Your Saving Grace -- (Author) newt

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Author: newt
Timestamp: Dec 5, 2024 at 2:50 PM
Content: This is a story I started a while ago but kinda lost momentum in finishing. Haven't added any chapters since April. But I figured I would post it here, and if people are interested in me continuing it, then I'd be motivated to pick it back up.

Prologue“Are you excited, sweetie?” Grace asked.

As you felt the ride jolt forward, saw her beautiful smile looking down at you, you bubbled with excitement. Everything was perfect.

Nothing mattered but the next few minutes. Grace was there with you. You were so loved, so happy. Your troubles were nothing but a distant memory, powerless over your euphoria.

"Yes, Mommy!"

A grandmother, still waiting in line with her grandchildren, watched you and Grace as you sat down, her own mind swimming in nostalgia. Memories of taking her own son on this same ride so many years ago warmed her heart.

She understood nothing was more important to mothers than this. Their toddler would never remember this moment, this trip to Disneyland, their excitement of the Peter Pan ride. But his mother surely would. A cherished memory that would live on in her heart for the rest of her days.

Before you turned the corner into the ride, Grace caught the eye of the older woman. No words were said, but Grace intuitively knew what that smile conveyed. Call it a mother’s intuition. She returned the smile before turning her attention back to you, picking you up, and placing you on her lap.

You may have been lost in excitement, but Grace steadied herself, determined to take in the entire experience.
Chapter OneYou felt Grace shiver beside you; the office was far too cold. The office lacked any kind of warmth. Not only was it freezing, but it was sparsely decorated, its furniture uncomfortable and unwelcoming.

Yet, you knew she wasn’t shivering because she was cold. She—like you—was overwhelmed by nerves. Both of you know what’s at stake with the test results. A positive diagnosis meant both your lives would fundamentally change.

The file sat ominously on Dr. Gooding’s desk. He picked it up, reviewing its contents. His face revealed no information one way or another as he read through its pages.

Grace grabbed your hand, squeezing it tight. You looked at her, failing to achieve a self-assured smile. Grace made no attempt to hide her anxiety. Her eyes reflected her deep concern.

Dr. Gooding removed his glasses. He closed the file, placing it back on his desk.

“Is everything okay, doctor?” Grace asked shakily.

Dr. Gooding sighed. “I’m afraid not; both of your bloodwork has come back positive for the virus.”

Grace made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Her hand squeezed yours so tight you worried you might break a bone.

You were happy for the pain. It offered a distraction from the maelstrom of terror engulfing your mind. Everything you two had worked for—your entire lives—were thrust into uncertainty. Nothing would ever be the same.

You heard Dr. Gooding continue, “Unfortunately, it appears it is sufficiently advanced, beyond our capabilities, to reverse or even slow its progress. There is nothing we can do to prevent the virus from running its course. Unfortunately, Mr. Johnson will physically regress in size.”

Dr. Gooding’s words echoed in your head. It wasn’t a death sentence—but it might as well have been in your mind. You were doomed to physically shrink back to childhood. If you were “lucky” you’d at least end up a bit older, old enough to at least maintain some independence. But if you weren’t…

You hear Grace’s voice. “Sorry, Dr. Goodwin, but I’m confused. If we are both positive, why did you only say my husband would regress?”

“It appears your husband transmitted a variant of the virus to you. As I’m sure you’ve heard, this particular variant can only be spread sexually. While it does inoculate you from the regressive virus, it does have its own physical effects. For women, its effects resemble those experienced by mothers after childbirth.”

You saw Grace’s eyes go wide in terror. “So I…I’ll become my husband’s mother?”

“Not medically, no,” Dr. Gooding responds, “But you may come to feel like it. Your hormones will spike, creating a bond between you and your husband scientifically identical to that created when a mother holds her baby after giving birth.”

You feel both pairs of eyes falling on you. You fight the urge to run out of the office. To run until you can’t physically run anymore. The thought of your wife becoming your…mother overwhelmed you. Almost as much as knowing you were about to shrink down to being a child.

