A Caring Place (Co-Written by PervScenes11)

[milky_mike]

Count me in as another upvote.  Well written, and hitting all the right notes and themes.  You two make a good team, can't wait for the rest of the story, and hopefully more down the line.

[cutebutt]

Your wonderful story just keeps gets better and better. I especially liked the scene were Nurse Linda breastfed the little one. There is nothing more embarrassing or humiliating to a teenage boy then to suc-kle from the breasts of a domineering older women. His hard little tinkle trapped in it's cage, with no way to satisfy his overpowering lust.

[CuddleBunns]

CHAPTER SIX -- DOCTOR THURMAN’S SECOND VISIT

        Michael wasn’t happy at all about how the morning was unfolding. It was the last weekend before sophomore year started, and Lauren and her friends had invited Michael to spend the day with them at the mall. On the one hand, Michael knew that a trip to the mall with Lauren and her friends would mean mostly being ignored while the girls talked about the jock boys at school they had crushes on and took what felt like an hour to look at each and every dress in the mall. On the other hand, at least it would be time with his peers. It would be time out of the house, time he could feel normal and get a break from the weird routine of the last several weeks.
        But during those last few weeks--the time since his first trip to A Caring Place--Michael had gotten very little of what he wanted. Glumly, he wondered why he was even surprised when his mom--or Mommy, as he glumly remembered he had to call her now--had told Lauren, over the phone, that he couldn’t go to the mall today because they were having a very important visitor over.
        At least the blinds were closed over the big picture window in the living room. They’d been open this morning, when Michael’s Mommy had first brought him into the room, and he’d begged and begged and begged her to close them, telling her he’d die of embarrassment if Lauren came out of her house across the street and saw him dressed this way. Responding to her son’s protest, Melissa said dismissively that there was nothing wrong with the way Michael was dressed, and that in fact, Michael looked beautiful this morning. Michael hated when she said stuff like that, but at least she closed the blinds!
        No matter what his Mommy said, Michael didn’t want anyone seeing him dressed as he was now. Looking down at his body, he was slightly comforted by the fact that he was wearing totally normal white sneakers--boys’ sneakers!--and white mid-calf socks. His shirt was also normal, a white t-shirt with a picture of Marvel’s Spider-Man on it. It was what covered the lower half of his body that made Michael cringe: his Mommy had dressed him in a pair of pull-ups! Even worse, they were pull-ups clearly made for a girl! They were mostly pink, with some lavender trim, and this particular pair had a picture of Ariel from The Little Mermaid on them. Michael was mortified at the thought of his new doctor--or anyone, really--seeing him in them, but his Mommy had shushed away his protests, saying that of course Dr. Thurman knew all about his treatment and that there was nothing to be embarrassed about!Michael hated when she said that--there’s nothing to be embarrassed about!
        --as though it could possibly be true! After all, she wasn’t the one sitting there in a princess pull-up! Sitting, Michael would add, on the floor! When he’d walked into the room, he’d gone to the couch and started to sit down on it, only to have his Mommy intercept him and say that it would probably be better if he sat on the floor, “just in case” he leaked! Michael had huffed and rolled his eyes at that, insisting that she knew that he did not have leaks and did not need pull-ups! But, as was so often the case at home lately, Melissa had ignored his whining and slid his pacifier in his mouth, reminding him that there would be hell to pay if he took it out of his mouth on his own. Michael wasn’t sure why, but his mom was clearly nervous about this meeting. Whoever this Dr. Thurman woman was, his Mommy sure wanted to impress her. She’d cleaned the house three times over this week, and had given Michael what felt like a zillion warnings to be on his best behavior during her visit.
        Sitting on the floor of the living room, suc-king on his pacifier and feeling entirely absurd in this outfit that was half normal and half infantile, Michael wondered exactly how he was supposed to behave. On the floor in front of him was a pile of some of his old childhood toys that his Mommy had dug out of storage. Did she really expect him to play with Matchbox cars and superhero action figures? He’d been excited when she handed him an iPad, but he immediately felt dejected when he opened it and saw that the only game on it was some sort of basic geography review program. Its whole aesthetic looked to be for middle schoolers, or kids even younger than that, beckoning a player to review state capitals in bright, flashing, cartoon-y lettering.
