Candy From A Baby
Nancy Porter rang the doorbell and waited. She had driven up the long
drive after pointing her identity card at the entrance gate camera. The
gate had soundlessly opened without a word from the attached speaker. She
knew Chauncey had to have pushed the button. Who else could it be? Th
house was empty, she knew, so she felt mildly irritated not to be greeted.
The Agency had instructed her to park in the rear and use the service
entry, according apparently to Chauncey's directions. This irritated her,
too. Nancy was no servant, not by a long shot, and she wouldn't start her
second stint as Chauncey Reginald DePeau's nanny by sneaking in the back.
Screw that! She was a professional and proud of it. Chauncey was lucky to
get her. She had signed on for the year's assignment with some reluctance
because it had been so soon after her last assignment, the one with the
obstreperous Deryl, a real handful. No, she'd enter by the front... She
turned to survey the beautifully landscaped grounds.
Her irritation highlighted what she didn't like about the whole thing.
Work was work, she thought, but it would all be so boring especially a
whole year of it, too...
The back of her calves hurt from the heels. She didn't mind wearing them
off-duty for real men, but she hated having to wear them for sissies like
Chauncey. It was such a waste. She couldn't wait to take them off. It was
the Agency's fault. According to Agency etiquette, heels were de rigueur,
especially for the first visit. Of course, as she had argued, this was not
her first visit. This was a return engagement. The Agency's euphemism
might be "acquaintance time for Nanny and her small charge...," but that
wasn't accurate. And that irritated her, too. Chauncey's wealth had
dictated her clothing choice
Nancy was not a tall woman and didn't look particularly strong and
dominant. She wore the Agency uniform for first meetings---a short pleated
navy blue skirt, tan hose, heels, and a simple white blouse that looked
like a man's shirt except that the sleeves puffed out at the wrists. The
fit, however, was tight and drew attention to her prominent breasts. Not
that Chauncey would notice much...
First impressions, however, were very deceiving in Nancy Porter's case.
She was fully trained in jujitsu and had earned high honors in
successfully handling opponents almost three times her size. There was not
an ounce of muscle on her small frame that was not put to good use
subduing her "tricks," as the Agency girls informally called the Agency
clients.
The song 'The second time around' played on the radio of the car on the
drive from the City and she couldn't get the lyric 'Love is lovier the
second time around' out of her head. That was also irritating. 'Love,' she
thought with disdain. It was such bullshit in the case of sissies... A
mockery of the real thing... A simulacrum... An empty shell... What Chauncey
DePeau felt for her---the reason he asked for her again---had nothing to
do with love or real passion or even sex... Of course, in its promotional
literature the Agency was not above playing on the hopes and fantasies of
prospective clients: "The relationship between nanny and client is a
delicate one and often takes time to establish and bloom. But once it
does, the intimacy, the personal and tender care extended, the reciprocity
between the two, often evolves seamlessly from one kind of care-giving and
dependency into something quite different and long-lasting."
It was all a lie! Nancy thought grimly. These obsessive, selfish little
perverts--- "pervs" as the Agency girls dismissively called them while
talking privately among themselves out of earshot of Agency personnel---
were no more capable of negotiating a loving, reciprocal relationship with
a real flesh-and-blood woman, with all its give-and-take and compromise,
than the two-year olds they pretended to be. No, no one would ever 'love'
loveable little Chauncey because loveable little Chauncey's fondest wish
is to be treated, in every respect, like a baby girl, and baby girls---the
last time any woman cared to think about i---hardly were very masculine or
made very good lovers... Well, Chauncey would be getting his fondest wish
satisfied in spades.
After Nancy Porter's 'training' and 'care' (two Agency euphemisms for
female domination and control), Chauncey DePeau, despite his vast wealth,
would be really stuck. He would be no more capable of any kind of romance
with a real woman, let alone marriage to her, than a real child would be...
Not when she was finished with him. He would be helpless on his own... He
would be stuck in babyhood forever... Not only would marriage not be an
option he wouldn't even be able to attract a girlfriend... After a few days
with Chauncey, even the most sympathetic young woman---or the greediest---
would give up the effort to rescue him. He'd have to suck on the Agency
tit forever.
Call the Agency, Chauncey, and order a nanny... It doesn't matter who...
Anybody will do... Sign up for a lifetime of servitude and dependency... It'll
all be so familiar... All your needs will be met... You'll have fun...
Like taking candy from a baby, she thought.
Nancy smiled to think about it. She was good and she knew it. In fact, one
of the Agency's best, what they called a "star." Yes, as the reader may
have already guessed, she took a grim satisfaction in her abilities... a
professional pride... She would crush Chauncey, pulverize him, and then
refashion him into what the Agency most wanted... Failure was not an option...
Yes, she could guarantee the outcome---he'd be a sissified pansy forever,
"a sweet, compliant baby girl," when she finished with him; he'd never
grow up. That's why the Agency valued Nancy so highly. She could
accomplish on a consistent basis what the Agency therapists admiringly
called in their psychobabble, "the creation and implantation in
impressionable clients of the Peter Pan syndrome," which translated met
making wealthy pervs lifetime dependents on the Agency!
Indeed, the clients she worked with over extended periods became "babies"
and they stayed "babies"! Since normal women are repelled by the
masochistic antics of adult babies and these pervs' only hope for sex is
masturbating by themselves, they are forced out of shame and need to come
back to the Agency again and again to get their "baby fix" (another
contemptuous term Agency girls use) with the nannies. Once Nancy is
finished with them, these guys are stuck in babyhood and will never
escape! She was pleased to know they come back again and again and beg for
Nancy... Her services, she knew, were at a premium... No other girl brought in
more income to the Agency...
By this time in her career she knew the Agency's line by heart: "Good
impressions call for a Nanny to tower over her prospective charge'---
["charge" was the Agency's tongue-in-cheek name for what the rest of the
girls called, in hooker patois, the "trick" or the "perv"]---'so the
higher the heels the better. Besides, heels are sexy and go with the
miniskirt and a tight top that shows off a nanny's breast. Makeup is
helpful, too, though not mandatory. Feminine accessories of course pique
the prospective client's interest, they often titillate him and excite his
erotic fantasies. After all, it's only for first impressions. The foot-in-
the-door kind of thing with impressionable, gullible, clients of all ages...
You push your way in... Play seductress if you have to, seize the
initiative, take charge---they all want that---stimulate his little bits
and pieces a bit if you need to at first, find out his fetishes and play
into his fantasies, make promises if necessary, just keep 'em vague---who
cares what they are? They don't matter in the end because nothing sexual
ever transpires---do all this until you're hired and the contract's
signed, the money's up front, and there's no backing out... Once the initial
'interview' is over and the contract's signed and in your hand and you're
in for sure, you can wear what you want... comfortable jeans and flannel
shirts and running shoes if you want... the most asexual costume you can
think of... It doesn't matter: Your little charge will be in no position to
protest..."