“Wh-what about Chris, what will happen to him?”

“Based on the huge number of viral bodies in his blood, as well as the advanced state of the infection, I would estimate he will regress to anywhere around the size of a newborn to four-year-old.”

Grace’s gasp felt as if it might cause you physical harm. She stood up, engulfing you in a hug.

“It’s okay, Chris, it’s okay, I promise. I’ll never abandon you. I’ll be with you every step of the way. I love you so, so much. No matter how much everything changes, my love for you won’t. We will get through this.”

You hug her, unable to say anything. What could you say?

“How long does he have, doctor?” Grace asks.

“Not long, two, maybe three months. Based on his symptoms so far, such as periods of incontinence, joint pain, and headaches, it’s clear the process has already begun.”

You manage to ask the only question you could think of: “Will…will it hurt?”

Dr. Gooding sighs again. “Unfortunately, the process can be quite painful. Those who chose to let it happen naturally often report it feels as if someone is constantly chipping their bones away with a hammer for months.”

“What do you mean, ‘those who chose to let it happen naturally?’” Grace asks.

“Well, we can override the immune system, essentially giving the virus free reign in the body. In such cases, the virus works in only a few hours. When such a path is chosen, the patient is put under anesthesia until the process is complete overnight. The process is, essentially, painless.”

“And what about his mental acuity? Will Chris maintain his mind and memories?”

“Yes,” Dr. Gooding confirms, “The virus appears to have no mental or intellectual effects, only physical. Though in patients who physically shrink to toddler size and below, the emotional regulation center is often affected by the change, leading to emotional dysregulation common in actual children.”

“Okay, thank you, doctor.”

“No problem, Mrs. Johnson. I understand this is a lot to take in. I have an available appointment next week should you choose to speed up the process. I’ll need to know by Monday if you want it. Additionally, I have registered your diagnosis with the Department of Children and Families, who will be in touch with you shortly to discuss your options. I’m so sorry.”

Dr. Gooding excuses himself. Leaving you alone with your wife. You look into each other’s eyes, unable to fight back the tears.

Ten minutes into the drive home, Grace had given up on the conversation, giving you space to process your diagnosis. You noticed her frequent glances over to you, checking on you, hoping you were about to open up.

You were glad Grace offered to drive home. You doubted you’d safely handle driving given the enormity and intensity of your despair. So great was your fear and anguish you weren’t sure if you were even thinking complete thoughts. You felt as though your thoughts were in a blender, shredded and homogenized, feeling each emotion of them in broken pieces, swirling in your mind.

One thing was certain: your life would never be the same. Dr. Goodwin’s estimate echoed in your head like a playlist comprised of one song on repeat. You would end up somewhere between a newborn and a four-year-old.

What satisfactory life could you possibly lead as a toddler? Or worse, a newborn—trapped in your own body, unable to walk or talk? A permanent baby.
If it weren’t for Grace, you’d consider another equally permanent option. Surely death was a better option than this? But you knew it was not an option. You’d suffer through anything for Grace.

You’d do this for Grace. No matter what you lose in the future, you’d accept it for Grace. This would be your final gift to Grace. The last gift you can give her before the virus takes away your dignity and independence.

You knew there would be many long, emotional conversations ahead of you this weekend. It wouldn’t be fun or easy. But for now, all you wanted to do was sit in silence, mourning the loss of the future you worked so hard to build but would never enjoy as an adult.

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Author: newt
Timestamp: Dec 5, 2024 at 2:54 PM
Content: PrologueAll the voices at the party faded away. You didn’t care what they thought anymore. You were hungry and tired. You just wanted a full belly. Nothing else mattered.

Grace held you close to her body, adjusting you to lay perfectly on her lap to feed. A blanket covered you, though you knew it was more for her privacy than yours. Everyone knew what you were doing under the blanket anyway.