        That’s where Michael was--sitting on the floor in a pink princess pull-up, suc-king his pacifier, and wondering what to do with himself--when the doorbell rang. He heard his Mommy rush to the door and then some distant sounds of greetings and small talk. He felt completely stupid and humiliated and on display as his Mommy and Dr. Thurman walked into the room. Michael had seen Dr. Thurman only once before, from a distance, and he hadn’t paid much attention to her. Now, though, he could hardly miss her. From his point of view sitting on the floor, she was tall and thin and wore an immaculately tailored suit jacket and matching pencil skirt. She was not large breasted, but she was very pretty in a severe, no-nonsense kind of way. She wore black-rimmed glasses and her dark, naturally red hair was pulled back in a tight, slick ponytail with not a single hair out of place. He immediately felt intimidated by her.
        “Well,” Dr. Thurman said with a smirk, looking at Michael, “I see mommy’s little breastfeeder is back in pull-ups.” Michael’s face exploded in shame at being called a breastfeeder. Yes, his Mommy had taken him back to A Caring Place for regular feedings from Nurse Linda every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday since his first visit, but the way Dr. Thurman said it, it sounded so unfair! It sounded like what he fundamentally was, instead of just this weird thing that his Mommy made him do.
        “Yes,” Melissa said, laughing a little. “The pull-ups are quite the story!”
        “I can’t wait to hear it!” Dr. Thurman said as she sat down on the couch. Her expensive-looking red bottom high-heeled shoes were not far from where Michael was sitting on the carpet. They were so shiny and black they looked like liquid oil. He stared at them because he could not make or maintain eye contact with the doctor, who was motioning for him to come closer.
        Melissa stood over Michael and took his hand, pulling him to his feet. “Come on, baby,” she cooed. “Let’s let Dr. Thurman take a look at you.” Positioned in front of the doctor, Michael wilted, wishing the ground could swallow him whole. Dr. Thurman’s gaze seemed to pierce right through him. He couldn’t imagine being able to keep any secrets from this woman, and right now she was clearly not pleased.
        “What’s this?” Dr. Thurman said with a grimace, reaching out to touch his Spider-Man shirt. “Why do you let her wear tomboyish things like this?”
        Melissa, sitting next to the doctor on the couch, laughed nervously. “You sound just like Nurse Linda with all that girl talk.”
        “It’s not talk,” Dr. Thurman snapped. “It’s the truth. Linda--who is, without a doubt, the most talented and caring wet nurse I have ever worked with--knows the truth. And so do I.”
        “It’s just that . . . ” Melissa stammered. Michael was thrilled to hear his Mommy defend his masculinity, though he did wish she sounded a little more convinced! “I mean, he is a boy.”
        “Melissa,” Dr. Thurman said, radiating displeasure, “if you’re not ready to face the truth yet, so be it. But I’ve told you: letting your daughter dress like a little tomboy is counter-productive. It’s actively damaging to her, it undermines the sense of her true self we are trying to develop, and I will not stand for it when I visit. Am I making myself clear?”
        “Yes, Doctor,” Melissa said, quickly standing up, grabbing Michael’s shirt tail, and pulling it off over his head, leaving the blushing boy standing in front of the two women in only his Ariel pull-up, socks and sneakers. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Doctor. I’m -- we are -- Michael and I both -- we are so grateful that you agreed to work with us. I -- I guess I just forgot about the . . . the tomboy clothing thing.”
        Michael felt anything but grateful to this crazy, stern woman who was ordering his mother around, but Dr. Thurman, for her part, instantly seemed to calm down and cheer up. She took Melissa’s hand and held it in her own. “It’s okay, Melissa. It’s a long-term project we’re engaged in, and I know that many steps along the way will feel strange at first.”
        Melissa nodded. “Yes, but it’s just like you said -- with the breastfeeding, I mean.”
        “Yes, she’s suc-kling from Linda? Three times a week?”
        “Yes,” Melissa said. “About an hour each session, all told. I’ve been amazed. It’s not just the feeding. Linda changes Michael out of his bo -- well, out of the clothes he wears to A Caring Place. Then there’s a lot of holding him and cooing to him. Often, she’ll expose one of her nipples and just have Michael stare it for a time before he nurses. He cries, every time!”
        “Of course she does,” Dr. Thurman said. “Little girls like Michael fight the truth of what they are so hard that even when someone gives them permission to be their helpless little girly self, well, the shame can be overwhelming, even though its exactly what they need.”