The guys who founded the Agency, all of them millionaires now, discretely
catered to the fantasies of very wealthy men and were nothing if not
cynical and opportunistic.
This was her ninth assignment and by far the most lucrative. Fifty-two
weeks at $4000 per week and tax-free... A cool 208K... She negotiated it with
the Agency's lawyers, and they in turn presented it as a done deal to the
trustees at Chauncey DePeau's bank. Take it or leave it, the lawyers had
told them. The trustees knew all about Chauncey's "eccentricities," as
they euphemistically called them always hoping he would "grow out of
them." As a body, they had called on him at his home when they learned he
wanted to sign on for a year's stint with the Agency---his first stint of
six months had been bad enough, but a year under the "tutelage of a
forceful young woman," as they put it, would easily endanger a portion of
his wealth. Chauncey was twenty-three and in his majority, and, though
normally compliant, he was stubborn when he had his mind made up. The bank
trustees looked at each other, rolled their eyes as if to say 'It's not
our money, thank God,' and signed on the dotted line.
She had to hand it to the Agency; it knew how to play hardball and when it
took off its velvet gloves and got down to the matter of cash inflow it
could be super-tough. She had no idea what it made on the DePeau deal, but
she suspected it was probably in the millions... But so what? She didn't
begrudge the Agency making money---she admired the entrepreneurs who had
founded the business---as long as it was also a sweetheart deal for her...
And it would be... Each week's check would be automatically deposited by the
Agency---no questions asked, no record kept---into her private Bank of
Bahrain offshore account. (The latter of course had been set up by the
Agency in her name).
Plus, as we have said, Chauncey's was a 'return engagement,' and the
Agency loved return assignments. They were the plumbs... easy pickins'... sure
money in the bank... hassle-free affairs where everybody involved knew what
to expect and nobody tried to 'back out' at the last moment ("renege on
the contract," as the Agency's lawyers called it). Clients in return
engagement were committed, they knew what to expect, they needed Agency
services and they knew what they were getting. There was no last-minute
hand wringing and cold feet to worry about.And the girls who achieved
return gigs were highly valued by the Agency, got paid the best, and
lucked out with the choicest assignments, the easiest and the surest, the
plumbs... where the guys---the "no-sweat pervs," as the girls referred to
them---did as ordered on first asking and didn't have to be whipped and
chained and beaten to do what they were told. And return assignments were
easier for another reason---the guys were already trained; the girl and
her "trick" both knew what to expect, there'd be no surprises, and a girl
could just pick up where an earlier nanny had left off... That is, if the
nanny were good... And Nancy knew she was very good... Very good indeed... Her
return assignment with Chauncey had been built on very solid foundations,
namely, her own...
Indeed, Chauncey Reginald DePeau had been ideal to work with from the get-
go in the first go-around. As we indicated, it had been a sixth month
stint, and Nancy remembered it as a piece of cake... like taking candy from
the proverbial baby... Chauncey was sole heir to the DePeau fortune in
timber, oil, and plastics... Twenty-one years old at the time, shy and
lonely and reclusive, no friends or family to interfere... A perfect doll... A
prissy little pansy eager to please... He was every Agency girl's dreamboat...
Sweet and cooperative, small and weak, easily dominated and bossed around,
a harmless, dependent little sissy even a small, less practiced Agency
girl than Nancy Porter would have no difficulty physically overpowering...
an emotionally stunted little perv who fell into immediate pathetic puppy-
love with his nanny and jumped to comply with her every 'request' to prove
his undying 'love' and 'gratitude' for her being there and deigning to
'care' for him... How sweet! During the first go-around, Nancy had
skillfully used his adoration for her---which had only grown in intensity
for the six months---to ensure his servility.
He had been her sixth charge and she had him eating out of her hand and
whipped into shape in less than a week. It took only a couple of days to
break his will and he was incontinent by the end of the week. Firmly
holding onto the baby reins attached to his harness, she forced him to
crawl about from day one. He couldn't stand and walk; he wouldn't dare
because that was one of Nanny's many "no-no rules." Despite the extra time
it took---a nanny has nothing but time with six months to fill---she had
him sit on his rear end on the first step of the stairs and either, with
his back to the top, bounce step by step up to the nursery or, facing
front-wards, bounce down to the kitchen. Nancy found the spectacle a
total gas and important in reinforcing his on-going humiliation. She would
shower him with mocking encouragement: "C'mon, Chauncey, dear, your crib
is waiting and we haven't got all day. I don't know anybody who makes more
noise climbing stairs on her fat tushie! 'Thud-thud-thud!' 'Plop-plop-
plop!' 'Squish-squish-squish!' Oh, what a noisy baby! I hope that isn't
poop I smell plopping about in your diapers; your behind will be a smeary
mess by the time you reach the top, and I don't relish having to clean you
up. Hurry along now... Upsadasy! Up you go!"
At the end of the six-months every stipulation in the contract had been
met. 'Dependence established, incontinence maintained, obedience
extracted, and all the rules followed...' It was hilarious: Chauncey had
graduated with honors and could serve as a poster-boy for the Agency's
success in turning sissies to "babies"... a deluxe success story... an
inspiration to every natural slave out there... Nancy was delighted to learn
later through the grapevine that Chauncey had been forced to remain in
diapers and baby panties for a year afterwards because it had taken him
months of painstaking effort, with plenty of setbacks, to relearn how to
hold his pee and poop. And an Agency girl told her that she had heard he
was so unsteady on his weakened, unused legs after six months of being
made to crawl that it took weeks for him to regain the strength and
agility to walk!
She recalled saying good bye after the six months. He sat diapered on the
parquet floor, his bare legs splayed in front of him and wearing his best
party dress in honor of her leaving. He held his right upper arm tucked
against his side, his forearm raised, and wiggled his fingers in the
iconic-sissy gesture of waving bye-bye... Nancy had taught him that gesture
and he was apparently oblivious to how little-girlish it made him appear.
Chauncey had always been a sissy, but now it had become pure second
nature. He had Nancy largely to thank for it. She chuckled to think of her
achievement---a baby for life. She remembered the hang-dog expression on
his face as she left.
'How will he negotiate his highchair without her?' she wondered. 'Good
luck, Little Fairy Girl! You'll need it.'
On the whole Nancy had good memories of the Chauncey. He had been easy to
handle and she was even fond of him, never so fond of him, of course, as
when she was leaving. But that wasn't unusual; all Agency girls felt the
same way, parting being such sweet sorrow, as they say... But Chauncey
really had been sweet: There were times, in fact, when he was so weak and
sweet and innocent-seeming that she had come close to forgetting he was a
perv and regarded him as a genuinely helpless toddler really needing her
assistance. And he had genuinely 'fallen in love' with her. His puppy-dog
look around her was proof... so was the way he longingly eyed her when he
thought she didn't notice, as was his ready obedience and willingness to
cooperate and his shy blushes, the way he couldn't look her in the eyes,
when she handled his parts during diaper changes and bathings...