Grace smiled, knowing how far you’d come to this point. It hadn’t been easy. Feeding had been a struggle at first, even in private. You’d throw tantrums and even try to go on food strikes, though eventually, you’d always give in.

But here you were, contentedly feeding in the middle of a party. Her good little boy. She knew your adult mind still resided in your brain, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore. Adult mind or not, you were her little boy. One who needed his Mommy to care for him and fill his hungry little belly.

You’d be asleep before you finished, giving her much-needed time to hang out with her friends and enjoy the party. She wasn’t there for your sake, after all. You may have shrunk down to a toddler and lived your life as one, but she was still the same 27-year-old woman who needed to socialize as an adult with her friends. Babies weren’t in her five-year plan when you shrank two years ago, but she got one anyway.

Not that she was unhappy with the situation. Caring for you had been more fulfilling than she ever imagined. She loved being needed by you. She loved caring for you, even when you cried out in the middle of the night with a messy diaper. It was all worth it.
Chapter Two“Babe, we need to talk about this. We can’t keep ignoring it. Whether you want to admit it or not, it will happen.” Grace insisted, trying to balance compassion with bluntness.

Neither of you talked about your diagnosis last night. Not that Grace hadn’t tried. But you wanted nothing to do with it, pretending everything was fine as you pounded one Old Fashioned after another. Eventually, Grace gave up, deciding there was no use discussing it with you while you tried to drown your sorrows in bourbon.

You woke up to a wet bed and a pounding headache, feeling even worse about your situation than before. You knew you couldn’t keep running, but the thought of having this conversation turned your blood cold.

What were you supposed to say? How could you look your wife in the eye and discuss what you wanted when you shrunk down to who knows how small? To discuss how you wanted to be treated and cared for after all your adulthood was stripped away?

“Not now, babe,” you say meekly.

“Yes, now,” Grace retorted firmly, “Dr. Gooding said he needs an answer by tomorrow if you want to do the procedure. If you decline, you’ll do the process slowly and painfully. Either way, it’s going to happen. Ignoring it won’t change it.”

“Okay, okay,” you answer wearily, more to keep her from raising her voice and soothe your pounding head.

“I know it’s not easy, babe. I know it sucks. And you know I love you more than anything. But we need to be prepared and on the same page. I will be with you every step of the way. I just need you to open up and talk to me.”

“It’s just a lot, you know,” you lament, “How am I supposed to be a good husband when I need you to do everything for me?”

“Don’t you worry about that, Chris,” Grace assures you, “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like you chose this or are some lazy degenerate who doesn’t do anything for his wife. This is beyond our control. If you think like that it will drive you crazy.”

“It’s easy for you to say—you’re not the one shrinking,” you demure.

“That’s true, I’m not, Chris,” Grace responds, “But don’t think for a second you’re not the only one this affects. You’re not the only one struggling.”

You want to argue, to yell that it’s not even close to the same thing. Physically shrinking and losing your adulthood is way worse than having to care for you. But you can’t. You knew you’d probably throw up before you finished. “Whatever,” you say.

“Stop being so immature, Chris,” Grace scolds, “It’s fine to take this hard, but how you’re acting is making things worse. I’ll make this easy, just answer this: do you want to do the procedure, or do you want to shrink naturally.”

You glare at her. Where does she get off scolding you and calling you immature? But you’ve already made that decision, at least. You want the procedure. You hate pain, you’ve always had a low pain tolerance. Three months of pain only to end up in the same place sounds horrible.

You also know what taking the appointment means. It would be set for Friday, giving you less than a week as an adult, which is almost worse than physical pain. Almost, but not quite. “I want the procedure,” you concede.

“Great, thank you for working with me on that, I’ll call Dr. Gooding first thing tomorrow. I figured you would, considering how much you complain when you stub a toe,” Grace adds, trying to sound playful but failing to achieve it.

“Real funny,” you respond flatly.

Grace blushes, “Well, that gives us a little less than a week to prepare for it—and to enjoy the last few days of your adult body. What do you want to do this week?”