[CuddleBunns]

        It was weird for Michael to stand there and listen. He already felt exposed physically, and now, as he heard Dr. Thurman explain his own reactions better than he himself could, he felt psychologically stripped bare as well.
        “Michael sleeps so well too,” Melissa says. “Every time. Every day I’ve taken him for a nursing session, he’s out like a light before Linda even finishes. Then it’s home for some cuddle time with Mommy and an early bedtime of 9:30 PM.”
        “Not early enough,” Dr. Thurman said, chilling Michael, “but it’s a start. And her anxiety is better?”
        “Oh yes,” Melissa gushed. “That’s seemed much, much better. Though I am worried about school starting next week. That tends to be when the real stress kicks in for Michael.”
        “Don’t worry,” the doctor said. “I have some proposals about school that I want to discuss with you before I leave this afternoon. But before we get into that, tell me about Little Miss Priss here and how she ended up in pull-ups.”
        “Well, as you recommended, I’ve kept Michael in 24/7 chastity since our first visit to A Caring Place.”
        Dr. Thurman nodded in approval. “May I see?”
        “Of course,” Melissa said. Michael squealed into his pacifier and stamped his feet to protest, but in under two seconds, his mother had slid his pull-up down his smooth legs. He stood before the two women naked except for socks, shoes, a pull-up at his ankles, a pacifier . . . and of course the pale lavender cage that had become both his constant companion and his worst foe these last few weeks.
        “Good,” Dr. Thurman said, reaching out and cupping Michael’s tiny, smooth nutsack. Not even the hint of a hair had grown back on it in the two weeks since Nurse Victoria’s treatment. He squealed at the shocking touch of her cool fingers, and his tiny coc-k mashed itself against the limits of its cage, straining to get hard. “Far too many parents think they can just put the cage on for a nursing session and then take it off when done. It’s a hassle, it’s messy, it’s time consuming, and it sends conflicting messages to the baby girl being nursed. Parents who are truly committed to the process know that erections and--God forbid--ejaculations are absolutely forbidden for baby girls. You are committed to the process, aren’t you, Melissa?”
        “Mommy!” Michael blurted out around his pacifier, “tell her I’m not a girl!” But between the intensity of his panic and the pacifier, his words came out mumbled and muffled.
        “Hush, Michael!” Melissa said, slapping one of his bare thighs. “And yes, Doctor Thurman. Yes. I am absolutely committed! Absolutely, 100%! I mean, just the changes that I’ve seen in Michael in this short time . . . ”
        “Yes,” the doctor said, looking down at the pull-up bunched around Michael’s ankles. “So, she’s already wetting during the daytime?” Something in the way she said that baffled Michael. This doctor was so stern, but right then she’d sounded happy, elated even. Hopeful. Why would she want him to be . . . ?
        “Oh, no,” Melissa said, and Michael could see the crestfallen look on Dr. Thurman’s face when she realized that his pull-up was dry. “No, Michael isn’t wetting during the day. I mean, not really.”
        “Not really?”
        “Well, it’s the cage, Doctor,” Melissa explained. “I made it very clear to Michael, when we got home after his first nursing session, that his new chastity cage meant that he would need to pee sitting down.”
        “Ahhhh,” Dr. Thurman said, “and I assume she didn’t listen?”
        “He did the first few times, because I was there to supervise him. But when I let him get back to using the bathroom on his own, well,” Melissa said, absent-mindedly stroking the thigh she’d slapped earlier, “someone thought he was a big boy who could still stand up to pee.”
        I am a boy, Michael thought, even though he didn’t feel very manly at all at the moment.
        Dr. Thurman laughed knowingly: “I’m sorry you had to clean that up.”
        Michael cringed remembering it. When his piss stream had kicked in, the slit in the end of his cage was not lined up correctly relative to his weiner, and the cage had splattered his urine everywhere: on the commode seat (which he hadn’t remembered to raise), on the lip of the tub next to the toilet, on the floor in front of toilet, on the tank itself, and of course all over himself. After their first visit to A Caring Place, Melissa had let him dress pretty normally at home, except for the cage of course, and his khaki shorts and red fire engine print boxers had both been totally soaked. There was no way to fix it, and, once the stream started, no way to stop it. He knew instantly that he was going to be in a world of trouble. Embarrassed, wet, and scared of the punishment to come, he’d immediately started crying. 
        “It wasn’t fun,” Melissa said. “But I think we learned an important lesson.”
        “And as for discipline? As we discussed?"
        “Yes, doctor, exactly as you said.”
        Michael was fascinated now, learning that his Mommy had reacted according to this doctor’s instructions. He’d cried that day partly because he felt gross and ashamed, and partly because he expected to get his bottom paddled after having to clean up his own mess. That’s what had always happened in the past when he’d left the seat down and gotten even a few drops of urine on the commode, and this was 100 times worse than that! Sure enough, his Mommy’s face looked furious when she came in to see why he was crying, but then, all of a sudden, her anger dropped, and she’d begun to baby-talk him, telling him it was okay, that Mommy was here now, and that Mommy was going to make it all better. She got out a pack of wet wipes, stripped him bare below the waist and cleaned him up, singing a little song as she did so, a song Michael hadn’t heard since he was a little, little kid. Then, with Michael still bare from the waist down except for his cage, Melissa had snuggled him on the couch and insisted that they have some “Mommy-Baby” time. As she held him and rocked him, she’d told him she knew he couldn’t help it and that from now on there would be some new rules in the house.
        “So, pull-ups during the day?” Dr. Thurman asked.
        “Yes, here in the house anyways,” Melissa said. “I don’t make him wear them when he goes across the street to play with Lauren.” Dr. Thurman frowned, but said nothing, and Melissa continued: “And now that we’re in pull-ups,” she said, playfully pulling the pair at Michael’s ankles back up his legs and fitting them around his waist, “we have to tell Mommy when we need to pee-pee or poo-poo don’t we, baby? Yes, we have to tell Mommy about pee-pees and poo-poos because Mommy has to come in and supervise us and make sure we stay all clean, doesn’t she?”
        Melissa was beaming as she engaged in this cloying baby talk, but it all filled Michael with despair. He was 15! He was about to be a sophomore in high school! It was humiliating to have his Mommy come in the bathroom with him, and it was humiliating to wear pull-ups around the house! Girls’ pull-ups, no less. Michael had no idea what craziness had come over his Mommy in recent weeks, but he’d resolved to have a good 10th grade year in response to it! All of this craziness was happening at home, or at A Caring Place. No one at school knew about it, thank God! He could go to school and be normal and all he needed to do, he figured, was be mature and responsible and do his homework. And the rest of his puberty had to come soon, didn’t it? His Mommy--er, his Mom, he reminded himself--just needed to see him be the man of the house, and then all this crazy baby girl stuff will stop!
        Lost in thought, Michael barely paid attention as Dr. Thurman said goodbye to him. But as she and Melissa retired to the kitchen to have what they called “grown up talk,” Michael’s stomach sank as he heard his Mommy ask, “Now, Dr. Thurman, you said you had some ideas about the school year?

