🕑 Added 2025-10-01 09:51:07 +0000 UTC
Premium Story #3: Train of Thoughts
(Content Tag: Metahuman ability, captivity, brain-drain, diapers, messing, wealthy antagonist, genius protagonist)
He could still perfectly recall how it felt, when he had knowledge leaking out of his head, while hot, sticky stool plopped unceremoniously into the bottom of the well-cushioned undergarment he'd been put into.
It'd been frightening at first, more-so than anything he'd ever had to go through, but then the fear had dulled as the leak went on. Anxiety and panic were replaced by contentment and confusion.
The feeling was like a needle being put directly into his brain, and the plunger slowly being pulled up to take the intelligence right out. It wasn't painful though, instead offering a dull pressure in his skull, which softened as the act went forward.
The panic-turned-apathy would eventually undergo another transformation, next morphing into a gentle, mindless pleasure; the copious 'copra-cornia' that filled out the seat of his diaper did a lot of heavy lifting in that.
He'd be left to his own devices afterwards, his usefulness expended. Depending on how much they took from him, he would either play like a child, or be reduced to little more than a primitive beast; it all was dependent on what was deemed necessary, with his input not asked nor desired.
He'd eventually come to, sluggishly and dazed, and in due time, his full intelligence would seem to return to him. This could be a matter of hours, or a matter of days, and it was completely incremental. In the time it would take, he would continue to make liberal use of the massive diapers that they taped him into; changes were sporadic, impossible to track.
Only once enough of his neurons were firing at full throttle again, would the gift of shame be bestowed upon him, and he'd feel the indignity of sitting around on a pile of his own smelly filth. The indignation would grow further, as his brainpower regenerated back to the genius level it had started at.
Such anger couldn't be longstanding though, because before he knew it, the next extraction day would come, and the whole process would begin anew.
In the between periods, as short and shallow as they were, he was relegated to a small facility that did little to properly accommodate him or his arrogance. He was a prisoner there, even if he hardly looked like one; he'd wear seemingly normal clothing, and be able to live a seemingly normal life, but it was truly all a sham.
Underwear hadn't been an option offered to him since the start of his captivity; if his brain was running normally, then he was still put in training pants, but at least given the option to use the toilet, which he obviously took any chance he could.
In the other times, he would be banished into diapers, as a necessary precaution before the procedure. The part of his brain that held all the required parameters for pottytraining, that was a part that was always first to be vacated, which would fittingly then lead to an evacuation down below. Within moments of the procedure starting, he would already be letting go of his bladder, or allowing a turd to squeeze past his buttcheeks unhindered.
It was anathema to him, to his pride as a brilliant scholar. He should have been out there changing the world, but as he was, he couldn't even be allowed to change his own soiled diapers.
And for what exactly? Cui bono?
That would be Dexter Dryden.
Dexter Dryden was a shrewd operator; he'd made his first million as a preteen, and he'd only become more powerful in the decades since. To most people, he was seen as a billionaire innovator who dipped his toes in all manner of industries; even as a personal victim to the man, Lyle had to admit that he'd once held a certain affection toward him.
At least until he discovered the truth, and more than that, became a crucial cog in the machinery of Dexter's illustrious empire. It was by the burden placed on someone like Lyle, that the illusion was allowed to continually subsist.
Dexter Dryden was no Leonardo da Vinci; hell, if not for his scheming, then it was unclear if he would even be a Gomer Pyle.
The man was a thief and a fraud, and he always had been. Nothing he owned was to be credited to his own merits, whether material possessions or intangible accolades. The man had never had to work a day in his life, as had been admitted by himself, whenever he'd been fully explaining the nature of Lyle's impending exploitation.
From the day that Dexter achieved true consciousness, likely around the age of two or three, he had not once achieved anything with his own two hands. Learning his numbers, shapes, colors, or letters? Stolen. Passing each grade throughout school, and even into college? Also stolen.
From what Lyle could gather, Dexter hadn't even learned how to talk, or operate a toilet. An irony, considering the state he left his victims in.
For the last thirty years, it was as if Dexter had been running a computer program that automated every milestone of his life, and if that program was to be shut off unexpectedly, then nothing he'd compiled would be saved. It was as if his entire cognitive existence was a tower of blocks, which could only grow higher, and if it were to ever topple, then he'd be right back at the very first level.