You truthfully didn’t know. It felt like being diagnosed with a terminal illness and coming up with plans to check things off your bucket list. Except this week wouldn’t end with you dying, just the death of your adulthood, freedom, and autonomy.

Grace watches you think. “Well, I have some ideas, Chris,” she says, “If I have one last week with my fully grown husband, I intend to make it as worthwhile as possible. You won’t be the only one losing sex.”

Even though you knew deep down you’d lose out on things like sex, it wasn’t something you had thought about. And hearing it out loud made it sound even worse. Yet, you couldn’t let your pride get in the way, if it were your last week to have sex, you’d make the most of it. “That sounds good.”

“I think a week of your favorite birthday sex is the least I can do, babe. And we can go out and eat at all your favorite restaurants and drink at all your favorite bars. One last week of hedonistic pleasure.”

You lean in to embrace Grace to start the week of pleasure she promised. But as you do, your stomach lurches, causing you to dry heave.
“I think maybe you need some Advil and breakfast first,” Grace laughs.

The next few days were admittedly some of the most fun you’d ever had with Grace. You had quit your job, as you obviously wouldn’t be working after this week anyway. Grace had also started her leave from her work, taking advantage of the unique policies created after the virus spread throughout the country.

You took full advantage of your time together, trying to work a lifetime of sex into a few days. And you were succeeding. Sex was the only time you didn’t think about your waning time as an adult. For a few minutes, it didn’t matter. Grace and the pleasure you shared with her was the only thing in the world.

It wasn’t all fun, though. Between your lovemaking, there was work to do. Humiliating, soul-crushing work.

Preparing your new nursery was its special kind of hell—walking into baby stores, cheerful employees greeting you, asking when you were expecting your baby, only to take a few steps back as you reveal they were for you. Shopping for the crib you’d be relegated to, the changing table you’d invariably need, the diaper pail you’d inevitably fill destroyed what little ego you had remaining.

You set up your nursery together, never acknowledging it was something you expected to do for your own baby, not for you. It didn’t need to be said. It was somber work. Not even Grace’s cheerfulness could change it.

At least you didn’t have to shop for your clothes and diapers, you thought happily—that would have been even worse. Since you didn’t know how far you’d shrink, there was no point. At least now. You never let yourself dwell on the fact that you still would do that shopping—and that you’d do it in a very different manner.

You still held out hope you’d shrink down to a size that meant you’d keep most, if not all, of your control and wouldn’t need diapers at all. You had surreptitiously googled potty training ages and were confident you shrunk down to a four-year-old size you may escape a diapered fate.

You did your best to avoid thinking about your life if you shrunk down any farther than that, despite Grace’s efforts to discuss it. Grace suggested you try different baby foods, wipes, and other accessories now when you can still communicate your feelings.

“It’s better to do it now, Chris,” Grace suggested, “At least you can tell me what flavors you love and which you hate. Things you won’t be able to do if you can’t speak.”

You never entertained it, though. You wouldn’t be shrunk that small, you assured yourself. Why suffer the humiliation of sampling baby food for nothing?

The last night you had together was one of the most difficult nights of your life. You held Grace like never before, enjoying what little time you had together. Unlike the last few days, your lovemaking wasn’t wild, debaucherous, and fast-paced. No, it was slow, tender, and passionate. It was like savoring the last few bites of a delicious meal.

Your bodies communicating what words could never hope to convey. You stared deeply into each other’s eyes, reveling in every moment of pleasure, desperately trying to pause time to stay here, in this moment, forever.

But time is fickle and cruel. Before you knew it, and long before you were ready, you found yourself in the car, heading to Dr. Gooding’s office. A heavy silence filled the air, suffocating you. You wondered if this is how troops felt as they headed off to war, to an uncertain future, knowing it might be the last time they embrace the love of their life.

Of course, you weren’t going off to battle. You didn’t expect to find the horrors of war. You faced another kind of uncertainty. There wouldn’t be any danger. But it was still the end of life as you knew it. The home that you would return to would be unmistakably different than the home you left.