[CuddleBunns]

        “Hey, look!” Travis Richardson yelled. “Little Shrimp went to beauty school over the summer!” The pack of varsity baseball players trailing behind their team captain erupted in laughter as they passed by the tree-covered courtyard outside the arts building, where Michael was eating lunch with Lauren and her friends. Michael blushed so hard he could feel it in his face.
        “Travis Richardson!” Lauren shouted as he passed, “you leave Mikey alone! He’s actually a really good French braider!”
        Michael was generally grateful for the protective role Lauren played in his life on campus, but he cringed at the nature of this particular defense, since hair-braiding wasn’t the manliest of skills. Travis Richardson was a senior and a three-sport varsity athlete. He stood well over six feet and always had a rotating cast of girlfriends: girls he dated, not friends who were girls. He was, in other words, everything Michael was not. And at the present moment, the contrast between them couldn’t be clearer. Travis and his senior bros were on their way to their cars, about to head off campus for lunch, while Michael, a sophomore, was perched on the grass behind Lauren’s friend Heather, his hands full of her partially-French-braided jet black hair.
        “Hey!” Heather snapped, feeling Mike’s hands cease moving. “No one told you to stop! And you better not screw my braid up!”
        “Heather,” Lauren said in a mildly scolding tone. “Be nice.” Lauren and her friends had PE later that afternoon, and they’d heard they were going to have to run the track. So it was decided that they needed their hair braided. Lauren’s blond hair was being worked on by her friend Janisse, a beautiful dark-skinned Black girl who was easily one of the smartest students in their grade. That left Heather without a hair braider, until she’d looked at Michael and told him to make himself useful. Since the girls--mildly annoyed to find Michael underfoot every time they hung out with Lauren--had forced him to learn how to braid hair over the summer, he couldn’t rightly refuse.
        “I wish Travis Richardson would let me be nice to him,” Heather joked, grinning wide. Michael felt his whole body burn with jealousy as Lauren and Janisse laughed in agreement and talked about how fine Travis was, how big his biceps were and how good his butt looked in tight jeans. Heather had a bit of a reputation as a wild-child party girl, but she was drop-dead gorgeous. All of Lauren’s friends were! And of course Lauren herself was the most beautiful of them all. Michael masturbated nightly while thinking about all three of them--or at least he had before his Mommy had taken him to A Caring Place and gotten that damned cage put on! Now he couldn’t jerk off, ever! And no matter what he seemed to do, these three smoking hot girls saw him as a friend and nothing more.
        “What do you think, Mikey?” Heather asked with a sneer that Michael could hear even if he couldn’t see it. “Is Travis Richardson the hottest boy in school? Or do you have a crush on some other big, strong boy? Maybe Jeremy McClinton is more your style? Do you like basketball players or baseball boys?”
        “I -- I’m not gay,” Michael said softly.
        “Well--” Janisse said, cutting off what was surely going to be a mean reply from Heather, “you know it would be okay with us if you were, right?”
        “Yeah, Mikey,” Lauren said, “you know it’s okay to be yourself around us, right?”
        Michael’s mind reeled, and, as so often happened, he said nothing and the girls went back to talking amongst themselves like he was not even there. He was offended by what the girls were implying about him, but the gentle tone in Lauren’s voice made him ache, physically and emotionally. Truth be told, he really needed someone to be gentle with him right now. Despite his high hopes for a fresh start, Michael’s sophomore year was not off to a good start. This year, Michael was determined to show his Mommy--and Lauren and her friends--that he was a big boy, that he could grow up and be independent and do well in school and not cry every day. But now, almost a month into sophomore year, Michael was finding that naming his goal was much, much easier than actually accomplishing it.
        It doesn’t help, he thought, grimacing as he continued braiding Heather’s hair, when my Mommy keeps acting like she does. Not only had Michael’s regular visits to A Caring Place continued, cuddle time with Mommy had too. And Michael’s Mommy had begun to treat him even more childishly than she had before. From insisting that she be the one to do things like grab his snacks from the cupboard, to banning him from watching PG-13 movies (she claimed they could “disturb” him into losing progress on his therapy), to holding his hand whenever they crossed the road; Michael put up little to no resistance as his world became more and more restrictive by the day. The worst part was, Mommy seemed to have a built in excuse for pretty much everything. When he complained that she started picking out his clothes for him, she claimed it was because he always took too long to decide. When he whined about her cleaning his face with a washcloth after every meal, she would casually remark that he was too much of a messy eater, and she couldn’t let her little boy run around looking like a slob, now could she?