Before she had left, he insisted on sitting in his highchair with pen and
checkbook and cutting her a bonus check for $5,000; he called it her
going-away gift and indicated that if she wanted to stay he would cut
another check for twice that amount. It was tempting because it would have
been extra income she wouldn't have had to inform the Agency of... She ended
up refusing, of course; the Agency had scheduled her for a new client. But
she was genuinely touched and grateful.
She rewarded him with a gift of her own. "Close your eyes, darling, pucker
your lips, and raise your head slightly so Nanny can kiss you. Yes, Nanny
wants a kiss-kiss!" It was unintentionally hilarious! Chauncey, strapped
helpless in his highchair, wiggled in delight like a puppy anticipating a
tasty treat, his first kiss ever and this one from a girl he worshipped!
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, puckered his lips, and raised his head,
as instructed. His whole body tensed. She took his cheeks in both her
hands, pulled his face close so he could scent her perfume, and presented
him with a pert, chaste kiss on the lips. He moaned in ecstasy and she
placed another on his forehead leaving a trace of lipstick. She then
patted his cheeks softly in a patronizing gesture that was lost on
Chauncey. She had to tell him it was okay to relax and open his eyes. She
giggled to see the expression on his face---pure pleasure mixed with
regret that it had all been so quick and was over... Poor Chauncey, he had
thought there was more to come... Just another miscalculation in a lifetime
already rich in such disappointments... Nevertheless, as we have said, Nancy
had been flattered and touched by his generosity.
***
Two years had elapsed since she had last seen Chauncey and now she was
back for a second gig, the longest in her career. Six months had been her
longest gig prior to this one and that had been with Chauncey. It was
difficult imagining a year with him. Just thinking about it made her a
little cuckoo. Girls at the Agency warned that gigs lasting longer than
six months burned a girl out, and Nancy could see their point. The money,
however, was simply too good to pass up. She would have to risk it.
Besides, if it had to be a year it was better it be with a Chauncey DePeau
and not somebody more demanding...
Most guys like playing the macho role at first in front of Agency girls.
It's like they have to get it out of their system before they can let the
embarrassing turn-on of diapers and plastic panties and party dresses take
over. The girls all get it. They call it "saving face." It's why nannies
have to come on like gang busters---they soften the tricks up with verbal
insults and taunting and then they practically have to assault the guys
physically, wrestle and overpower them, because it assuages the guys'
sense of shame to be coerced... That's how they deal with the stigma. The
'you-made-me-do-it, I-didn't-do-it-willingly' kind of thing... Such typical
guy-reasoning of course is rank self-deception---the girls know it and on
some level so do the guys, and the girls, once their power is established,
often use it to tease their "babies" and rub their faces in it---but it
helps the guys get over the initial hurdle. Even for a seasoned, well-
built, experienced Agency nanny, the first week or two can be exhausting
and incredibly draining---the rule of thumb at the Agency is that the
girls earn nine tenths of their salary in the first two weeks---but once a
girl navigates her way through the storm at the beginning, the rest of the
way is usually pretty clear sailing. Not always but usually...
However, fortunately for Agency girls, not every male is macho and needs
the type of behavior modification indicated above. A few are natural-born
sissies. (Chauncey was one of them) who see no point in pretending
otherwise. As we said, Agency girls have a word for them---"dreamboats."
They're the kind of perv who sees no point, if they ever did, trying to be
something they're not; everything about them screams passive and weak and
momma's boy---the world knows, they know, so they have nothing to prove to
anybody, least of all to women, particularly to their nannies. Like swishy
gay guys, girls may regard them as friends of a sort, but they hardly see
them as desirable dating material let alone marriage bait. So what's the
point of pretending?
So it's true: Chauncey's fate as a sissy---he was not gay---had been
sealed, his destiny prescribed, long before Nancy the Nanny had entered
his life. He had given up the game of being "a normal male," if there is
such a thing, in early adolescence, say, fourteen or so, when nascent
sexual feelings began to stir. In fact, he can even remember the exact
day: He was alone in his bedroom; he stripped himself naked, critically
gazed at his body in the full-length mirror and compared himself to what
other boys his age looked like. He was not reassured. Whereas other boys
were developing muscle and male definition, he could easily have been
mistaken for a third-grade child and not a very big one, either. It would
have been a joke for him to posture as a tough, swaggering high-school
kid. At seventeen things were no better for him. He would have stood out
on a beach in summer, an object of mirth and ridicule---guys would have
first gaped in disbelief and then hooted, while the girls, concerned about
the boy's feelings, would have tried not to laugh.
Or, to be a little kinder, the reader may get a better idea of how
different Chauncey looked from his peers by trying this (admittedly
peculiar and immodest) thought experiment. Pick at random ten naked boys
Chauncey's age, line them up in a row, and insert Chauncey among them,
say, the fourth. Next let ten girls the same age and suitably prepared for
the shock, each alone---so they can't pick up on any visual cues from each
other---inspect the boys carefully, front and back. Then ask each girl,
out of earshot of the boys and before they've a chance to converse with
one another, which boy was the least erotically appealing, the one they
would least wish to be seen dating in public, the one who looked least
masculine. The reader should get the point. Do we need to ask which of the
boys would "win" hands down?
The reasons were not hard to detect. Throughout adolescence and into his
early adulthood Chauncey looked decidedly immature and unmanly, thoroughly
soft and effeminate and---unlike with many youths who shed their baby fat
and grow out of their ungainly, awkward early adolescence on their way to
manhood---he seemed to go in reverse. In fact, all the most embarrassing
physical traits of childhood and adolescence only accelerated as he got
older. Chauncey was now twenty-three years old but, as we have indicated,
no one would have suspected because he looked years younger. Most would
have judged him not even to have reached puberty!
For starters, he measured just shy of five feet and weighed a little over
a hundred and ten pounds. Anyone paying him more than a passing glance
would be struck by a jarring contradiction: His upper body was pear-shaped
like a child's but below the waist he seemed to have the voluptuous body
of a full-grown woman! He had narrow shoulders, along with a little boy's
smooth, flat torso undefined by muscle. His thin white arms, delicate
hands, and tiny feet would have been appropriate for a girl half his age.
Yet a girl his own age would have envied him his legs---he had rounded,
dimpled knees, and the legs themselves, beautifully proportioned to his
size, were hairless and smooth and creamy white and tapered down to
exquisitely slim ankles. His derriere was also that of a well-developed
girl's---plump and pink, the two globes deliciously feminine and
invitingly spankable. On the other hand, as if to compensate for his over-
sized bottom, his male "package" in front was shockingly small, hardly
visible, despite being devoid of any pubic hair.