You felt Grace grab your hand, silently squeezing it as if she knew what you were thinking. You squeeze it back, your feeble smile betraying your attempt to look confident.

“Chris, I know you’re scared. I am, too. But I love you and no matter what happens here, I will always love you. Do you understand? Nothing will ever change that.”

Thirty minutes later, you found yourself lying on a bed in a hospital gown. Grace stood next to you, holding your hand and smiling down at you, doing nothing to hide the tears in her eyes. Dr. Gooding and three other doctors, nurses, and assistants were busy preparing the room for the procedure.

You felt strangely calm, given the situation. It didn’t matter that your life was about to change radically. Not right now. Through all the commotion, you stared into Grace’s eyes, time finally, mercifully feeling as if it agreed to slow down.

“I love you so much, babe,” you say, hoping she understood more than what was said.

“I love you too, Chris,” she responds.

The last thing you hear before your world fades into blackness is Grace.

“Always.”

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Author: newt
Timestamp: Dec 5, 2024 at 2:58 PM
Content: PrologueA sudden bump startles you awake, though your eyes and body remain heavy with fatigue. You don’t know where you are or what’s happening, though you feel you’re moving.

Your mind is hazy, sluggish. You vaguely feel as if you’re on a roller coaster, as you think you’re strapped into your seat. You have no memory of getting here or why you’re here, riding a roller coaster.

With a monumental effort to fight off the overwhelming urge to return to sleep, that quiet, dreamless place you emerged from, you slowly open your eyes. It’s dark, you can barely make out any details. It’s not a roller coaster. It’s a car.

You’re not sure if you’re awake or dreaming, especially as you look down at your restraints. You don’t see your usual body. No, it seems like a toddler’s, strapped into a car seat, poofy diaper unabashedly poking out.

You can’t see who is driving, but you assume it’s your Mommy. This must be a dream or a memory long since forgotten from your childhood.
Your eyes feel heavy again. You’re losing the battle to stay awake. You’ll laugh about this with Grace when you wake up—telling her about your strange dream. You let yourself drift off again.
Chapter ThreeYou feel yourself lifted by your feet. Something large is grabbing you, pulling your legs upward. It’s a foreign, unnatural feeling. What’s happening?

Something cold is rubbing between your legs and butt. You shiver and try to kick your legs to no avail. Whatever is holding you is too strong.
You fight your heavy eyes to look at what’s happening to you. As you try, bright light floods your eyes, forcing you to shut them. You try again; same thing.

You take stock of your body. Something is in your mouth. You’re instinctively sucking on it. Fear starts growing in your mind. Are you being held prisoner, bound and gagged?

You feel another round of rubbing. It’s cold and uncomfortable. On and on it happens. It pauses. You hear crinkling. You feel yourself being lowered down, your body lying flat. There is something under you. It is padded and thick under you.

Something is sprinkled on you. Seconds later, you feel a…no, that can’t be right? A hand? It’s far too big to be a hand. But as it rubs the powder in, you know it is a hand, however impossible it must be.

The same hand wraps around your legs before you’re once again lifted into the air by your legs. More powder is applied before its rubbed in. Who is this massive person so easily handling you?

You’re returned to the ground. Despite your terror of what you’ll find, you try to open your eyes again. This time, your eyes are better prepared for the light, though details are still hard to see. What you can tell, though, is whoever is touching you is a woman—a large woman. She towers over you.

The padding you lay on is pulled upward to your stomach, forcing your legs apart. You hear Velcro ripping before the padding is secured to your left side. Then to your right. Whatever it is, it's tightly secured to you.

You try to focus on the giant woman in front of you. You meet her eyes as a massive smile flashes across her face.

“Good morning! Did I wake you? I hoped to have you in a fresh diaper before you woke up! How are you feeling, baby?”

That voice was definitely Grace. But how was she so big?

“G-Gwace?” you squeaked, started by the high-pitched sound of your voice, adding to your fear and confusion.

