BLUUUUUUUUUUUUURT!
My body was betraying me; verbally signalling to the entire room what it was doing. I opened my mouth to scream, nothing more than a pathetic, high pitched wail came out as the back of my pants became stained and my own feces started coating my legs. Overtaxed with shock and surprise, my bladder gave out too. If the smell and the sound didn’t give it away, the growing wet patch on my crotch sealed the deal.
Amazonian hands scooped me up under the armpits and placed me on the meeting table. Just as quickly, all the others scooped up their papers and backed away from me as if I was a leper. I heard Bankhead say, “We can wipe down the table later. Easier than cleaning carpet.”
“Why don’t we get him out of here?” Skinner asked. “Clean up the walkway instead?” I knew why. They didn’t want to chance for even an instant that I might escape.
I could see it in their eyes. I was a Little who’d just had an accident. I needed to be punished. I needed to be diapered. I needed to be coddled and primped and conditioned. There was also a look of pity in their eyes.
Pity.
Sympathy.
But not empathy.
I wasn’t an adult any longer. Not to them. I wasn’t even a person. Just a doll.
My knees buckled as my body let loose one last report. I bent over and buried my hands in my face, even as a putrid puddle formed beneath me; tears and pee and diarrhea all mixing together.
Kill me. Kill me. I just wanted to die right then; but I lacked whatever manic and cruel cunning that some people become possessed of to self-harm.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to reschedule,” Sosa said. I could hear the door opening and footsteps getting farther away as people exited the meeting room.
“Hello? Front office?” It was Bankhead on the phone. “We have an emergency! It’s Gibson! Get the nurse!”
I just started wailing. No more words. Not just then. No more sight either. I closed my eyes and let my body be wracked with sobs.
I don’t know how much time passed between that phone call, and when the door next opened. I don’t even remember if Bankhead stayed in the room with me or if she just leaned against the door in case I got any ideas of escape.
Time had lost meaning for me. No more time. Out of time. Game over.
Hope you had a nice life, Clark. Hoped all that flirting with disaster and high minded ideals of teaching Amazons a better way was worth it. Because it’s over now.
I heard the slight squeal and whine of hinges in need of oiling as the door to the meeting room opened back up. I didn’t bother to unbury my face. Fuck the nurse. Fuck that bitch. I might’ve been crying just then but I wouldn’t let her see it. I’d stay in my tight little ball, lying in my pool of piss and shit and spit and tears. I’d make her pry me open from my little self created cocoon. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
Even if she spanked me I wouldn’t give in. I’d cry and scream, sure. But I’d be cursing with every breath as long as I was coherent enough to actually make words.
I felt her hand on my back. It was gentler than I imagined it would be. She didn’t rip at my clothes. She didn’t try and manhandle me or pick me up just then. The nurse just rubbed my back as I shuddered.
“Oh, Clark.” She sounded sad. Very sad. “I’m so sorry, baby.” She also didn’t sound anything like the school nurse.
Snot dripping onto my mustache, I unburied my face, sat up on my knees, and looked over at my shoulder. “Beouf?”
Even through her glasses I could see her eyes starting to shimmer. She was wearing rubber gloves and a matching apron. Slung over her shoulder was a plain khaki colored satchel bag. I could see the changing pad poking out of it. “Hey, hon.”
Time stopped again. I started bawling again. I re-buried my face and was shrieking and crying and making so much noise; none of it actually words in any known language. Beouf, damn her, just stood there and gently patted me on the back. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay, sugar.”
It wasn’t. Nothing was going to be okay ever again. I kept crying. I don’t know if her being there made things worse or whether I kept bawling in some sort of infantile attempt to delay the inevitable. Both maybe?
“Clark?” she said. She was still rubbing my back. “Clark? Can you hear me?”
I didn’t respond. But in all of my screaming and self-pity I had already exhausted myself. Beouf didn’t have to talk over me. She just had to wait me out.
“I know you’re having a bad day, sweetie,” she said. “But Mrs. B. has to clean you up.” Fuck. She was referring to herself in the third person, now. Et-tu Beouf? I remained silent. “I’m gonna clean you up, okay?”
I could feel her jostling my loafers off my heels. “Tracy!” I yelped.