When Nancy first saw Chauncey naked in front she thought his wee-wee---she
never thought of it as a penis let alone a cock---compared unfavorably in
size to her own four-year old cousin's after emerging from his bath on a
cold winter morning! Nature indeed dealt the boy another bad hand: his
pea-sized testicles were also invisible even on close inspection.
Apparently they had never fully descended in childhood and were tucked
away inside the warm cavity between his legs. Nancy knew enough anatomy to
know that Chauncey was thereby rendered sterile. She supposed it was best,
with his great fortune, he was the way he was; if not, he might have
wished to sire a great family.
[As a side-note, we should add here that every Agency contract routinely
calls for the purchase and fitting of a chastity device on clients during
the first days of an Agency girl's assignment---both as an added physical
precaution for the nannies in case a rare client should get rambunctious
and also to avoid any liability issues for the clients themselves whose
assaults had to be warded off. In the case of Chauncey, Nancy had tried to
comply during her first assignment, but given his small equipment it is
not surprising she had a difficult time obtaining a suitable device tiny
enough to fit. It took weeks and a couple of failed attempts with devices
bought at the typical Agency-supported outlets. Finally Nancy remembered
an obscure, little-known specialty adult shop/tattoo parlor tucked away in
a suburban strip mall on the City's outskirts that she had known about but
never used. She was able to have the device custom-designed and delivered
within a week].
We would be remiss if we also did not describe Chauncey's face. It was
moon-shaped and oddly flat looking, like some kind of weird Paul Klee
print. But, like his body as a whole, it too was a study in contrasts. For
a young man his age, skin was noticeably unlined and his cheeks and chin
were soft and beardless. But what made the face truly effeminate was his
hair, the tawny-colored, Shirley Temple-like sausage curls that framed his
face---the result of the boy's dubious effort at seventeen, aided by a
strong-willed beautician, to style his natural curls into an androgynous
look that she convinced the inexperienced boy would start a trend and soon
be the rage among young Lotharios. Chauncey was bright enough to be a
little skeptical, but he nevertheless went along and later---seduced by
the 'glamour' of his look, as the beautician reassured him---decided not
to change it. These curls, small and tight against his scalp, gave his
face a saucy, pert look that screamed Shirley Temple. He felt that look
now would conform well to his new status as baby in the house, and he was
not wrong.
Keeping with this little girl-look, he possessed a child's tiny round
chin, a doll-like cupid bow of a mouth, and smooth, even puffy baby
cheeks. On the other hand, his upper face had a decidedly mature, big-girl
look: a perky, upturned nose produced a somewhat haughty affect. He had
big oval-shaped eyes, hazel-colored and exotic-looking, with prominent
black eyelashes that just begged for mascara and makeup, and a narrow
unlined forehead over which hung---again, another jarring contrast---
little-girl bangs that fell just above his finely arched eyebrows.
But if we stopped here the reader would miss the unique character of
Chauncey's effeminacy. What made Chauncey stand out above the rest was his
manufactured skin color, which was that of a Hollywood-style, geisha
girl's! And it will be instructive to tell how this anomaly came about.
The same beautician who styled his hair into Shirley Temple sausage curls
saw another easy way to extract even larger sums from her na?ve and
obsessed client. She suggested that, if he really wanted to do the 'sissy
thing' right, he could 'rejuvenate' and 'beautify' his skin by a month-
long process of immersing himself daily in special baths containing exotic
mixtures of oleaginous creams, oils, and ointments from the Orient, to
which of course she alone had access and could obtain at cost. She assured
him that many women were unhappy with the dull, tired, traditional look of
the average male. They were tired of the average male; they wanted
something different, something more exotic and attractive. What, she
asked, could be more exotic than silky smooth, milk-white skin, along with
his sausage curls? This new look, she promised, was likely to set a trend
and attract girls by the car-load. Chauncey, easily duped, paid her a
small fortune. She supplied the goods and then disappeared without a trace
while he dived into his month long regimen of daily baths only at the end
to discover to his horror that instead of the smooth, unblemished skin he
had been promised, his complexion was now that of a nineteenth century
antique doll---shiny as porcelain, waxy-looking, and creamy white! What
was worse, no amount of scrubbing or bleach could remove it. The
beautician had neglected to inform him that the powerful dye, seeping into
his pores for a month, had no antidote. It was permanent!
We have perhaps said enough for the reader to understand Chauncey's
unwillingness to venture outside and risk being a freak-show object of
curiosity. But sadly this isn't the end of our description of Chauncey's
appearance. We need to say more. So far we have described his limbs, face,
and skin and how bizarre and effeminate they looked. But a human body, for
better or worse, is a gestalt---something more than the sum of its parts.
Seen in all its glory on that fictional beach we mentioned above,
Chauncey's body as a whole would have provided him even less reassurance.
It was bad enough that he looked like a little girl. But there was
something worse, something subtle and indefinable, barely discernible to
many and easily missed especially by guys, but it was a rare woman who
would fail to notice it.
Chauncey looked babyish---there is no other word for it---he looked at
twenty-three like an overgrown toddler. No girl who gave him more than a
casual glance could mistake that look---it made him repulsive and at the
same time curiously fascinating...
He was slight in build, to be sure. But his body's short frame had a pudgy
and "unfinished" look to it, almost as though it lacked a full skeleton.
This is the way babies look... Where sharp angles and defined muscle mass
should have been for someone his age and gender, Chauncey instead had soft
edges and rounded curves. His body had a flabbiness and puffiness to it,
like one of those big balloons high above the Macy Day Parade. But that
wasn't all. Chauncey walked like a toddler. His movements were awkward and
herky-jerky, he waddled and swayed unsteadily as if drunk, and---like some
comic caricature of a '50s sci-fi movie monster---he twisted his body side
to side, his arms swinging out from his sides as if bracing for a fall. On
a beach, physically effete and waddling along like an infant, he would
attract immediate attention and people would stare fascinated to see him
make his way in the sand. People would not be able to shake the uneasy
feeling that this weird sight on the beach lacked something---a mother
beside him to take his hand!
***
Chauncey Reginald DePeau... Sole heir to the Depeau fortune in timber, oil,
and petrochemicals used in everything from plastics to fertilizers... Now
that Chauncey had passed the age of his minority, the trust and all its
assets, hitherto administered by the Country's largest and most
prestigious bank, was now his. He could milk it at his discretion. Of
course, Chauncey would want for nothing. Price would never an obstacle, it
would never stand in his way, it would never even be considered... The
world was his oyster... The irony of course was that, though the world may
have been his for the taking, Chauncey was a deeply flawed little man, a
neurotic reclusive, for whom the world, even the smallest part of it
beyond his palatial grounds, would always be beyond his grasp. It would
always be off-limits. He was a prisoner in his own house as surely as if
he lived in a cage.
