(This story takes place in the Diaper Dimension. Style: psychological horror. Rating: 4/5 (weird ABDL). CW: forced babying, diaper use (wet and messy), sickness, emotional distress, mental alteration and regression, manipulative behavior.)

Many people have written about this brief moment of bliss we sometimes experience right after waking up. This fragile instant where consciousness awakens, but the brain has yet to reconnect with our memories. For a few seconds, we don’t know who, where, when or even what we are, unable to remember the most basic things about ourselves. We just exist for a while. No amount of meditation or drugs would be able to recreate this purity of mind.

This morning, Miles was fortunate enough to experience this moment of bliss, laying down on his mattress with a blank expression. Sadly, it disappeared just as quickly as it came. Two wires connected somewhere in his brain, lighting a metaphorical spark, and memories came back running, fitting snugly in their designated mental nooks one by one.

He groaned. The blank bliss sounded a lot more appealing than his real life right now.

In the span of an eye blink, he made a quick inventory of the most essential details.

Who? Miles. He used to have a last name, but he didn’t get much use out of it these days.

Where? In Sophie’s apartment, a place he refused to think of as his own. More specifically, in the pastel-colored nursery that had become his de-facto bedroom. Even more specifically, laying in his crib, on the soft flower-patterned mattress, surrounded by wooden bars on all sides. His bed.

When? Oh God, time had lost all meaning ever since his life became a repetition of the same activities on a loop. By his estimation, it must have been something like six months since his “adoption”, give or take a couple of weeks. There was a short time after his adoption that he only remembered as an incoherent blur.

What? A Little. The unfortunate lower class, the smallest beings in a world built for giants. Living under the watchful eyes of Amazons who controlled everything else. At any point, a Little could be swept off their feet and “adopted” by their “benevolent” “superiors” that judged them “immature” and therefore requiring “constant attention”. Yikes, that was a lot of quotation marks in a single memory! Miles was a cynical dude.

And there you have it. Miles, now perfectly awake, had been brought down to reality. A reality where he had no agency ever since Sophie, an Amazon librarian who liked pink sweaters and collected romance novels, had decided that he was too immature to take care of himself. She used the flimsiest of excuses to accuse him, brought him to his apartment, and from that point onwards his life had been nothing but a whirlwind of diapers, milk bottles, wooden toys and dumb television programs. There was no point in fighting it. As much as he dreamed of being a free man again, the entire universe was stacked against him.

And so every morning, lil’ Miles, dressed in his stupid pajamas and sucking his stupid pacifier, would wake up in his stupid crib with a stupid wet diaper between his legs, and wait for his stupid “Mommy” to come and start the stupid program of the day. Like clockwork. Every day was exactly the same in his own little babyish purgatory.

Well, maybe not this morning.

As he laid down on his bed, still checking out mentally if all parts of his body were accounted for, something felt… off.

It was hard to describe. It wasn’t the usual grogginess of waking up that could be dispelled with a good stretch and a coffee - eugh, he missed coffee so much. No, it was like something didn’t kick off the proper way. An uneasiness that spread over his entire body, not painful, barely uncomfortable. An odd feeling of not being quite “there”.

Miles blinked slowly, trying to understand the situation. Did he do something wrong? Was he waking up from a bad dream that had left him shaken - like the many nightmares related to his kidnapping, sorry, “adoption”? No… no, it wasn’t that. It felt more physical than a bad dream.

At this very instant, a pernicious little thought sprung to his mind, emerging from the shadows like a sinister jack-in-the-box.

Am I sick?

Oh, the effect these three innocent words had on him. It was like a slap in the face. Or the feeling of dread you felt when an Amazon started to call you “honey”.

His pupils widened, his throat felt tighter, his heart jump-started into a quicker rhythm. It wasn’t panic, but the acknowledgement that something was wrong and needed all of his attention. Somewhere in his brain, the fight-or-flight switch had been turned on. But he didn’t know if he needed to fight or flee yet.

Miles took a deep breath and raised himself up into a sitting position. Under the blue-and-white striped pajamas that covered him from neck to toes, he heard a wet sound coming from his midsection. The telltale sign of a night diaper thoroughly filled during his sleep, squishing around his butt as his new position put more pressure on the soaked padding.

