Mitchell's Quiet Room Experience
The toddler room breathed with a carefully curated atmosphere of early childhood development. Soft educational posters lined the walls, depicting alphabet letters and smiling cartoon animals. Shelves overflowed with meticulously organized toys—wooden blocks, soft plush animals, and educational puzzles that spoke to careful, structured learning.
Dean entered the room with Mitchell, his movements deliberate and calculated. Mitchell’s large frame seemed to consume the carefully designed space, his adult body a stark contrast to the miniature furniture and child-sized play areas.
“Today,” Dean announced, his voice clinical and detached, “we’re going to work on your developmental skills.”
The other children had been moved to another area, leaving Mitchell and Dean alone in the sterile, controlled environment. Dean’s hands moved with practiced efficiency, stripping Mitchell of his shorts. Mitchell’s cartoon t-shirt hung loosely, a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of childhood.
“Crawl,” Dean instructed, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
Mitchell’s large body awkwardly positioned itself on the floor. His hands pressed against the cool, sanitized surface, knees spreading to balance his adult-sized frame. Each movement was a struggle—a grown man’s body attempting to recreate the natural, effortless crawl of a toddler.
Dean circled Mitchell, his eyes calculating. “You need to learn control,” he muttered, more to himself than to Mitchell. “Complete submission. Complete regression.”
A deep rumbling began in Mitchell’s stomach. The pressure built slowly, deliberately. Dean’s voice cut through the silence. “Push out that fart. Then mess your pamper.”
Mitchell’s body tensed. With a childlike effort that belied his physical size, he pushed. A loud, wet fart erupted—unmistakable in its volume and texture. The sound ricocheted off the carefully painted walls, a jarring interruption to the room’s carefully maintained silence.
Immediately after, Mitchell began to load his pamper. The warm, soft sensation spread across the back of his pamper, growing heavier with each moment. The pamper expanded, sagging under the weight of his involuntary release.
Dean moved closer, positioning himself with calculated precision. Without warning, he pushed his own fart directly into Mitchell’s face. The smell was an assault—putrid, intense, designed to overwhelm. Mitchell turned away, his child-like mind struggling against the sensory invasion.
“Naptime,” Dean said simply, his tone devoid of any emotion beyond clinical detachment.
He lifted Mitchell, carrying his loaded, stinky pamper to a secluded room. A small cot awaited—tucked away, isolated, removed from the world of normal childhood. Mitchell was deposited onto the cot, left to rest in his messy, warm pamper.
The room fell silent. Only Mitchell’s breathing remained—a child-like consciousness trapped in an adult’s body, completely vulnerable, completely controlled.