Chauncey was pathologically shy. He was morbidly fearful of being made fun
of, and unfortunately that fear was not baseless. One glance at Chauncey
would only confirm that he would be the butt of some jokes and teasing.
Plus, Chauncey loved to crossdress despite the shame it made him feel (or
perhaps because of the shame). His father had died when Chauncey was a
baby so that male role model was lost to him. His mother, never strong or
robust and never much engaged in raising the boy, was an invalid for most
of his childhood and adolescence before dying when he turned eighteen. As
a consequence, she had farmed out his care to a series of largely
indifferent nannies, female tutors, and one no-nonsense, overly strict
governess, all of whom did nothing to enhance any male self-image he might
have developed.
By sixteen his mother was confined to a sick bed, and despite her tepid
and ineffectual protests he had collected from eBay and other interest
sights a huge selection of girlie and baby clothing in which he began
parading about the house and occasionally, when he felt particularly
daring, even before his mother. In the privacy of his bedroom, he spent
hours trying on his new wardrobe, everything from baby rompers to
sophisticated ensembles fit for Vogue, from ankle-length sheer d?collet?
gowns to little-girl party dresses with puffed sleeves and short, thigh-
high hems.
He would stand or sit staring at himself in the full-length mirror, posing
at different angles and in different costumes. In a mildly schizoid
fashion, he would first fantasize his image in the mirror, say, as the
belle of the ball and then, alternately, imagine his male persona before
the mirror a dashingly handsome young man who would sweep her off her
feet. At the same time that he would be projecting his female persona---
himself in drag---onto the mirror, her one-dimensional image would be
reflected back at him as a real, flesh-and-blood young woman---the belle
of the ball, the dream girl he wished to possess---and he would be---on
this, the real side of the mirror, but only in his mind---the imagined
hero who would take her!
This dialectic of image playing off reality, reality playing off image,
and then image off of image, took on increasing strength until finally his
little erection would explode into his lovely, soft undergarments.
Exhausted performing his two-character masturbatory "play" in front of the
mirror, Chauncey would swoon and sink to the floor. Over and over, day
after day, he dressed up in his finery and played these pathetic roles in
dramas of his own making. Eventually solitary play-acting became so
habitual, it became so safe to lock himself away in his bedroom and
masturbate to the fantasy du jour, that he came to prefer masturbation to
the risk of a real relationship with a girl... He needn't have worried.
Despite his tempting wealth, the world---least of all any attractive
women---made no attempt to beat a path to his door.
There was one traumatic incident, however, that we would be remiss not
telling our reader, and that for two reasons. First, it cemented forever
Chauncey's pathologic worry of being ridiculed and made fun of in public.
Second, it will give the reader a better idea why, given Chauncey's
experience and temperament, the Agency was so attractive to him, both for
its quiet discretion and commitment to privacy and secrecy, as well as for
its insistence that baby assignments longer than a week be conducted on
the clients' premises.
Sometime during his late teens Chauncey began to feel the temptation to
move his dress-up performances from the privacy of his bedroom to the
outside. Of course, he did not want to share them with an audience
friendly or otherwise. That was not the point. Being outside did not mean
being in public. Instead, after the relative confinement and
claustrophobia of his bedroom, he wished to expand his horizons and enjoy
the delicious caress of soft breezes on his bare legs and arms, the
summer's heat penetrating his every pore, and fresh air caressing his
face. Moreover, being outside, no matter how safe from exposure he was
staying within the grounds of his property, was risky compared to his
bedroom and he found the risk of possible exposure in his finery scary but
also sexually titillating and exciting. Finally, being outside also gave
wider scope to his fantasies. For example, he could imagine himself a
charmingly lonely and helpless Victorian girl, lost in romantic
reflection, stealing a forbidden midnight stroll on the grounds of her
strict father's estate. Then he could picture himself a bold cavalier, a
Robin Hood of masculinity and power, emerging on horseback at the edge of
woods to the left; then he could imagine himself sweeping down on her and
carrying her off!
The DePeau estate was located far from the City at the end of a hilly,
winding country road dotted here and there by similar estates. It was in
the exclusive so-called "horse country" where wealthy gentlemen farmers
worked in the City all week and escaped to their beloved thoroughbreds on
weekends. Bordering the road was a tall iron privacy fence topped with
forbidding spikes and backed by thick foliage and leafy shrubbery spaced
sufficiently close together to keep the occasional passersby from
scrutinizing the grounds. It also had an electric gate, with the latest
digital technology to guard against intrusions. From the gate to the house
was a half-mile long, serpentine drive with large overhanging maples and
elms spaced ten and fifteen yards apart. The house was effectively
concealed from view.
Chauncey planned his outings with uncharacteristic daring. A little after
midnight on warm, moon-lit summer nights, Chauncey took to walking up and
down his drive in his finery. At first he was extremely anxious and every
unusual night sound nearly led to panic with a hurried return to the
house. But eventually over several days he accustomed himself to the night
and gradually calmed himself. He never felt completely safe and
comfortable in his costumes and always had some fear of detection from the
road. However, his rational mind assured him he had nothing to fear---
Chauncey's estate was at the road's end and the road even during the day,
not to mention at night, was never well-traveled by cars and even less so
by pedestrians.
Nevertheless, as we have indicated, the risk of detection, however remote,
did provide our sissy's pathetic little nighttime soirees from the house
with a frisson that was immensely stimulating and erotic. He loved the
night heat that produced tiny beads of perspiration on his carefully made
up face, and the light night breeze that swirled his knee-high skirts and
bathed his smooth arms and legs in coolness felt like a lover's caress.
His little wee-wee, safely tucked away in feminine pretties, engorged and
swelled to its full, unprepossessing length! But Chauncey didn't care
about masculine issues of size: He was too busy waiting impatiently for
the hero-cavalier on his stallion to ride forth and rescue him!
One night, rather than his elaborate Victorian costume, he decided to play
Little Girl Lost. He chose to wear his darling pink party dress over
several petticoats. He carefully prepared himself before his make-up
mirror until he had created the exact little-girl sissy look he desired.
He took the antique Victorian lady's parasol and, placing it on his
delicate shoulder, sallied forth from the house. It was an intoxicating
night. The full moon bathed the estate in its soft glow and, though
bright, seemed to conceal as much as it revealed. Chauncey, convinced he
was unseen, swiveled his hips in an exaggerated way and sashayed down the
drive; he smiled to think of himself mincing along the moonlit drive
coquettishly twirling his parasol and tossing his pretty head with it
golden locks and saucy sausage curls. He felt so seductive and desirable!