Eugh. He was still getting used to that. From the very moment of his adoption, Sophie (“Mommy”) had forced him to wear thick absorbent underwear, fastened with Amazon-strength tapes that were all but impossible for him to remove. It was the hallmark of adopted Littles, the most basic of babyish accessories they were forced to deal with. The one he was wearing right now was adorned by pastel-colored koala bears. He hated it. But he had no way to avoid it. The potty - sorry, the bathroom was out of limits forever, and he could only hold on for so long until the inevitable needed to happen. He used to wait until bath time to relieve himself outside of the padding, but “Mommy” had caught on his little trick by now.

So, over the past six months, between Sophie's encouragement and the lack of alternatives, his potty control had steadily declined. It went from voluntarily relieving himself, to feeling like he had to go real soon, to the tinkling beginning without his consent. He wasn’t fully incontinent yet, but he was getting there. His overnight control was even worse, and he had woken up wet every night for several weeks straight now. Resulting in even bulkier diapers to wear in bed.

But while it was an unpleasant sensation around his crotch and a dread reminder of his situation, that wasn’t important right now. He pushed that thought away to focus on the most pressing one.

What’s going on with me?

For the second time in so many minutes, Miles took a mental inventory of his being. This time, looking for symptoms.

Am I feeling hot? Hot means fever. I know that. Am I hot right now?

Miles closed his eyes, trying to feel himself in contrast to the atmosphere around him. And he found that, indeed, he felt a bit hot.

Shoot!

But there might be other explanations. He was wearing one of those stretchy skin-tight footed pajamas that Amazons liked so much for their Littles, and those were pretty cozy for any season. Maybe he was just overheating because of that?

Or maybe it was because he just woke up, as he had read somewhere that your temperature rose sharply right before awakening?

No, that’s stupid, you’d feel like that every morning if that was true. This is different.

Instinctively, he lifted a hand to touch his forehead, to gauge the surface temperature. But fingers didn’t make contact with his skin, as something padded and soft bounced off his face.

Oh, heck! Those stupid mittens!

Mommy put his hands in thick mittens every night, to make sure he couldn’t do anything “naughty” - whatever that meant - during sleepy times. To be fair, he was wearing them most of the day as well. The privilege of grabbing things with his own fingers was a rare delight these days, except maybe when she bathed him.

Still, right now, the mittens were preventing him from touching his own forehead. Which, in his already restless state of mind, quickly elevated from “annoyance” to “unacceptable”.

And Miles still felt hot. Hotter, even, now that he was getting riled up.

He looked back at the mitten adorning his left hand. He knew there was a defect in the closing mechanism, and he had used this before to sneak some items around when Mommy wasn’t looking. He could slip out of it, free his hand, and get some skin-to-skin contact. But he would need to use his teeth to pry the buckle open, an option that was unavailable as his nightly pacifier was still firmly stuck into place. It was one of those models with a strap that went behind his head and opened only with a magnet. No dice. He was stuck with that stupid rubber bulb until breakfast.

But he was restless. He tried to rub the mitten against the shield guard of his pacifier, hoping the edges of the buckle would catch on and unlock the mechanism. He rubbed and scratched as much as he could, to no avail. Frustrated, he moved towards the side of his crib and tried to get the lock open by striking it repeatedly against the wooden bars.

Come on come on coooooome oooooooonnnn, open! Stupid baby gloves!

Miles could feel something was jiggling, but not enough to flip open. He raised himself on his knees to gain some height. Standing up was out of the question - the pajamas were designed to be too tight around the legs and force Littles to stay on all fours. But he could just about reach the top of the bars, where there was a more pronounced edge, and began to rub the wrist buckle on the edge, trying to pry it open.

It took him several tries, each more desperate than the last, before the lock finally gave way. His left hand was now free! Even if he gave himself a bruise, that was worth it. As he fell back in a sitting position with a squish from his padding, he lifted the hand to his forehead.

It was, undoubtedly, warmer than it should.

