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Tale #3: Whatever It Takes
🕑 Added 2025-11-18 02:29:29 +0000 UTC Tale #3: Whatever It Takes (Content Tags: Messy diapers, bedwetting, feigning regression, playing dumb, autism, babying, NEET protagonist) The date had been drawing nearer. The date where Terry would get kicked out. It called for drastic measures, and drastic measures would be exactly what he enacted. Terry was twenty now, having recently hit that benchmark within the last month, and he had absolutely nothing to show for it. His graduation from high school has been a farce, and afterwards he had shown no interest in continuing his life in any way that displayed progress. He definitely wasn't smart enough for college, nor did he have the discipline for a trade program, and he hadn't so much as filled out a single job application. Hell, he barely even did anything to help out around the house! No chores, no cleaning up, no babysitting his little stepbrother. The only real passion that he had was online gaming, and he didn't have the charisma or skill level to either become a streamer or take it to a professional level. He was a NEET, and he had no interest in changing that, no matter how much his stepmother nagged him. His father had passed some years earlier, whenever he was still in high school, but his stepmother had been a parent to him since he was in the fourth grade. Since he had never really known his biological mother, she was the closest thing he had left to a parental figure, even if he didn't quite treat her with that respect. After two years of stagnation, his stepmother had given him an ultimatum: he either put a step forward into adulthood, or he would get kicked out of the house. She wasn't a cruel woman by any means, but whenever she put her foot down, she meant it. He'd already called her on a bluff shortly after getting his 'participation trophy' of a diploma, whenever she'd tried to rouse him from his laziness, and he knew she wouldn't back down a second time. It was a stark difference from how she'd treated him when he was younger; in the earlier days of their relationship, she'd been far more coddling and patient, as if she didn't think him ever really capable of independence. There was a reason for that. He'd been diagnosed with autism and a small handful of learning disabilities in grade school; in addition to that, he'd also had a significant amount of trouble with toileting around that age. It had been a common occurrence for his pants to end up wet, or worse, loaded with poop. The combination of these maladies had landed him in special education throughout elementary school, and early into middle school too. During that time, she'd treated him as though he was hardly different than his stepbrother, who had been an infant at the time. She kept hold of his hand in public, she spoke down to him slowly and softly, and she didn't punish him for anything, even when he clearly knew better. No responsibilities, no expectations, no push to improve. It was one of those things that he didn't appreciate until it was gone; as a kid, he'd hated the way that she treated him, because it was a wound to his fragile ego. He'd hated being lumped in with the other SPED kids, because while not exceptionally bright, he knew he wasn't as stupid as them. He had trouble with letters and numbers, sure, and his social skills were stunted, fine, and admittedly his poor toileting was SPED worthy, but he wasn't a damn retard. He'd mostly caught up academically by sixth grade, and by seventh grade, he'd gone full-time with underwear; the bedwetting would last another year afterwards, but by the end of middle school, he considered himself as 'normal' as the other kids. Her infantilizing treatment of him had waned during those years, and oddly enough, she'd seemed almost disappointed to see him improve. It wasn't something he had thought of much at the time, but it felt more obvious in hindsight that she had some kind of peculiar maternal instinct that had only been satisfied by having a broken child. She definitely hadn't gotten to shift that role onto his little stepbrother, Timmy, who was a model student at school, and who had hit all his developmental milestones on time. At ten, going on eleven, the most she could hope for was that he still occasionally wet the bed or had some skidmarks to chastise. Well, at least until more recently, but that was a problem still developing... So, what would the importance of this history be? Why would any of it matter now? Well, that would be due to the fact that Terry needed an out. Terry had worked hard in middle school to catch up, but by high school, he'd been simply satisfied to be in normal classes, and thus his motivation had completely emptied from him. It was in those teenage years that he grew complacent, lazy, and more than a little entitled. He withdrew into the escapism of video games, and with that, he'd never wanted to be pulled out. Which obviously had led to his stepmother's ultimatum, where he would either grow up or ship out. He could thank Timmy for reminding him of what a third option might be, however. Though due to the disparity in their wits, Terry couldn't recognize that he was being tricked into something that was less in his best interest than it seemed. Timmy, who was in a couple of gifted classes in his elementary school, and who was a social butterfly, had found himself having some issues that Terry could empathize with. Well, one issue really. Timmy had been pooping his pants lately. Not every day, but frequently enough to have it be designated a real issue. From what Terry could gather, the boy had been diagnosed with encopresis, and thus had been unwillingly reduced to wearing disposable briefs as a solution. That sort of medical issue was embarrassing enough for any kid to deal