“Yes, baby, it’s me, Grace! I’m here!”

“What-what’s happening to me?” you whimper.

“Awww, it’s okay, baby. Everything is okay! You must be confused, that’s all. You’re home with me, Chris. Your procedure went perfectly, no problems at all!”

Everything comes flooding back. The virus, the procedure, last night. Despite understanding what’s happening, the terror doesn’t recede. If anything, it’s intensified.

You understand why Grace is handling you so easily. You’ve shrunk down to who knows how small. This wasn’t a dream—you wouldn’t wake up a full-sized adult.

You feel whatever is in your mouth pulled out. Grace leans over you, smiling.

“I know it’s scary, baby. But it’s okay.” She picks you up. You feel her strength. She picked you up with little effort. You’re put on her hip, face resting on her neck.

As your eyes fully adjust, you watch as she carries you downstairs from your nursery, sitting on the couch. She sits you next to her.

You look at your body. You realize you’re wearing nothing but a baby diaper. But that’s the least of your concerns. You put your short, stubby hands in front of your face, terrified at their size. Your legs are no bigger. You must be tiny!

Grace tickles your belly. You laugh despite your fear.

“Do you want to talk about it, Chris? I think you’re big enough to talk, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes,” you say, once again shuddering at the pitch of your voice.

“Okay, good. Well, according to Dr. Gooding, you shrunk somewhere around a two to three-year-old. Toddler size, essentially. So you should be able to walk. Isn’t that great?”

Great is hardly the word you’d use. But at least you weren’t shrunk down to a baby. Still, “toddler” echoed in your head. You’re the size of a toddler.

Tears well in your eyes. You can’t be a toddler. You’re a man. You’re an adult. Not a toddler.

Grace notices your tears, “Oh, baby, don’t cry! It could have been so much worse! You could have been so small you couldn’t walk or talk! This is so much better! I was so scared I wouldn’t be able to talk to you again!”

“I don’t want to be a toddler!” you shriek, “I want my old body back!”

Grace’s hands wrap around you, pulling you up to her. She rests your face on her breasts, massive compared to your head. “Shhh, shhh,” Grace coos, “I got you, baby. You can let it all out. It’s okay to cry, Chris.”

You don’t even care your cries are indistinguishable from a baby. You couldn’t stop crying even if you were. Crying feels good.

As you wail, you feel Grace stand up, gently rocking and bouncing you on her hip. She kisses your forehead. She’s whispering something, but you can’t make out what she’s saying, too consumed in your wailing.

After what may have been a few minutes—or a few years—you begin to calm down. Your cries grow softer before turning into more of a gurgling sob. Grace wipes your face with a tissue.

“Are you feeling better, Chris? That was a good cry, huh? Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

You look up into her eyes, tears still distorting her face, “’M sorry, Grace,” you mutter dejectedly.

“You have nothing to apologize for, baby. You hear me? Nothing. You just woke up to a new body and a new world. Who wouldn’t cry in that situation?”

“I-I guess so.”

“I know so, sweetie. Now, do you have any questions? I’m sure your mind must be swirling with them!”

Grace’s hand shifts under you, crinkling your diaper. “Do I really need to w-wear d-diapers, Grace?”

“I think so, at least for now. Maybe we can eventually potty train you, but for now, you won’t have any control. But you have nothing to be ashamed about. Diapers are nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ll change your diapers forever if I need to!”

As much as the thought of wearing diapers terrifies you, you cling to the hope you might be able to potty train, however humiliating that would be. Anything to stay out of diapers. “Okay, I guess that’s fine. When can I try potty training?”

“Why don’t we wait a few days and see how you adjust before we worry about that?”

“Can I see if I can walk?”

“Not today, baby. Dr. Gooding said you need to wait at least 48 hours before you try. Your body went through a lot last night. It needs a few days to recover and heal.”

Of course not, you think piteously.

“Are you hungry?”

As she says it, you realize you’re starving. “Yeah, I’m starving!”