His heart skipped a beat. Inside his head, half his brain was beginning to panic while the other was searching for explanations.

Hold on, that’s not a fever. Maybe my hand is warm because it was balled shut in a padded mitten all night! That makes sense, right?

Following this train of thought, Miles spent several minutes shaking his hand in the fresh air of the room, trying to cool it down. So much so that it was numb by the time he stopped and promptly put it to his forehead again.

Warm. Hot, even.

Shoot! It’s hot! I’m stupid hot! I have a fever! Wait, is that hot enough to be a fever? Maybe it’s not? Oh, but what if it is? I must be sick for sure!

[Unfortunately, Miles once fell incredibly sick during the hottest Summer days of the year. His mind lost the ability to differentiate between “feeling hot” and “having a fever” then and there, as both symptoms were happening at the same time. He was never able to regain that knowledge, and his mind was now hardwired to believe every time he felt slightly hotter than usual, that meant he had a fever.]

He put his hand back once, twice, three times. Oh, what he would have given for a thermometer right now! Something to put an actual number on what was feeling. He used to have one in his bag before the adoption. If he felt hot, he could check if he had a fever or if he currently held a perfectly healthy temperature. A quick ritual to help him calm down.

Today, he would even have accepted one of those stupid babyish ones that get a read from inside your ear, as much as he detested them. But he didn’t have anything like that handy. And so, the thought of him being hotter than he should kept bouncing in his head.

It was only now that Miles noticed he was breathing short, shallow breaths. The stress of the situation was getting him all worked up.

Of course, that’s not what his mind believed. It jumped to a completely different conclusion:

Why am I short of breath? Shoot, something is happening to my lungs! I’m running out of air!

His heart pumped faster. And, even worse, since he was now aware of his breathing, it stopped working on its own. Miles had to “manually” take long breaths, in and out, like his body had forgotten how to do it. The fact that they were slow and controlled now made it even more obvious that there was something wrong before. It only made sense.

[Of course, he never breathed that slow or that deeply when he was doing it without thinking. His natural rhythm was faster, as his body never felt the need to fill his lungs entirely with each breath. But because he had never paid attention to it before, his only points of comparison were now, and a minute ago. And now felt “wrong”.]

Miles kept breathing in and out as the thought of his lungs being infected ran around in circles in his panicked mind. But a shining ray of hope pierced his confused thoughts:

Wait! I know! Measure it, stupid! It’s the only way!

He had once read a method to measure his breath online, and the method had stuck with him ever since. He had to fill his lungs as much as he could, then count quickly as he expelled the air out. If he couldn’t count further than 30, that meant he had to seek medical attention because his oxygen capacity was too low. Miles had never gone that low, and was usually hovering over 80, even 90 on a good day. This would be the proof that his lungs were fine - or not.

First, empty up your lungs. Deep breath in, deep breath out. A second time, this time a bit more, to flex those lungs before the big one. In, and out. Then one big intake, as far as you could, fill the two wind bags inside to the limit, hold for a second…

… and start counting.

One-two-thwee-fouw-five-thix-theven-eight-nine-ten-eweven-twelve-thurteen-fowteen-fifteen-thixteen-theventeen…

Shoot, this pacifier is getting in the way, I can’t articulate words properly. Will that influence my score? It can’t be on a par with my usual count, right?

…thiwtytwo-thiwtythwee-thiwtyfouw-thiwtyfive-thiwtythix-thiwtytheven…

He could literally feel his lungs deflate as he counted down. He knew the motions. By the time he usually reached 50, he would feel like his lungs were almost empty and were starting to cave in. That’s normal. His lungs contained a lot more air than he was willing to give them credit for.

But this time, it happened around 40. Hmm. Curious.

…thixtyeight-thixtynine-theventy-theventyone-theventytwo-theventhree-theventyfouw-theventyfiiiiiiive…

He gasped for air. That’s as far as he could go. Seventy-five. And immediately, his brain screamed bloody murder at him.

75? That’s much lower than 90! Oh heck, what is happening to me? It’s an infection! My lungs are collapsing! I need air, more air, I’m gonna faint!