with, as Terry was painfully aware of, but the kicker was how the boy's mother had reacted. Much like she had with Terry, she'd started to baby Timmy over it, and Timmy's ego was rightfully far more developed than Terry's had been at the same age. Timmy was bright, he was relatively popular, and he always strived to be independent. It was appalling to him to be treated like a big preschooler. He needed someone to take the heat off of him, and knowing enough about his big brother's history, he'd come to a devious conclusion. It could be rationalized as a win-win, but that was hardly necessary. Timmy was at a selfish age, and while he didn't hate his older brother, he could clearly see that Terry wasn't exactly a model adult in any way, so it hardly felt cruel to lead him backwards into a trap. If there would be blame worth assigning to anyone, then it would have to be in equal parts: Timmy, sure, for being the one to suggest such a thing, but Terry too, for being so lazy that he actually thought it was a worthwhile idea. A full-on regression back to his days as a pitiable pantspooper, as a late bloomer, as someone who was to be infantilized. A return to the times where his autism had been used like a cudgel against him. For anyone with an ounce of self-respect or pride, it should have been a non-starter. No dignified adult would be willing to trade their autonomy or their respectability, just for an opportunity to remain a layabout; this should have been especially true of someone who had once worked so diligently to shake those babyish bonds. The resolve that had once driven Terry was a thing of the past; he'd gotten the chance he wanted to be treated normally, even if it had come late, and now that he'd grown complacent, the sacrifices he'd made felt unimportant to his modern life. The idea of true adulthood was so repulsive to him, so torturous, that he saw little issue with reprising his role as a diaper-dependent dimwit. To the young man, it felt more like an exchange of fair value; to give up his so-called adulthood responsibilities, in order to continue a slovenly existence of video games and sleeping in until noon. It would be a required escapism to access the escapism that he actually desired. Trading job applications, college applications, household chores, and discussions of financial responsibility, for a world of coddling, spoiling, ass-sitting, and baby powder. So, of course he had taken Timmy's little suggestion to heart. It hadn't been something he'd pounced on immediately, as the concept needed time to achieve plausibility in his head, but it was something he'd come around to in the matter of just a few days. The proper hesitation he'd given the idea had been fully quashed by his stepmother's continuous commentary on Terry's so-called future. Phase one had been a simple sliding back to the more basic norms of his past: namely, bedwetting and poor toilet hygiene. It was obvious he couldn't regress all at once, or else his stepmother might recognize his little scheme for what it was, and if she did, then she may expedite his expulsion from her house. So in that first week, he began to put those initial pieces into play; he would wake up, but instead of immediately getting out of bed, he would lie there and empty his bladder onto himself. It was familiar to him, but that didn't mean it brought him comfort; quite the contrary, it reminded him of a time when he had felt powerless in his own life, and it almost brought him pause in continuing forth with everything else. The clammy sensation of laying there in his own puddle was unpleasant, but he thought about the goal ahead, and tried to convince himself that the discomfort would be mitigated by the overall reward. He would act upset over the alleged accidents, making sure he got caught in the middle of trying to 'sneak' his sheets to the laundry room. When questioned by a woman who looked to be in disbelief over what she was seeing, he played indignant, as if he was mortified at the resurgence of the nighttime issues, and she bought it without question. In addition to wet mornings, he would add another uncomfortable act to his roster: he stopped wiping. The decision was like a soft disclosure toward the eventual pantspooping that would need to see a resurgence, and it was meant to evoke imagery of his helplessness; much like the bedwetting, it wasn't the most pleasant matter to deal with, since he'd gone many years now without having the feeling of anything messy between his cheeks, but he was a bit quicker to grow used to it again. His briefs would swiftly see the impact of this decision, with his skidmarks rapidly growing out of control, and his personal odor would become noticeably worse as a result. His stepmother would end up pulling him aside to have a gentle discussion over the atrocities she was seeing in his laundry basket, and he'd play dumb, as if he was trying his best to remember basic steps of proper toileting, while also showcasing a certain dimwitted apathy toward it. The apathy was important, because it showed a lack of maturity, and because it displayed the sort of autistic traits he'd once been better known for as a kid. It was a way to elicit memories of how he'd once been, to further suggest that this was a sign of regression in his condition. Because of both these actions, she would start gently reminding him about mitigating them; she would suggest cutting down on his fluids in the evenings, and reminding him about using the bathroom before bed. Likewise to the worsening skidmarks, she would firmly tell him that he needed to be more thorough with his wiping after going number two, as if he was an unskilled preschooler. This would actually escalate faster than he would have expected, on both fronts. First, she would sit him down for a frank discussion, where she brought him