        The worst of it came one day when Michael accidentally knocked over a cup full of grape juice. From then on, his mother made it a rule that he had to drink everything from a children’s plastic sippy cup. Worse still, she’d started feeding him warm milk from a sippy cup when they spent time on the couch together. This, perhaps more than anything else, made Michael feel like he was slowly being turned into an overgrown infant; although at this point he was just relieved she wasn’t making him use a full blown baby bottle. Why he continued to put up with it, he could not tell you. To listen to his Mommy explain it, as she often did looking down on him while he nursed from the sippy cup, Michael’s cooperation with her changes was proof that it was somehow relieving to him to have his mother take the lead again.
        That’s why school was so important to him this year: It was a chance to prove Mommy wrong. School was time away from home and from A Caring Place. It was time to be with his peers, to be a high school student, to be normal, to not think about the fact that he was a breastfeeding, pull-up wearing fifteen year old. And Michael just knew that if he could make school work--if he could have a year where he made good grades and didn’t cry every day and maybe even got Lauren to date him--well his Mommy and Nurse Linda would have no choice but to see him as the grown up young adult he knew he was!
        Or could be.
        Or at least wanted to be.
        The problem was that tenth grade didn’t seem to be coming any easier to Michael than 9th grade had. Never one who was good with schedules, Michael spent most of the first week going to the wrong class during the wrong period. These flub-ups inevitably resulted in wet eyes on his part as the teacher whose room he’d arrived in patiently tried to explain the schedule to him again and walked him to where he was supposed to be. And the work! Oh my God, Michael had thought his teachers might have waited a week or two to let students ease into being sophomores, but no! The homework was piled thick and deep from day one, and Michael was shocked to learn that there had been summer reading assignments his Mommy had not even told him about!
        “Hey!” Heather snapped at Michael, jarring him back to reality. “It’s done. Just put the hair tie on it and finish it.”
        “Heather,” Lauren said in that indulgent tone of voice she always used for her wilder friend, “you could thank Michael for the nice job he did. Your hair looks great.”
        Michael’s emotions exploded with gratitude when Lauren praised him, but crashed again as Heather said, “Yeah, it looks fine. I just don’t need him sitting there touching my hair like some perv after he’s finished. Little dweeb is probably filling up his spank bank with the memories!”
        Janisse and Heather giggled, and Lauren shook her head. “Mikey’s not gross like that, are you, Mikey?” she asked.
        “N--no!” Michael stammered.
        “That’s our Mikey,” Janisse said. “Just one of the girls.”
        Michael could hear the kindness in Janisse’s voice. She was always so nice to him, and he knew she hadn’t meant to hurt him. Nevertheless, her words stung. Why did so many women in his life see him as a girl?
        The truth was, of course, that Michael had once jacked off--regularly and furiously--thinking about Janisse and Heather and especially Lauren, but right now, thwarted by the tiny lavender cage his Mommy would not even discuss releasing him from, he hadn’t jacked off in well over a month. He was ravenously horny, and couldn’t do a damn thing about it, despite the hours he’d spent alone in his room, fruitlessly trying to figure out some way to escape the cage.
        That’s another thing that doesn’t help, Michael thought, ruefully. How am I supposed to feel grown up when I have to come to school in a chastity cage and a pair of princess pull-ups? Today’s pair had Mulan on them, and as Michael shifted his weight around on the ground he was sitting on, he could feel their crinkly heft holding him softly under both the boxer shorts his Mommy let him wear over his pull-up and the pair of short, khaki shorts she’d dressed him in on top of that. Michael had been horrified when his Mommy made it clear that he would need to wear his pull-ups to school. He’d cried and screamed and tried to explain how he would die of mortification if anyone at school ever found out about them, but his Mommy had held firm. “Right now,” she’d said, stroking his hair as she held him curing a tearful cuddle session, “you’re going to get to wear your big boy boxer shorts over them, but if you keep on being fussy with Mommy, then Mommy can take your boxer shorts away. Is that what you want?” It was not what Michael wanted, but with a sippy cup of milk pushed into his mouth, all he could do was swallow, not answer.