[It didn’t occur to Miles that 75 was still vastly over 30. That maybe he couldn’t reach the same heights as he had gotten in a calm, restful environment, because he was currently stressed out of his mind. 75 was lower than 90, that’s all he noticed.]

Now in full panic mode, Miles was pacing back and forth in his crib, running on all fours like he was hooked up on stimulants. His mind was frantically reviewing all the horrible diseases he had read about, back when could still access the Internet. It’s awful how many illnesses begin like a simple flu. A shortness of breath, a little bit of fever, nothing to worry about, right? And then boom! You’re fighting for your life against some exotic virus!

His left hand shot up to his forehead again and again. Still warm. Warmer, maybe? Then he pressed two fingers against his carotid and counted his heartbeat. The measure was imprecise, but the beats were definitely faster than they should have been. He was now convinced that those were symptoms of something dangerous, and potentially fatal.

In an attempt to find a way out of running in circles, his mind was starting to look for other discrepancies everywhere.

Am I feeling something in my throat? It’s raspy, isn’t it? It feels a bit raspy. Maybe I have a sore throat. Sore throats are signs of pulmonary infections, right? Or was it allergies? I don’t have allergies, so it must be the infection. Or I’m thirsty? No, my saliva should be enough. Definitely a sore throat. Yeah it hurts when I swallow. Shoot!

Why do I feel so stiff? My knees hurt. My whole body hurts. I feel constrained. Is that the stupid tight pajama? No, it’s in my muscles. That means I have body aches. You get body aches when you get the flu. Is it the flu? Maybe it’s worse? It must be worse!

Oh heck, my heart is pounding so fast…

A new, sudden sensation interrupted his rambling train of thoughts. Miles felt a gurgle in his gut, like bubbles of gas traveling downwards. As strange as it may sound, he was somewhat relieved. Now, this? This was a sensation he knew about.

As sad as it was to admit it, he had become intimately familiar with the whole digestive process. You kind of have to, when you’re reduced to an infant state with your own toilet taped around your waist. You learn to recognize when your bladder is getting full or when a bowel movement is nearing. You start to count the hours after drinking a milk bottle, knowing that Nature’s call will be coming sooner or later.

While his bladder had all but given up, Miles had staunchly refused to let his bowel control go. He would poop only when he wanted to, and always as a deliberate act, not a reflexive one. It wasn’t much, but it was the only sliver of pride he had left and he intended to keep it that way!

It was the morning, after all, and with morning came morning poops. It usually waited until after he ate his breakfast, but it wasn’t unusual for his bowels to make themselves known right after waking up. Better be done with it right now rather than endure an uncomfortable sensation of fullness.

He shifted into a more comfortable position on all fours, his head high and bottom low, and with confidence, pushed.

However, the results were not what he had expected. His bowel movements weren’t usually so liquid.

The back of his extra-puffy-koala-patterned-night-time-diapers was assaulted by a literal wave of muck, which came out of his body with the force of a geyser. And once it began, it didn’t stop, no matter how much Miles tried to close the gates. In only a few seconds, the deed was done, and the padding went to work absorbing as much as it could to keep his little buttocks dry.

Miles, however, was livid. He had soft stools before, a logical consequence of his mostly liquid and mushy diet. But it wasn’t like that. What could have happened there?

[Maybe he didn’t digest something properly? Sophie had tried another brand of mushy Little food yesterday, a sugar-free one, his stomach probably didn’t agree with it.]

He was paralyzed. He didn’t dare move a muscle as he felt a few more drops escape him in irregular bursts. He felt grosser than he had been in a long time, and that’s counting all the regular-shaped poops he had dropped in his diapers before.

Oh no no no no no what the heck, why am I shi- shooting liquid now? Is that a symptom? It must be! A stomach bug? Or is it food poisoning? Where’s my appendix, does my appendix hurt? Shoot, what sickness starts with soft stools? All of them?!

When it appeared that his lower body was done with its business, he very carefully sat on his cushioned bottom, feeling the disgusting squelch spread under his bottom. But there was no place left in his mind for that. It was now going into full panic mode, and Miles pressed his hands on both sides of his head, trying to make the thoughts stop.