My shoes were off my feet. I heard the rustle of a garbage bag as they went in. “What about Tracy?”
I got back on my knees as my socks were stripped off my feet. “I want Tracy!” I said. “Please! Let me talk to Tracy!”
“Turn around, first.” For the second time that day, two Amazonian hands manhandled me. This time I was spun around and sat on my feet, just to the right of the murky puddle I’d been sitting in. “Now what about Tracy?”
“Tracy,” I said. “I need to talk to Tracy. Now.”
Beouf shook her head. “Sorry, Clark. Tracy’s busy right now. Maybe after school.”
My hands shot down to block hers going for my belt buckle. I looked at her. That misty eyed sadness was gone. Beouf was all business now, and she was in the business of regressing Littles.
“No,” I said. “Don’t. Please, Melony. Please. Just don’t.” I almost never called her by her first name. Foolishly, I thought it might strike a chord in her.
“Do you want to take your pants off yourself?” Her voice was even and patient, and even a little less deep than how she normally talked. Like she was a calm and rational adult trying to calm a child.
It had the opposite effect on me. “No!” I said. “No, I don’t!”
“Then I’m going to have to take them off.”
“No!” I repeated myself. “No! No! No!” I suppose I could have made a more articulate argument, but it’s very hard to be well spoken on the worst day of your life; especially when you feel that any argument you make will fall on deaf ears. I folded my hands over my belt buckle, imagining that it would make some kind of impenetrable shield; an unlockable gate. A lie, to be sure, but a lie that made me feel better.
Lightning quick, Beouf’s hands went for my collar, ripping open and popping off the buttons of my good shirt.
“NO!” I screamed. Reflexively my hands bolted upward in some vain attempt to slap at her wrists.
I”d fallen for it. As soon as my hands were above my waist, Beouf lowered hers, unbuckled my belt and unceremoniously yanked my pants down to my ankles. “There,” she said. “Now step out.”
I stood there gawking, using my hands to try and mask my manhood. My whole skin turned pink.
Beouf wasted no time, forcing me to step out of my own pants. With rubber gloves on, she forced one foot out, then the other. I almost fell over trying to keep my balance. The pants, along with my wallet, phone, and keys inside them went into the thin clear garbage bag provided by the custodians. “You don’t need to be embarrassed, Clark,” she said. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”
For those of you who are reading this in the comfort of your own homes; I know that there will be more than a fair share of armchair quarterbacks talking on MistuhGwiffin.web on what I could have or should have done. I should have played it safer. I should have fought harder. I should have kicked Beouf in the teeth. That I must be a Little Helper or have gone full native by this point and wanted to have my clothes and my very essence literally stripped away from me.
To those brave Littles reading this, I say: Talk and action are two very different things. And it’s a lot harder kicking an Amazon in the face when you’ve shared coffee with that face for over a decade.
That’s the thing they never tell you on MistuhGwiffin.web. It’s always some random Amazon that ends up diapering and adopting you. Never anyone you know. There’s no emotion besides terror in those encounters. Maybe that’s why so many Littles distance themselves from anyone but other Littles and maybe a few Tweeners. Because Beouf treating me this way hurt me more and felt like a greater betrayal than any of the other close calls I’ve ever had.
It felt like there was a great weight on my face, like there were fish hooks tied to anvils at the corners of my mouth just dragging them down. “I guess you haven’t…” I relaxed my shoulders and forsook my modesty long enough to slip off the remnants of my shirt. There was a weight pulling down on that shirt too. A weight that was pulling down on all of me; on my everything.
I knew in that moment that I would never smile again. My life would be one long, exhausted, empty frown.
“Good boy.” She maneuvered the changing mat behind me and laid me down. “This will make it easier to clean you up.”
I didn’t reply. There was nothing I could say. ‘Lawyer’, wouldn’t work. ‘Tracy’ wasn’t getting me what I wanted. What else was I supposed to say? ‘Union’? Beouf was my representative! She was the Union at Oakshire Elementary!
She started at my legs and ankles. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Clark. You’re not in trouble, hon.” Had I the energy I would have rolled my eyes. Beouf was half right. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I was in the greatest trouble in my life.