        “Hey, sweet pea,” Lauren said, sitting down next to Michael and brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Are you okay?”
        “M -- me? I -- yeah, I -- I’m fine.”
        “Really?” Lauren asked, “you’ve seemed preoccupied all during lunch. What are you worried about? That quiz in Spanish later today?”
        Michael felt himself flush. He’d had no idea that they had a quiz coming up in Spanish today. He thought that was next week, and he hadn’t studied even one bit! And while he felt grateful that Lauren paid attention to him enough to see that he was worried, what could he really tell her? Lauren was his dream-girl, his childhood crush. He couldn’t remember ever NOT being in love with her. She was perfect: tall and blond and lightly freckled in this beautiful way and she’d hit puberty early and had big breasts and best of all, she’d always been protective of him. She’d never shunned him the way all of the boys and most of the girls did. He’d die, absolutely die, if she ever found out about the baby treatment he was getting at home and at A Caring Place. What was he supposed to say?: Well, my Mom--who I have to call Mommy now--has me in a chastity cage and makes me wear little girls’ pull-ups to school under my boxers and I’m terrified that you’ll find out or that anyone will find out and it makes changing for PE hell because I’m terrified that my boxers will slip too low or ride up too high and expose my pull-up when I’m dressing out and I can’t pee standing up anymore and even if I could I can’t let anyone see this cage that’s locked on me so I have to time my bathroom visits really carefully during the day and that’s mostly what I’m worried about but yeah, now that you mention it, I’m also going to fail this Spanish quiz I didn’t even know we had? “Yeah,” Michael finally squeaked. “Just worried about that Spanish quiz.”
        “Silly bear!” Lauren smiled, bopping Michael playfully on the nose. “I called your house the other night to ask if you wanted to come over and study for it, but your Mom said you’d gone to bed early.”
        “You -- you did?”
        “Yeah, of course. Called your cell first, and then your house’s land line when you didn’t answer! I know Spanish is hard for you, and I wanted to help.”
        Michael’s Mommy had started taking his cell phone from him at 6 PM every night, citing studies about screen time increasing anxiety in teenagers, and she hadn’t even told him about Lauren’s call! He didn’t understand her at all anymore. Last year, every missing homework assignment and failed quiz was a huge event at home, with his mom -- er, Mommy -- yelling at him and telling him that his grades counted now that he was in high school and hiring tutors that never seemed to work out. This year, Mommy seemed unfazed by notifications about Michael’s missing assignments and already-low grades, often saying they needed to focus on lifting his cares before she scooped him up for another lap time session.
        As Michael thanked Lauren for her concern, the bell rang, signalling the end of the lunch period. Thank God, Michael thought, I really need to pee. Because he had to sit down to pee now, and because even if he could have peed standing up, Michael would still be paranoid about anyone seeing his chastity cage, he’d fallen into a routine of carefully planning his bathroom visits. Sixth period fell right after lunch, and Michael and Lauren had Ms. Featherford’s Western World history class that period. Ms. Featherford had, apparently, once been a really good teacher, but she was well past retirement age now and frankly, she was a little senile. Unlike other, sharper, teachers, Ms. Featherford didn’t mind that Michael asked for a bathroom pass at the start of every class period. And so rather than peeing during lunch--when the boys’ room was inevitably packed--Michael had gotten into the habit of getting a bathroom pass from Ms. Featherford at the start of 6th period, and going and peeing then, when he could have some privacy.
        As they said goodbye to Janisse and Heather and walked to class, Lauren instinctively put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. She often did that as they walked the hallways of school, Lauren a step behind him and guiding him, protectively, in front of her. Michael was thrilled to be touched by Lauren, but so wished she would hold his hand, which would be a gesture of romance, not of almost-big-sisterly protection. And it didn’t help that the top of his head barely came up to Lauren’s breasts!
        His bladder tingling, Michael went straight to Ms. Featherford’s desk and asked for a hall pass.
        “No,” the old teacher said, shuffling some papers on her desk.
        “No?” Michael said in disbelief. She always said yes!