If I’m sick I’m going to go to the doctor or maybe the hospital, yes it’s going to be the hospital, and they’re going to find it’s terminal, and they’re going to put me on a machine to keep me alive, and then Mommy will no longer want me because nobody wants a sick Little, and then they’re going to put me in the room with the other sick Littles and I’ll get more sick and I’ll be alone and I don’t want to die please please I don’t want to die why did I wake up why didn’t I die in my sleep I’m scared please Mommy please come help me don’t make me go to the doctor I don’t wanna go I don’t want to die why is this happening to me I will die Mommy is gonna abandon me I’m sick I’m sick I’m sick I’m sick please someone help me please I don’t want to die…

Tears were rolling down his cheeks. He was sobbing. His own little world crumbled around him. There was nothing but darkness and certain death at the end of the line. And he was alone. Nobody would save him. Mommy had already abandoned him, for sure, that’s why she wasn’t coming through the door right no-

“Wakey-waaaakiiiiiiiiie, my little sunshine, it’s time to wake up!”

The lights on the ceiling suddenly turned on and Sophie entered the room, beaming like the rising Sun, wearing her usual pink bathrobe and slippers. Right at this moment, the Amazon looked like a goddess, descending upon the world in a glow of heavenly light.

Her wide smile turned into a shocked, then worried expression as she noticed Miles, sitting in his crib, his face covered in tears and inelegant snot, an air of absolute despair in his eyes.

“Oh, my sweetie-bum, what’s going on?” she cried out as she reached the crib in two steps, bending down and hoisting her baby up by the armpits in one sweeping movement. “Did you have a bad dream, my love?”

Miles tried to answer, but the lump in his throat, the pacifier still firmly locked in his mouth and his current mental state conspired to make talking really hard. He began a wailing moan that got interrupted by a glob of snot, tried to spit it out, sputtered and coughed behind his pacifier, and was all around an incomprehensible mess.

Sophie didn’t wait, however, and lifted the Little above her head like he weighed less than a teddy bear, her eyes focused on the bulge between his legs. Even beneath the elastic fabric of his footed pajamas, she recognized the telltale sag of a very full diaper. A single sniff confirmed her suspicions, and her face softened up considerably.

“Aawww, did my wubsy-bubsy have a biiiig accident in his diapie-wipies?” she cooed, beaming a reassuring smile once again. Miles tried to tell that this wasn’t the problem, but all he managed was to shake his head in denial while mewling “Nuh, nuh!”.

“That’s alright, sunshine, you’re only a little baby after all!” she continued. “Mommy puts you in diapies so you don’t have to worry about making a stinky!”

She brought him down and rested him on her chest, his head draped over her shoulder. She grabbed his bottom with her free hand, and the gross squishy crinkle it produced as she did made her wince. “Oooh golly, yeah, that’s a full diapie you made there for Mommy. I think I need to change you before breakfast this time, don’t you agree, snuggly-bum?”

Miles was too busy wiping his tears on the soft fabric of her bathrobe to answer. Just as swiftly as she had entered the room, she whisked him away to the changing table on the other side of his nursery and laid him down on the soft, rubbery changing mat.

Sophie noticed one of her baby’s hands was free of its padded glove. “Hum, when did you get that one off?” she wondered out loud. “I should probably check if they’re not defective…”

Oh no no no, not that! Let me keep the bad mittens, Mommy, please, it’s all I have left!

This just added to the pile of misery Miles was experiencing today, and the tears redoubled in intensity. He was a mess, completely out of control. But he had to admit to himself that the arrival of Mommy made things feel a little better, if only for a moment. The spiral of panic had been replaced by the more predictable ebb and flow of embarrassment.

The buttons peppering the inseam of his pajama’s legs popped open one by one, and Sophie slipped the garment off as easily as she would have peeled a banana. Right as she pulled a safety belt from the side of the changing table to fasten it over his chest, Miles realized how cold the room felt, and how the footed pajamas had kept him warm. This did nothing to reassure him - after all, if he had a fever, the whole room must feel cold by comparison, it only made sense.