If he wasn't so consumed by his hubris, then such a terrifying tidbit should have been immensely sobering. It was a very precarious position to eternally be set in. All it would take, is to be trapped alone in an elevator for a day, and he'd likely be reduced mentally all the way back to infancy.
So, how could such an unbelievable set of circumstances be explained? That was less clear, but again, it had been by Dexter's own monologue that Lyle had been able to glean so much. As fantastical as it sounded, the man had some manner of mental superpower.
Perhaps something along the lines of being psychic? Or at the very least, it was adjacent.
Dexter could literally pull knowledge, or more generally intelligence, from the brain of anyone he came in contact with. The syringe metaphor was apt, because he drained brainpower from others, and then injected it into his own mind.
However, there was a flaw to this power. A flaw so glaring that it could unravel everything he'd ever done with the power:
It was temporary.
The intellect he stole wasn't permanently his own to keep; it was borrowed, like taking out an involuntary loan from someone, but still having to pay it back, with a tiny bit of interest too.
From day to day, for decades, the man had kept a chain of victims going; victims who would supply his brain the neurological scaffolding necessary to appear not only normal, but ultimately gifted. If Lyle had to guess, then he would assume that most of the early victims had been family, classmates or neighbors, and that the required haul had been far less taxing.
That was another intriguing point to consider: As Dexter grew his baseline of knowledge and intelligence, that meant that he needed either smarter subjects or a greater quantity of lower quality ones.
Lyle knew that was the case now. Dexter hadn't only caged him, but many others, so that he could harvest them at a moment's notice. The so-called 'think tank' that he'd arranged, of so many brilliant minds, had been little more than a trap. There were also a multitude of less gifted subjects, who acted as fodder to round things out, whose disappearance from society would go unnoticed.
It still burned him, that he'd been so easily tricked into coming. Lyle had been so certain that it would be an unbelievable boost for his career, and now he no longer had a career, at least not one outside of being bio-diesel for an egomaniac's brain. There would be no future where his name was in lights; there would be no future where his name meant anything at all.
The harshest part of his mind wanted to blame himself, but rational side was less quick to assign such guilt. When looking at it objectively, what else should he have done?
One of the richest, most important figures on the planet had sent him an invitation. Who would have rejected that? He'd flown in on a private jet, in luxury, to a private island where his every need was to be met; it had been nothing less than paradise, than a dream, at least until the nightmare had started.
After settling in and being pampered by the endless amenities, it had been Dexter who had wanted to meet with him personally, so that they could discuss his future. In all honesty, it wasn't a privilege that Lyle had at all expected to receive! His assumption was that he'd be coordinating with a liaison, since surely the billionaire innovator should have been too busy!
It'd made him feel special, and that'd put his guard down even further.
When it came time for that meeting of the minds, it would be just the two of them in an office. Drinks would be poured, cigars would be lit, and the story would unfurl. Not a story of the future, but a tale from the past.
Dexter's past.
It was a chronicle that spanned the entirety of the man's life, starting at his earliest memories, and going up until the very moment that he'd picked Lyle to play the next victim. Without any sense of empathy, he would describe with what could only be described as pride, how he'd used the people around him to long build himself up.
Preschool days, where Dexter's language abilities and basic motor skills, had been stolen from his older brother; there'd been a special mention of even toileting being something taken from the older boy, effectively admitting it was never a skill he'd developed himself. He chuckled at the consequences of this theft, mentioning how his older brother had been viewed as regressing, and later as brain damaged, all because Dexter had continuously taken such basic things from him.
This would only tone down as Dexter began to socialize with children outside his family, such as in daycare, preschool, and then kindergarten; having a wider pool of possible victims, also meant that he could spread out what he stole, as to not single any particular person out as being unnaturally damaged. It also gave his poor brother some level of respite, not out of kindness, but so that he could later be farmed for more advanced knowledge.
Some time in elementary school, he would finally attack someone older than him, a preteen, and thus his pool of knowledge would get its first taste of being advanced for his age. Shortly after that, he would target his first adult, an assistant teacher who he claimed had embarrassed him in class.
His feasting schedule would grow more complex, and his list of potential victims would grow wider, as he got much bolder. If he didn't tell his victims about his power, then they would have no memory of the experience, and would appear to just have lapses in their knowledge or intellect. He would be careful in his execution, making sure not to steal too much, unless he genuinely had to.