He imagined a hundred male eyes in the bushes lasciviously drinking in the
pretty sight of him! He was dressed as a cute little girl for a costume
ball at midnight. Would his cavalier come for him? Would the latter
dismount and, gallantly taking Chauncey's soft, thin white arm, crooking
it through his own and letting it rest lightly on his well-muscled
forearm, walk him to the ball? His imagined cavalier, so dark, strong, and
handsome---so unlike himself---made Chauncey feel deliciously small and
vulnerable and at the same time completely safe and protected.
The boy had never felt so excited or liberated! The night was delicious
warm! He felt he could melt into it and disappear... With a joyful yet
subdued sway of his hips he laughed out loud with the sheer pleasure of it
all and skillfully twirled his skirts about in a coquettish display of
girlish pride and excitement. 'I am a girl! I love it!'
He felt the night air on his soft bare legs as he swirled about and his
skirts lifted. Flinging his head from side to side in dramatic abandon, he
waved his arms in slow, serpentine undulations and fluttered his small,
delicate hands. He swiveled his hips to and fro in an exaggerated, highly
provocative fashion, as he imagined some exotic dancer on stage would do
for her audience. The moon bathed him in its glow. He was both dancer and
audience, male and female. Dancing with abandon and drinking it all in...
Performer and voyeur---all in one! It was intoxicating! He felt utterly
wonderful! Utterly feminine, utterly erotic, and utterly at peace with
himself! There was nowhere else at that moment he would rather have been
than alone under the summer moon on the driveway of his own estate! His
eyes filled with tears---such moments in his life had been noticeable by
their absence...
As the boy approached within sight of the gate, he stopped abruptly. He
thought he had heard a voice. It couldn't be! But then his blood chilled--
-the gate was ajar! Somebody had opened it! Somebody was on the grounds!
Suddenly he heard muffled giggles in the dark behind him and swirled in a
panic around to confront whoever it was. Two robust teenage girls, dressed
in jeans and tee-shirts, emerged into the clear moonlight and faced him a
few yards away.
They raised their cell phones and readied to take his picture. Chauncey
was frozen. "Steady now, dear. Smile for the camera..., this will only take
a second. Then we can post them on Facebook... Hold it now... Smile, Baby...,"
one of the girls, a blonde, instructed as though the boy were posing
before her without complaint. Her voice was commanding yet casual, as
though she were doing the most ordinary thing in the world taking
Chauncey's picture on this moon-lit night.
Like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights, Chauncey could only
gape in fear and amazement. The flashes went off and he could hear more
giggling, louder now and more self-assured. They moved closer to him.
Despite his terror, he found his voice. "Stop this, get away, and get off
my property!" He was not pleased with the sound of his own voice. Instead
of sounding full of authority and command, it came off as a cross between
a whine and a squeal. He just couldn't pull off any self-assurance let
alone toughness; his voice was simply too high and squeaky. He was too
shocked and scared.
The girls, predatory and alert, could sense Chauncey's near panic and it
gave them confidence. They put away their phones and approached the boy in
the most casual way imaginable, as if they knew exactly what to expect and
had nothing at all to fear. Of course they didn't have anything to fear,
their prey was a little bunny. He was certainly no fighter; they had known
that by his clothes. He backed away in fear but was slowed by the
unfamiliarity of his footing and having to back up in a mass of
petticoats; he almost lost his balance. The girls stood almost a head
taller than Chauncey, were obviously stronger, and were therefore in total
control---in fact, as far as Chauncey was concerned and compared to his
slight build and passivity, the two girls might as well have been the
toughest, most brutish boys in the neighborhood!
"What's with his skin?" asked the slightly taller girl, a blonde and the
evident leader, to her companion. "He looks like he's seen a ghost. Look
how white he is... Is that his natural skin! Jesus, he's practically
glowing!"
"Probably scared... 'Thinks we're gonna beat him up... Are we?" answered the
other, a brunette, smiling conspiratorially and giving the blonde a
knowing, sly wink that was not lost on Chauncey.
They leisurely ambled up before him invading his space. They had seen boys
at school intimidate smaller, defenseless kids this way and they
instinctively copied them. Standing only inches from him--- he could smell
the fragrance of her cologne---the blonde asked with mock sweetness as she
would a child, "May I have your pretty little umbrella, Sissy?" Hoping to
placate her, Chauncey handed it over without demur.
She accepted it with exaggerated politeness---"Oh, thank you s-o-o-o-o-o
much, Sissy! You are just s-o-o-o-o sweet!""---and struck a provocative
pose of a little coquette---bending her left arm and tucking her elbow to
her side while holding the parasol delicately in her right hand and
resting it lightly on her shoulder, she held her knees together, tilted
her head at a slight angle, batted her eyelashes, and slowly twisted her
body to and fro in the iconic pose of the shy little girl. At the same
time she twirled the parasol with her right hand.
It was a spot-on mockery of what Chauncey had been doing seconds before on
the drive when he thought wrongly he had been alone and unseen. She
lowered her voice to a sultry, sexy murmur: "He loves me, he loves me not,
he loves me, he loves me not..."
Then, like some latter-day Julie Andrews, she suddenly spread her arms,
leaped into the air and spun herself in several wild pirouettes all the
time twirling the parasol about her head. Hopping and prancing about in
sultry night in front of Chauncey, first on one foot then the other,
twisting her body and doing skilled pirouettes balanced on her toes, her
long, unbound blonde hair undulating in the night air, cascading down her
back and bouncing off her shoulders. She made a strikingly pagan sight,
almost eerily beautiful and pagan in the moonlight, lithe and graceful,
and immensely erotic. In those seconds she morphed from pedestrian
teenager to bizarre forest nymph or pagan goddess. The other girl, the
brunette--- not without a little envy---was awed by the spectacle. Minutes
before they had watched Chauncey dance like a little girl trying to mimic
a woman---he was sweet and charming and innocently erotic. But now this
wanton vixen was showing them both how sophisticated and uninhibited---how
downright sexual---a real woman is, not some little cheap facsimile. Poor
Chauncey, our little hermaphrodite condemned to a lifetime of androgyny,
who will remain a virgin for life by the time Nancy is finished with him,
could only stare in terror.
Then---as if to break the spell cast by her bacchanalian revelry---she
sang, in a phony sing-song child's voice, a loud and exuberant, "La! La!
La! La! I feel pretty... Oh so pretty... So sissy and prissy and shy..." It was
so unexpected, such a truly inspired thing to do and---if we forget poor
petrified Chauncey for a moment---singing this silly lyric was genuinely
hilarious: The blonde vixen had a real talent for mockery and humiliation
and was a skillful dancer to boot!
Finally she came to a stop directly in front of Chauncey and, panting
heavily from her exertion with sweat running down her face in rivulets,
she nudged him playfully. In a teenager's universe of non-verbal cues,
certain non-discursive behaviors and gestures count as a kind of
communication, a kind of unspoken 'language,' but of course you have to
know your way about in such a universe, you have to get its meaning. For
example, the kind of nudge the blonde gave Chauncey might serve three
functions: It might serve as a peace offering; it might also have a
flirtatious connotation---'I like you and hope you like me.' Further, it
could mean a request for the boy's impression of her skillful dance, with
the hope attached that he might offer a little praise. It could mean any,
or all, of these things.