He wished he could have hidden his face in shame as Mommy ripped open his nightly diaper with disconcerting ease, and saw the grimace she made when she discovered what happened inside. “Pheeee-ewwww!” she said with affectation. “It’s a good thing Mommy only gives you the best diapie-wipies for your little tushie. This is quite the explosion you made down there, pumpkin…”

The rest of the change was just going through the motions. Miles shivered several times - from the fresh air, from embarrassment, and maybe from the cold wipes she was liberally applying to his tush - and each shiver confirmed his worst fears.

Fevers makes you shiver. I’m cold but I’m hot inside, both at once. Shoot, that fever must be so much worse than I thought!

If only he didn’t have this stupid pacifier, he would tell her that all was wrong, that he needed a cold bath, chicken soup, every single medicine in her cabinet, and probably an ambulance. But nothing but muffled whimpers came out, which Mommy quickly brushed away. “Now now, don’t be impatient, I’m almost done sweetheart. Just a little more powder and then you’ll be as snug as a bug in a rug!”

She wasn’t paying attention to his distressed moans. For her, it was just a diaper change like the hundreds that came before, just slightly messier than usual.

Mommy! What kind of mother are you?! Listen to me! I’m sick, I’m feverish, I’m going to throw up soon! Stop with the powder and pay attention to me!

Yet the diaper change continued until his butt had been taped in an extra-thick SwaddleBuns - she loved the little bunny motifs on that one. Mommy gave him a couple of playful pats as she declared “All done!”, before unfastening the belt and cradling him back up against her chest. From the looks of it, Miles was about to spend some time wearing nothing but the diaper she just fastened him in.

“I think my wuffikins must be hungry after emptying his little belly like that!” she hollered to an imaginary audience. The giant Amazon and the regular-sized Little waltzed to the kitchen, shifting with imminent purpose as she bounced her Little in her arms. The Little in question had no say in the matter. “Autonomy” and “dignity” were two words he was trying to forget, since he had been robbed of both.

And just like that, after only a minute of walking around, Mommy plopped him on a high chair - his high chair, it’s not like anyone else in the house was using it. As she pressed the magnetic lock behind his head to release the pacifier belt from its tight grip, she chimed: “How about some oatmeal? My teenie-babie needs to get some solids back in his little tummy, don’t you agree?”

But Miles did not want oatmeal, and now that he could finally talk, he voiced his dissatisfaction. “NUH!” he cried out, before being overtaken by a coughing fit. These were the first words he was able to utter since he had awaken, and his throat was still full of tears and phlegm. Sophie turned on her heels, her hand hovering over the maxi-sized box of oatmeal. “No?” she repeated. “What do you want for breakfast, then, cutie pie?”

Not the oatmeal! Mommy, I’m sick, you need to listen! I need your help, I need, I need…

The arguments were fusing in his head, but his throat was too tight, and too rough, and too incapable to put his panicked thoughts into words. He had to find another way to express his wishes. Miles began to look around for something that she would understand. He knew it must be somewhere! When he found it, it was casually resting on top of the coffee machine, and he immediately pointed at it with all of his might. “Dis! Dis one! I wanna dis one!”

Mommy turned to look at what he was pointing at. A large baby bottle, fit for a whole Little meal. But it wasn’t just any bottle. It was the bottle with a dark blue ring and stars on the side, coiffed with a pristine light blue rubber nipple. It was the bottle she used exclusively to deliver him medicine, the one she washed meticulously between each feeding.

“This one, fluffykins?” she repeated, incredulous. “But that’s only for when my little baby is sick. You aren’t sick now, aren’t you, honeypuff?”

Yes! Yes! You finally got it! I want the medicine! I want you to do the thing that helps! Please understand me, Mommy, please please please…

Miles was literally bouncing in his chair in excitement, pointing even harder at the bottle. “Yuh! Yuh! Dis one! Yuh! Imma wanna! Pwease!”

[It’s a shame Miles didn’t realize how much his elocution had degraded. Maybe because he was still eloquent when he talked to himself, but to the outside world, he was barely above toddler-level vocalizations, these days.]