[CuddleBunns]

        “You heard me,” Ms. Featherford said. “Children!” she shouted, talking over Michael’s head and addressing the whole class. “Sit down and clear your desks. We’re having a pop quiz!”
        Michael’s panic rose on two fronts: he had to pee really badly, and he wasn’t prepared for this quiz. “Ms. Featherford?” he whined, “I . . . I really need to go.”
        “You just sit down and take your quiz, young man,” she said dismissively. “You can get a hall pass once your quiz is turned in.”
        His stomach sinking with panic and his bladder aching, Michael took his usual seat next to Lauren. Every second felt like an hour while his elderly teacher gathered up the quizzes she was about to hand out. Squirming in his seat, Michael tried, and failed, to find a position where his legs helped to relieve the pressure he was feeling.
        Sitting next to him and noticing his distress, Lauren made eye contact and mouthed, “You okay?”
        Michael nodded yes, and tried to convince himself he meant it. It was fine, he figured, he’d just have to fill out the quiz really quickly, grade be damned, and get the hall pass. Nothing was worth wetting his pants at school. Nothing. Everything would be fine if Ms. Featherford would just hand out the damn . . .
        “Oh!” the teacher exclaimed. “Roll! Dear me, I was so excited about this quiz that I almost forgot to call the roll. Let’s see, now where did I put my gradebook?”
   Michael groaned in frustration as he watched Ms. Featherford walk shakily back to her desk at the front of the room.
   The girl sitting behind Lauren, Ronnie Kent, leaned forward and whispered to Lauren. “Girl, did you hear that Travis Richardson dumped Lisa Wexler?” Lauren nodded as Ronnie continued gossiping: “That means he’s dated his way through pretty much every girl in the whole senior and junior classes. I heard he might even ask a sophomore to Homecoming this fall, so maybe there’s hope for us!”
        Lauren giggled, as Ms. Featherford finally began calling roll.
   â€śDon’t you know him?” Ronnie asked Lauren. “Isn’t he in your math class or something? What if he asks you? I mean, why wouldn’t he? You’re the prettiest sophomore in the whole school!”
   Michael was in agony. Ronnie’s idle gossip was driving him insane with jealousy--Lauren was advanced for her grade in math, and of course Travis was stupid, so they were in the same math class--and his bladder was crying out for relief. He wanted to shout out that he was right there, that he could hear Ronnie, and that he was going to ask Lauren to Homecoming this year (though of course he hadn’t worked up the nerve yet!). He also wanted to yell at Ms. Featherford and tell her to hurry the hell up and pass these quizzes out.
        “Would you go with Travis if he asked you?” Ronnie asked Lauren.
   â€śWell, duh!” Lauren laughed. As Michael watched her bite her lower lip in a way he always found sexy, he began to worry that he really wasn’t going to make it. The edges of his vision were beginning to compress. It was harder and harder to pay attention to what was happening around him because all he could focus on was the pain in his bladder. He stared at the classroom door longingly. The bathroom was just out that door and then down the hall. So close. Why wouldn’t Ms. Featherford let him go? Why was this happening? Why had his Mommy stuck him in this stupid cage so he had to pace his bathroom visits? Why couldn’t he control himself? Why don’t I just get up?, he thought. The door is right there. Just get up. Just leave. Just go pee and deal with whatever this old bat wants to do to punish you. But he couldn’t do it. Michael had always been a rule-follower, and his teacher had told him he couldn’t leave before taking his quiz. He could feel disaster approaching, but he could not make himself stand and leave.