But poor Chauncey had no idea how to read teenage tea leaves! He had no
clue, he was lost. He had no way of knowing that she was vain enough to
want a little praise even if it had to come from a sissy; he couldn't
fathom the possibility that a girl like her might be intrigued by a boy---
so different from the boring, stereotypical boys she knew---who dared to
be out in drag; he had no clue that she might be considering just for a
flickering moment how much notice she could attract if she hung around
after school with a sissy---people might notice her the way the noticed
Goth girls and other cool types. No, Chauncey suspected none of this... In
his ignorance he had no idea his fate with the blonde might be hanging in
the balance.
The nudge had felt like a punch, it made him stumble and almost fall, and
he just barely was able to recover himself. In an effete, whiney high-
pitched child's voice, he cried hysterically, "Don't! Stop it! That hurt!
Leave now, I tell you... One more second, and I'll call the police! I tell
you, I will! I will!"
He didn't notice the blonde's face suddenly harden into sudden anger and
massive contempt. Now he'd done it! Shaking her head in derision she
merely laughed and repeated his words making sure to catch his voice's
exact inflection.
"'Oh! Oh! Oh! You hurt me! I will call the nice policeman to come and save
me from the awful girls! I will! I will!'"
The brunette, fully cued now to her role in this bizarre performance,
replied in mock reproach, "Oh, Maureen, don't be such a pansy-wansy! No
one's gonna hurt you... It's just us three girls here, after all, playing
nicely together! Don't be such a panty-waist!"
"But I'm so scared to death, Jackie! The two girls are so big and strong.
They might hurt me... They might even spank me... Ohhh, I wish there was a big
handsome boy here to protect me! He wouldn't let these girls be mean to
me!"
Chauncey tried to stand his ground but it was a losing battle. The angry
blonde repeatedly poked her finger into Chauncey's chest challenging him
to stop her, and he continually gave ground. With a powerful flick of her
wrist, she hurled the valuable antique parasol through the night air. It
spun like a helicopter blade and disappeared into thick brush twenty-five
yards off the drive. A harried Chauncey watched its flight and, as the
girls threateningly moved in for the kill, the boy lost what little
composure he had left. Tears flowed down his cheeks and he began gasping
for air. He was near fainting from fear.
"Stop!" he almost gagged with desperation when suddenly a new idea
occurred to him---maybe he could negotiate. "You're trespassing and the
police will punish you... Leave now and I won't tell... I promise!"
"Oh, I don't think you want the police to see you dressed like a little
girl, do you? They might think you're weird and arrest you. We'll even say
you tried to lure us on to your property to molest us... Who do you think
they'll believe?"
Chauncey was beside himself. He had to admit she was probably right; there
was no way he wanted the police on his property. There would be publicity...
reporters maybe... and cameras... A small scandal... they would see him
crossdressed and make fun of him...
The brunette laughed in mockery, "No, I don't think he wants to involve
the cops... Not if he doesn't want to be taken to the big 'ole scary police
station and have to wait for his mommy to come down to fetch him home..."
At this point in the confrontation, both girls were bumping up against
Chauncey forcing him with each contact to almost lose his balance. As we
said above, they were copying bullies they had seen at school; they were
doing to Chauncey what bullies did to weaker boys. The girls got to enjoy,
with their very own sissy, exactly the same power rush the bigger,
stronger boys got.
Chauncey had been home-schooled by tutors, so he was a complete stranger
to bullying. He saw this continuing physical contact by the girls as the
beginning of an escalation to a more serious and dangerous assault. So, to
protect himself, he simply made things worse: In true sissy fashion, he
made tiny fists, bent his arms at the elbows, tucked his upper arms
against his sides, and raised his forearms to his chest; then with a
furious, piston-like motion he began beating the air directly in front of
him. Their jaws dropped in disbelief as each stared transfixed at this
comic display of pansy impotence---Chauncey carefully made sure he didn't
touch either of his presumed targets. The girls looked at each other and
laughed. The sissy was attempting to defend himself but was terrified that
any contact with his nemeses would elicit swift and sudden vengeance and
retaliation. It was an object lesson in ineffectual sissy power and just
doubled their contempt for the boy.
"Oh, my, my, my... You're so big and strong... And what a fighter! You're just
so masculine... For a tiny, little girl, that is...," joked the blonde while
her dark-haired companion nodded in agreement. "But it's not very nice, is
it, for prissy little girls to fight? They might get hurt... or dirty and
messy... Then Mommy'll be angry with them, won't she? We don't want Mommy
mad at little Sissy, now do we? She might punish her little sissy... 'Send
little sissy to bed without his din-dins. That wouldn't be nice, would it?
So put your little fisties down and be a nice little girl for Maureen and
Jackie... Okay?"
Before he could think to react, the brunette quickly maneuvered her way
behind Chauncey while the blonde in front gave him a sudden, rough push.
He fell against the girl behind him and she gripped his thin upper arms in
a tight vice and pinned them against his back. Chauncey went limp, there
was no use struggling, he was too weak to free himself and the girls knew
it. He sobbed in distress. He thought of screaming for help but realized
that the nearest neighbor was a mile away down the road. Plus, he didn't
want to anger the girls even more. Besides, a little voice from somewhere
in the back of his mind told him it was wiser not to give these monsters
the satisfaction of knowing how much they terrified him; it would only
make matters worse and prolong his awful ordeal.
In a more normal voice the blonde continued, "We've been watching you take
your little nightly strolls for a week, Sissy Boy. Each of your outfits
was so cute and each one sexier than the last... It took us three days to
figure out you were a boy, for Christ's sake! When we finally did, why,
the two of us had a hard time not making a rush on you from the bushes!
And the way you sashayed down the drive each night in your strapless gowns
swinging your butt and hips... We could hear you talking to yourself, or
were you talking to somebody you wish was walking beside you and holding
your hand? Some big stud, say... a real lover boy for a candy-ass like you...
someone who would take you in his arms and you would resist a little but
soon give up and he would plant a big kiss on that pretty mouth of yours
and press up against you so you could feel how big and hard he was... Yeah,
you were so glamorous and pretty in the moonlight... A lot prettier and
sexier than the way you're dressed tonight. Why do you want to look like a
little girl? Do you think you look sexy? Well, you don't, honey... You just
look infantile and stupid, like you belong in some kind of beauty pageant
for preteens... Or not even preteens but a beauty pageant for prissy four-
year olds... So tonight we just had to get pictures of you. We can't wait to
put them on Facebook. They'll go viral and you'll be the rage of every
pedophile in the Country! Won't that be so much fun, Sissy Boy?"