Mommy furrowed her eyebrows, like she was suspicious of his intentions. “My my my… You really want that one?” Miles nodded in affirmation. The message was taking its sweet time to reach her, but she was moving in the right direction now.

Sophie’s brows were still pretty furrowed as she reached for an item in one of the cabinets. The Little instantly recognized it: the dreaded ear-thermometer that he hated so much. She was about to take his temperature! He was so relieved that he would even accept the humiliatingly babyish process without fussing. Anything, if it meant that she finally understood the gravity of the situation!

Mommy approached the tip of the thermometer to Mile’s left ear, gently holding his head in place with her other hand. There was a flash of light, and after a second, the instrument beeped loudly. She looked at the screen with great concern. Her expression was puzzling as she emitted a mysterious “Hmmm”.

What? What is it? Is it fever? Do I have a fever? You have to tell me if I have a fever! Mommy! Tell me!

Miles was boiling inside, and his eyes were ready to open the floodgates once again if he didn’t get an answer. He wanted to know what was going on! Right! Now!

After a moment, Mommy simply said: “Well, we can never be too sure. Mommy is going to make you a special breakfast, snugglepuss!”

If he hadn’t been stuck in a high chair, Miles would have jumped up in sheer excitement.

The next couple of minutes were agonizingly long for him, as Mommy filled the medicinal bottle with fresh milk from the fridge, leaving a little empty space on top, then locked it on the bottle warmer. As the liquid was slowly heating up, she went into the kitchen’s smallest cabinet and grabbed a tupperware filled with mysterious items. Miles tried to crane his neck to see what she was doing, but she had turned her back to him as she rummaged through the plastic container.

When the bottle was warmed up, and right as the appliance produced a “ding!”, Mommy turned back, holding in her hand several paper packets. Singing a little tune to herself, she grabbed the bottle and twisted it open, every move spied upon by the expecting Little.

“Right then!” she declared as she expressively placed the bottle on the big kitchen table. “Mommy is going to cook her famous Magic Baba for my precious little sick bean! And then all your little boo-boos will go away. Will you do it with me, kitten?”

Miles clapped his hands with enthusiasm. It’s not like he was actively doing anything, but the way she made him feel included was doing wonders for his mood.

“First, we need some Babyzol,” she declared doctly as she ripped one of the packages open, “to make sure baby doesn’t get some head ouchies today!” She doused the contents of the packet, an indistinct white powder, into the open bottle. Miles was almost disappointed. It didn’t look impressive at all.

I don’t have a headache… Oh no, what does she know that I don’t? Maybe I do have a migraine after all, I can feel it begin right now…

“Then, we add a touch of Ouchieplon,” continued Mommy as she ripped open a smaller paper pack, emptying its blue powder inside the bottle. “This one is to make all your little tum-tums problems go away!” she added as she rubbed her own tummy in circles. There was a whole pantomime associated with this magical remedy, and Miles was eating every second of it.

“A healthy dose of Babadin, to make the nasty fever go away!” A cloud of purple dust was added to the mix. “And a pinch of Vitamin Omegamazon, so you can be strong like Mommy and kick every disease in the butt!” Miles giggled at the mention of butts.

Yes, you got it, you got it! My fever will drop and everything will be fine! And the vitamins will protect me. More! More! Add more stuff to my baba, please Mommy!

“And for the final ingredient…” she said as she lifted the bottle up to her face. With affectation, she gave the bottle a big kiss, making sure it smacked as loudly as possible against the plastic. “Mwah! A magic kiss from Mommy that can heal everything!”

The Little in his chair was getting restless. This was the best part. It made no sense, but seeing her adding her “secret ingredient” made his mind light up in a good way. For a fleeting moment, excitement had replaced his worries and he forgot that he was supposed to be sick. He was just excited to see everything falling into place.

Mommy screwed the rubber nipple tight on the bottle, lifted the bottle in front of Miles’s face and turned it upside-down. And as she did, the various powders mixed in with the warm milk in the most enchanting way. The liquid became blue, then purple, diluting into cloudy swirls as Mommy shook the bottle up and down. Tiny particles of glitter shimmered in the mix, giving the bottle a true air of magical potion. It was a spectacle that Miles would never get tired of.

