, but when I tried to stand on my feet, he pushed me onto my knees and very sternly said:
“Babies don’t walk; do they? As long as you are my baby-girl, you will either crawl, or I will carry you, or push you around in a pram. Is that clear?”
“But I’m no baby!” I protested, all of a sudden close to tears.
“You’re wearing a diaper, and an onesie, aren’t you? That makes you a baby in my book! And because you spoke, I will put a dummy in your mouth, so you can’t anymore! Don’t worry, I will take it out again, when I can trust you not to speak!” He did, and strapped it around my head, so I couldn’t spit it out.
He took two elastic bands, divided my hair in two and put the one band around each half, over my ears.
Behind the bed-room door, he had put up a play-pen; now, he lifted me up, carried me over to it and put me down inside. It was filled with toys, many off which being stuffed animals, and strapped a harness on me. It allowed me to move around the pen, but I couldn’t climb out of it. As my hands were trapped in the pouches, I obviously couldn’t unbuckle it.
“Now; you sit there like a good little girl and play quietly with all your fun toys, until I come back with your night-bottle. Then, it is time for bed!”
I shook my head violently, but he just chuckled, and left.
I sat down, and looked around. He was right, of course he was; there was no way for me to climb out of the pen, and, as I already had noticed, the pouches made it impossible for me to take it off.
But I promised myself one thing, if it was a baby he wanted me to be, a baby I would be; only of the more difficult kind. After all, I wasn’t called ‘cry-baby’ when I was younger for nothing!