“Okay, I’ll grab you something from the kitchen!” Grace says, walking over to some kind of device.

“W-what’s that, Grace?” you ask as she starts lowering you.

“It’s a baby walker. It will help strengthen your legs while supporting you. And it will keep you out of trouble while I’m in the kitchen.”

“I’m not a baby, Grace! What kind of trouble will I get into? I don’t need that!”

Grace lowers you into the baby walker anyway, carefully sliding your legs down before you hit the supports. You feel you’re diaper between you and the straps, you’re hyper-aware of it. Your feet barely reach the ground. You can move them, but most of you’re weight is supported by the baby walker.

“There,” she says happily, “All safe. And you look so cute!”

“Grace, stop! This is humiliating enough!” you tremble, horrified of how you must look.

“I’m sorry, honey. I don’t mean to tease you! It’s just I can’t help myself! I want to eat you up!”

“Whatever, can you just get something to eat?” you grouse, desperate not to have an audience for your humiliating new chair.

Grace walks away to the kitchen. Once she disappears around the corner, you try to escape from your mortifying prison. You try to push yourself up with your arms to swing your leg under the straps. But your arms are far too weak to succeed. You try to use your legs to help your arms but fail again. Nothing you try is remotely successful.

You’re trapped. In a baby walker. How did your life come to this?

Giving up on escape, you try to walk towards the front door. If you can just reach the door knob, maybe you can pull yourself up by holding on to it. It’s slow work. Your legs barely provide enough strength to move forward.

As you get to the door, you reach for the knob. Your hands barely reach the bottom of it. You try to reach higher. You’re almost there…

“What are you doing, baby?” Grace asks.

“I, um, nothing,” you splutter.

“Sure doesn’t look like nothing. I’m glad I put you in your walker, I didn’t know you’d be such a little troublemaker!”

“I’m not!” you whine, “I just don’t need to be trapped like a baby!”

“Well, if you keep acting like one, I’m not going to trust you!”

You notice Grace carrying a bottle of what must be milk. “I want food, Grace! Not a bottle!”

“You can’t have solid foods yet, Chris—Dr. Gooding’s orders. Your stomach needs to readjust to itself. Hopefully you’ll be able to eat solids again!”

“What do you mean ‘hopefully?’” you fretted.

“Well, it’s common for the regression virus to lose the capacity to break down solids, especially those around your size. It’s quite possible you’ll need…well, we’ll worry about that later.”

Grace leans down and grabs you from the baby walker. She takes you back to the couch and sits down. She grabs a blanket on the couch and spreads it with one hand. You feel her lower you onto the blanket. Before you can react, she starts wrapping you in it, like you’re someone’s Chipotle order being wrapped in a burrito.

“What are you doing?” you ask in shock as your arms and legs are pinned down by the blanket.

“Just swaddling you to make feeding you easier!”

“Sw-swaddling? Why? I’m not a newborn, Grace! I don’t need to be swaddled even if I did shrink!”

“Hush, baby. It’s just easier for me to do it this way.” Grace says, moving you onto her lap. Before you can argue, she shoves the bottle's nipple in your mouth.

You suck without thinking. It tastes…surprisingly good. Really good, actually. You greedily suck, desperate for more.

Grace watches you, smiling. It feels so strange to be held like this. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so focused on your bottle. You happily feed for 15 minutes before you finish. You’re pleasantly surprised how full you feel.

You feel pressure in your stomach. Grace places a rag on her shoulder before you’re shifted onto it. Grace gently but firmly, taps your back in a rhythmic manner.

“What a—” you start to ask before a massive belch escapes from your mouth.

“Sorry, baby, but you need to be burped after you feed! It will make your tummy feel so much better!”

She burps you for another ten minutes. Even you are surprised at how much you burped. But it did, truthfully, make you feel much better.
Everything seems to be moving so fast. You feel like a passenger in your own life, at the mercy of Grace’s whims.

You have no idea how you’ll adjust to this new life. Not like you have a choice.