“Whoop! Mommy’s magic bottle is ready! Now open-up, baby boo…”

She didn’t have to tell him twice. With eagerness, Miles latched on the nipple and began to suckle the liquid within. It tasted like milk, and sugar, and something else hiding behind these two flavors; it was warm and delicious, and it was all that he needed.

The voices that had been screaming in panic inside his head got quieter. One by one, the worries that had plagued him since he had woken up were fading away. The fever was still here, but as he was almost naked in the kitchen, it didn’t bother him as much. And the bottle would get rid of that in a few minutes anyway. His tummy was still upset, but he was sure that the blue medicine would take care of that, and no more waves of muck would interrupt his day. His muscles might be sore, but they will relax soon. The Magic Bottle would make sure of it.

His fears melted like hot butter, not because the bottle cured him instantly, but because he knew that he had finally taken some medicine, and it could only get better from now on. His problems were attended to. His sickness will recede. He would not have to get to a hospital and be separated from Mommy. He could finally breathe again. He could stop worrying.

The two of them enjoyed this sensation of relief, tuned to the beat of the wet sucking sounds the bottle produced with every gulp. Mommy was smiling mysteriously, like a cat who knew more than she let on. Miles' eyes closed by themselves as he savored the delicious, milky medicine.

And for a brief moment, Miles forgot who, where, when and even what he was, and he experienced bliss.

[The scene would have been different if Miles knew that the bottle didn’t contain an ounce of medicine.

Sure, it was a bottle of “enriched” milk destined for Littles, and those always contained a little something to keep them regular. But outside of the light laxative, there was nothing special in this concoction. No Babyzol, no Ouchieplon, no Babadin, no Vitamin Omegamazon. None of these were even real names!

It contained milk, sugar, and colored powders that sparkled when shaken. Nothing more, nothing less. Simply put: a placebo bottle.

Sophie knew how to put on the show when she mixed the powders, proclaiming their virtues like a snake oil salesman. Some of the powders even had a chemical aftertaste, so the liquid would taste slightly odd; it was all part of the illusion. But there was nothing in this bottle that she wouldn’t drink herself.

Of course, Miles never needed medicine in the first place. He wasn’t sick. It was all in his head, and it had always been.

Sophie had set her eyes on Miles months before she took him in permanently. She had noticed how many medical vulgarization books he had checked out of her library. How his bag was always filled with various over-the-counter medicine that he consumed liberally. How he kept a thermometer in his pocket so he could sneak a check whenever he felt uncomfortable. She even learned to notice the quiet beeps when he did so, and to recognize his sigh of relief that always came afterwards.

She knew he was fragile. It’s probably what pushed her to finally take action when she realized how toxic this little habit of his was. Clearly, this Little couldn’t take care of himself properly. She would have to do it for him. It made sense for an Amazon to think like this. It was only logical.

But she never told him that she knew about his condition. She let the lies he told himself run wild under his scalp, and used them to her advantage.

Every couple of weeks, it was the same song and dance routine between the two. Miles would get into his head that he was sick, really sick, cross my heart Mommy, you have to believe me, it’s real this time. She would play along. Mixing his “medicine” bottles, faking calls to the doctor, wrapping him in warm blankets and telling him that she would take care of everything. And he believed it, sincerely, as much as he sincerely believed he was sick in the first place. Every time this happened, Miles grew a little closer to her.

Other Amazons used to tell her about all the things they had to do to keep their Littles on a leash. The reeducation, the hypnosis tapes, the punishments, the weird regressive gizmos. Sophie never wanted to use them. Sure, she did a little bit of reconditioning in the beginning, so the most foul curses he could think of would be “stupid”, “shoot” and “heck”. And she might have thrown some potty-untraining suggestions in there. But other than that, she never needed any of those barbaric methods to keep Miles under control.

She was the savior, the mother who could kiss all of his boo-boos goodbye, the one that would never let him fight alone. She was an island of calm in a sea of chaos. Outside was dangerous, outside was sickness. She was safety and health.

After all, why build a cage around your Little if you teach them to fear the open door?]