His ability to selectively parse information to steal was incredible, with niche content being the least troublesome to acquire without suspicion; ironically, it was the basic stuff that was problematic, as it would leave his targets far more noticeably impacted. The basic building blocks, such as talking, walking, counting, toileting, or reading, those were the things that were harder to steal.
When Lyle made inquiries about this, his morbid curiosity too great to be paralyzed by fear, Dexter would explain a downside to his power: while having any stolen intelligence or knowledge in his head, he was incapable of permanently learning anything new by himself.
That was why the basics had come so far out of reach for him, because to learn them for real, he would have to break the elaborate chain that he'd spent a lifetime cultivating. His stream of consciousness, his train of thought, everything that made him who he was, would evaporate if he were to start over from the beginning.
As he went on to wax poetic about the rest of his schooling, it would become more obvious how precarious his entire existence had become. At most, he could hold onto stolen goods for a couple of weeks at a time, and that was highly dependent on the simplicity of the wisdom being grasped, as well as the base resolve of the one it had been pilfered from.
To those of weak will, or a broken spirit, their knowledge was easiest to keep clutched closely; it explained the increased depth of Dexter's cruelty as he grew older, as he had to torment his 'food' to keep it fresh longer. He would insert himself into larger and larger social groups, playing the part of an affable leader, just to get a bigger supply to feast upon, and to expand the bounds of his knowledge to greater levels.
As disgustingly large as his ego was, he at least seemed self-aware of how none of his success could be attributed to any merit except his ability to hunt. Without what could easily be considered a unique form of vampirism, he would be but an unimportant, unintelligent husk, who required the same care that an infant would.
His empire was built upon the shoulders of many giants, none of whom were given credit, respect, or respite. The very island, the facility, that he'd acquired off ill-gotten gains, was full of the folk who would now be permanent spices in his cabinet; without worry of being caught, it also gave him a feeling of permission to drain them absolutely dry each time, and whenever he wanted.
No longer was the hunt a matter of day-to-day survival for him, but had become simplified; it was the difference between being a hunter-gatherer and then moving onto factory farming, and Lyle would become just another member of the cattle class.
Lyle would search Dexter's face, his words, for any sense of remorse; he looked for even but a morsel of humanity, and he came up empty-handed. Dexter had only ever deigned to steal what he thought valuable, and something as nebulous as empathy, had never made the cut. He only knew how to act as though he had such emotions, and that was enough.
By the end of the discussion, with the whole story revealed to him, the sedatives in his drink would take effect. Lyle would be too weak to fight back, as people came into the room to prep him for his first session as a donor to the cause. His clothing would be unceremoniously stripped from his body, and in their place, a large adult diaper would be taped on.
From what Lyle understood, the people who served as cattle on this island weren't given the same careful consideration that Dexter had extended to past victims. He didn't distinguish what to borrow, because there was no reason to try being cautious; it was a more simple matter to just take everything, even if that meant overlapping knowledge he was already carrying.
That was why all the island's dwellers, outside of the staff of course, were to be diapered for their procedures; Dexter wasn't about to put forth the effort to let them keep their pottytraining, and even if he did, he took too much intelligence away from them for it to be useful. It was better to just thickly diaper them, and let nature take its course.
With Lyle in proper attire, and too weak to stop what would come next, all he could do was stare in horror as Dexter came upon him with an outstretched hand.
The plunger would pull his wit, and as it did, he would feel his bladder and bowels emptying into the diaper taped to him. A warm emptiness would envelop his mind, while a warmer fullness enveloped his loins and backside.
It was terrifying, and it was pleasant, which itself only made it more terrifying.
The drool would seep past his lips, the snot past his nostrils, and he'd begin to lose all the pretty little words he'd so articulately wielded as a scholar; the diaper would continue to swell and sag, his mind rapidly resembling the intellectual quality of its smelly contents.
Dexter would take everything. He would drink Lyle down to the last drop, and then he'd carelessly leave his assistants to pick up the pieces. Lyle was nothing more than a resource to him, a piece of meat to sink his teeth into.
Lyle was just another mile of railroad that let Dexter's long sustained train of thought keep chugging along.
Unlike those who had given up though, Lyle was ready to derail that train. By any means necessary.