The brunette was beginning to tire holding the boy's arms in a hold; she
whispered between her teeth for her companion to hurry up, they had to be
leaving. Chauncey's hopes suddenly soared. But the blonde wasn't finished.
She had one more humiliation to attend to: "Not until I check under the
hem of Sissy's pretty party dress and see how big her wee-wee is. Do you
even have a wee-wee, Sissy?"
The brunette giggled and told her to hurry as Chauncey began ineffectively
to twist and turn to free himself from the coming ordeal. The blonde bent
slightly and lifted the party dress's hem which was at mid-thigh; she
tantalizingly let her fingertips play along the inside of the boy's creamy
thighs just above his knees. God, he really is girly, she thought. She
made tantalizing little swirls and circles on the inside of his leg and
provocatively made her way to his crotch.
"Hmmmmm, smooth and soft... So girlie...," she teased.
Chauncey wanted to kick and scream, but the girl's sexy stroking silenced
him and kept him still and passive. The blonde chuckled as she felt
Chauncey's body tense and heard him draw in a deep breath. This was her
first time with a sissy, and she was a little surprised that, in terms of
his being touched by a girl, he wasn't any different from normal guys. She
would have to revise her thinking about sissies, that they were all gay.
For his part, Chauncey was feeling delights at this girl's fingers
caressing his thigh he had never felt before and---given his future
dedication to asexual babyhood at the hands of Agency girls---would
unlikely ever feel again in the flesh.
But just as suddenly as these sensations washed over him, they were gone...
His sexual initiation was over aborted in the act... The blonde's hand had
reached Chauncey's plastic panties. No, it can't be, the girl thought,
this can't mean what I think it means... She stuck two fingers beneath the
panties and felt the wet diaper! Her hand recoiled as if she had touched a
snake.
"Ewwww... he's wearing a fucking diaper!"
"No! Really?" the brunette responded incredulously.
"And it's wet, for Christ sake!"
"God, that's disgusting!"
Chauncey's wee-wee, which had been hardening at the blonde's sensual
touch, fell suddenly flaccid. The brunette let go of his arms, too
disgusted to continue having the least physical contact with him, and gave
him a firm shove away from her. The blonde stepped deftly out of his way
as he clumsily stumbled forward and almost lost his balance.
But he was free of the girl's tight grip! He began, as best he could in
his petticoats and party dress, to run up the drive back to the house. He
heard screaming and thought the girls were in pursuit, but the screaming
turned out to be his own, not theirs. But, just in case they were behind
him, he did not dare take a moment to glance back. It was like a
nightmare... By the time he saw the lights of the house, Chauncey was
wheezing and coughing from the exertion, flailing his arms wildly and
stumbling in his Mary Janes on the slippery and unfamiliar driveway
gravel. In a hysterical last burst of speed he bounded up the front steps
and threw himself through the open front door. Exhausted, he collapsed in
a heap on the parquet floor.
He was hyperventilating, and he heaved up his late dinner while
simultaneously releasing his bowels into the diapers. He was paralyzed
with fear as he listened in vain for the tread of girls' approaching
footsteps in the night telling him he was theirs and all was lost. The
only sound he could make out, however, was the noise the cicadas made.
Slowly he quieted. He was too weak to get up, so instead he folded himself
into the fetal position and regressively stuck his thumb in his mouth.
After an obsessive hour of torment rehearsing the night events over and
over in his mind he fell into an unquiet sleep. He woke at dawn and made
his way to his bedroom not forgetting to close and lock the front door
just in case the girls were still about the property. He made a mental
note to call the security company to do something to make the gate more
secure.
Do we need to add by way of conclusion to this sad story a coda? Chauncey,
reclusive by nature and now completely traumatized, never dared return
down the drive to retrieve the parasol? It was found a few weeks later,
battered and soaking wet, by one of the estate's landscapers who took it
home, repaired it, and gave it to his young daughter; it became her
favorite accessory when she played dress-up in front of her full-length
mirror...
And so luda continua!
***
No, Chauncey never forgot that night. He stayed inside his estate. He
admitted his cowardice. He shied away from challenges, the thought of
competition struck terror in his heart, and he avoided chance encounters
with women, above all girls his own age. His goal was to stay cocooned in
his mansion free from minimal social contact. Deliveries were left at the
door; landscapers were paid by mail, repairmen received house keys to let
themselves in while Chauncey retreated into the far reaches of the house
to hide. He hid behind shutters and curtains and never answered the
doorbell.
The Agency, however, would prove to be Chauncey's salvation. And Nancy
Porter would become the love of his life. A love, of course, she never
reciprocated... And his salvation, if you can call it that, came at a stiff
price---a lifetime of abject, forced babyhood, without hope of release...
***
Nancy Porter knew Chauncey's history as well as anyone. She had of course
worked with him intimately for six months. She had also poured over the
Agency tapes and files entitled "DePeau Interviews, Second Set." Every
prospective client, or returning ones like Chauncey, must submit to hours
of interviews by Agency therapists. This tedious and boring process, as
long as it is necessary, is designed to weed out dangerously deranged
individuals. But additionally it is necessary for discovering what clients
really want as opposed, say, to what they may request after only a short,
superficial interview. Indeed, therapists know from experience that
everybody, even those with every intention to be open and frank, distorts
or even lies about his sexual needs and preferences. It takes hours and
hours to ferret out the truth.
She spent hours listening to Chauncey speak ploddingly of his past and his
future "goals." She wanted to know everything, every detail that would be
helpful in babying him, everything to make the process go smoothly.
Nothing escaped her notice. She even knew of the midnight capers while
dressed in drag and the traumatic encounter with the teenagers.
The therapists' summary was enlightening and confirmed much of what she
already knew: Chauncey was a harmless, self-absorbed narcissist,
neurotically shy and reclusive, and severely ambivalent about women. Real
women--- women who knew their own mind, women his own age and older, grown
and mature, with real, especially sexual, needs, ones they were not shy
about expressing---terrified him. That's why he wanted so desperately to
be babied: He didn't want real women around him making demands on him as
an adult least of all as an adult male; instead, he wanted a mommy, a
nanny, an unsexed angel, someone who---around him at least, in his baby
world, on his own turf, so to speak---would have no needs of her own and
live to administer only to his. That's what made being a baby so
attractive---he wouldn't have to do anything, and everything would be done
for him. He could be extraordinarily 'graspy' and selfish and get away
with it because he was a 'baby'!
So, on some deep level, Chauncey feared women, and that fear often easily
merged into hate. They were incredibly powerful agents of adult authority
and so to be feared, but they were also secret objects of his lust and
unobtainable because of their power and the contempt they displayed toward
him. So to pay for his selfishness and the fear bordering on hate, Baby
Chauncey had to pay a price. There had to be