        Finally, Ms. Featherford was through roll and began--at a snail’s pace, it seemed to Michael--to be passing out the quizzes. He was twisting and writhing in his seat by the time she got to his row of desks. To his right, he was vaguely aware of Ronnie telling Lauren that she and Travis would make a beautiful couple, and as the kid in front of him passed the quizzes back, Michael looked down at the page through watery eyes. The questions on the sheet were about Ancient Greece, and he didn’t have a clue how to answer any of them. They were drawn from homework reading he’d procrastinated on last night and then been pulled away from for Mommy-Baby cuddle time. His vision compressed further. His eyes watered more. He couldn’t see the questions anymore. He was going to fail this quiz. Travis might ask Lauren to Homecoming, and she’d say yes if he did, and his Mommy kept treating him like a baby, and he couldn’t jack off, and she made him wear stupid pink Polo shirts to school to match his stupid pink princess pull-ups and this couldn’t be happening but . . .
        “Ahhhhunnnnnnnnh!” Michael wailed, much louder than he’d meant to, as he felt himself squirt a hot jet of piss out of his caged weiner and into his pull-up. It felt so obscene to be here, in class, at school, dressed normally (as far as anyone else could tell), and be peeing. Michael’s whole body flushed with shame as he tried to clamp down and stop the flow. He could tell the end of his weiner wasn’t lined up right with the slit in the end of the cage, and so he felt nasty and dirty as he’d partially peed all over himself and the inside of the cage. He gripped the edges of his desk so hard his knuckles turned white as he tried to will himself to stop pissing. It worked, but he knew it wouldn’t hold for long. His big worry now was figuring out how bad it was, if he’d leaked all the way through to his shorts. He was scared to look.
        “Michael?” Lauren’s voice was soft but concerned, gentle but worried. It was the tone of her voice and the feeling of her soft, caring hand on his arm that made him snap. He no longer cared about anything other than getting away from the source of his shame. She just could not know about this! He couldn’t bear it! He bolted away from Lauren’s touch, jumping up out of his seat, pushing roughly past a stunned Ms. Featherford, and dashing out the classroom door. As he moved, he could feel himself pissing more and more. He hoped the sounds of shock and muted laughter from the room behind him covered the sound of his piss stream soaking into the crinkly folds of his girly pull-up.
        Out in the hallway, he was no longer thinking. He was driven by pure instinct: the need to get away from the scene of his humiliation and the need to release a day’s worth of pee. He ran as he pissed and he pissed as he ran. His bladder finally emptying, he stopped. He’d just been running away, not really towards anything in particular, and so he was surprised to find himself outside, in a small covered walkway between the Humanities building and the gym. Looking down, his worst fears were confirmed. It wasn’t a huge spot, but some of his piss had leaked all the way through the pull up and his boxers, dotting the outside of his khaki shorts with tell-tale wetness. And somehow he was still peeing! He no longer even tried to stop it, just stood there in horror feeling the heavy weight of his now-soaked pull-up and feeling/watching a small stream of urine race down his smooth thigh, heading towards his knee and calf. He was wet. At school. He’d wet himself in class. Sitting next to Lauren. And he was wearing a pull-up. And his shorts were stained and he was going to fail his history quiz and the Spanish quiz waiting for him next period and he didn’t have a change of clothes and all he wanted to do was be normal, be a real boy and date Lauren and be good at school everyone else was good at school why wasn’t he why did he have to go and be breastfed like a baby three times a week and why did he have to wear a dumb pull up and that stupid cage and he had no idea where to go or what to do or how to help himself. Paralyzed with shock and fear, he stood there trembling, and let out a huge sob. He was tired and scared and wet and grossed out by himself and overwhelmed. He couldn’t even try to hide or put up an act anymore. All he could do was cry.
        Behind him, the double doors opened and, to his horror, Lauren came through them, saying “Mikey? Mikey! Hey, there you are! What happened? Ms. Featherford gave me a hall pass and told me to come check on you and -- oh my God, did you wet your pants?”

[pierrylouys]

Poor Michael now he gonna be demoted to pampers rsr