an XXL package of Goodnites to wear at night; her tone would make it clear that she wasn't giving him a choice, but she also made sure to say that if didn't make him any less mature, and that it was simply a matter of helping to cut down the laundry. The return of the plastic sheet onto his bed was an addition to this. Second, and what would actually be more embarrassing, was how she would start to check his underpants during the day, and how she would softly chastise him for his poor wiping job; this would start to be followed up with baby wipes at her hand, with him bent over like a tyke to let her do it. All of this would be the culmination of less than two weeks worth of effort, which was much faster than he had anticipated. Emboldened by such successes, he would start to push deeper, with a renewed sense of optimism that this plan would work. His little brother was quietly supportive, but Terry wasn't smart enough to recognize the real reason for Timmy's investment in this plot's resolution. With toileting seeing steady regression, he would next focus on behavior and mannerisms. Terry would begin to walk around the house without pants, which would make his brown-stained underpants harder to miss, but would also make his sense of shame appear more juvenile; similarly, he'd come down to breakfast in his soggy Goodnites, as well as spend part of the morning watching cartoons with them still on. He'd also slowly dumb down his vocabulary, and gradually make his coordination more simplistic; he would talk in a more juvenile way, with his emotions and volume less controlled, and he'd make more of a mess of himself while eating. A dribble here, a faulty use of the fork there, and changing out words like 'toilet' for 'potty', and he was well on his way to looking like an oversized child. To help cover his tracks, he would resist the increasing way that his stepmother was trying to dote on him, and he'd shoddily try to hide the failures that he actually wanted her to notice. He would attempt, poorly, to veil a seemingly renewed interest in childish things he'd long left in the past. After another week or so, he decided it was time to ratchet things up another notch, and he'd have his first daytime accident while helping her out in the garden. While she explained to him about what flowers she wanted to plant for the season, which he was hardly paying attention to, he would focus all his will into letting his bladder go while standing up. Slowly at first, but more rapidly after a few moments, the spurts of urine would dampen his denim shorts, and then once it became a stream, he would fully soak a large patch along his crotch, with the warm liquid ending up running down his leg into the dirt. "Uh-oh!" He would squeak pathetically, as if he hadn't spent the last few minutes desperately trying to work past the muscle memory that made accidents so difficult as an adult. "Oh, Terry honey, what happened?" She would fuss over him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder, and then gently leading him back inside to help clean up. His explanation would be a shrug, but he knew exactly what had happened and why, and her response to it was a great sign of things to come. It was another significant step in the right direction of his eventual infantilizing at her hand, and with so little real pushback, it made him feel as though nothing would impede his plot moving forward. Timmy had been a lot happier in the recent days too, not because his circumstances had necessarily improved, but because Terry had been taking away so much of the overbearing attention that his mom had been smothering him with the last few months. The boy was still pooping his pants on a near daily basis, which was a critical humiliation, but he didn't have to worry as much about how he was treated outside of that. With Timmy's accidents still ongoing, that actually helped Terry's case too, because it started to melt the barriers between the way that they were perceived by the woman. Terry wasn't just a grown man acting childishly, but instead he too was a 'child' like his younger stepbrother, and both children were sharing a similar issue. But from Timmy's viewpoint, things weren't quite perfect yet, because his own accidents were still inarguably a worse breed of embarrassing. His older stepbrother still wore underwear during the day, while he himself was dutifully padded up; that combined with his obviously contrasting youth, meant that Timmy was still the 'baby' of the house, who would require the most of their mother's 'nurturing' care. Case in point would be when they went to dine out at a local restaurant; Timmy still got the kid's menu, while Terry was still expected to order like a grownup, even though he'd gotten his bottom wiped right before they had left the house. In the middle of the meal, without much warning, Timmy would feel a mound of warm mush piling up underneath his buttcheeks, which filled the back of his protective garment quite prodigiously. As he sat there mortified, the hot poop bubbling and popping against his bare skin, their mother would pause her chatter to take a gentle sniff of the air, and who would she look at to accuse? It was still Timmy. That was a problem to the boy. What was also a problem? The cooing questioning of if he went 'boom-boom' in his 'diapee-pants' again. That would be the moment that Timmy decided to take a more active role in 'helping' his brother's plot along. He wanted expedience, he wanted results, he wanted to get more aggressive. He wanted Terry to be demonstrably lower than him on the family totem pole, even if that meant pushing further than what Terry had initially intended for. Fortunately for him, Terry wouldn't be hard to manipulate. Some day, very soon, there would be a new 'little brother' for their mother to baby-talk in public.
