Gentlemen’s Agreement
By Musuko

I could tell by the hesitation in his voice that something unwelcome was going to come. I steeled myself, waiting for Mike (not his real name) to speak. His breath faltered down the phone line.
	“Small problem.”
	Oh hell.
	“The new boy,” he continued. “Well...he’s not as pure as you normally like. A little older too. Is that okay?”
	I exhaled. “For fuck sake, Mike. You trying to give me a heart attack?”
	“What?”
	“I thought you were gonna tell me something really bad, like the police were at your door or something.”
	A laugh down the line.
	“It’s not fucking funny, Mike.”
	“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. So, about the boy?”
	“How old is he?”
	“About ten, I think. Eleven maybe. That okay?”
	“Hmm. A challenge. Give me a month?”
	“Sounds fair to me. I’ll drop him off tomorrow. Later, Stevie.”
	Stevie, of course, is not my real name either.

I waited upstairs while the van departed, until my phone buzzed with a text. “He’s all yours.”
	I always enjoyed this part. The final moment of anticipation before the reveal. I floated in the warm excitement of a kid on Christmas morning as I made my way down to the cellar. I clicked on the light to greet the crate, normal in every respect. Well, to me at least. A crowbar sat propped up against it, a routine gift from Mike, there to open up the larger gift within.
	Here goes.
	I jammed the crowbar into the wooden seam and gave it a good wrench. The screech of tearing wood and protesting nails accompanied the lifting of the lid. And there beyond...yes, I could just hear it in the silent moment that followed; the quiet sound of breathing.
	I pulled the lid up and away, letting it teeter on its end for a moment, before crashing to the floor. Down within, in the dark, confined space, stinking of piss and fear and curled up as tightly into the corner as possible, trembled Mike’s present for this month. A sweet little cheetah boy, naked, only just on the right side of puberty, with his arms pulled behind him (I wonder if Mike went for rope or cuffs this time), a fat ball gag stuffed deep into his muzzle and held in place with a leather head harness...and a pair of glaring eyes that were drilling silent threats of death into me.
	Well, that was new.
	I drummed my fingers on the lip of the crate. I stared at him, and he stared back. There’d be claws there. And teeth. And I could see lean muscle in that rather fetching body of his. I would have to be careful. This wouldn’t be an easy little five year old, eager to please and avoid a spanking.
	A noise. A growl. Definitely a growl. Muffled by the gag, but a growl all the same.
	“Ah. Well. Hello there,” I said, pleasant and cheerful, hoping that Mike had remembered to secure his wrists to the floor of the crate. “Excuse me just a minute while I get this ready.”
	I fetch the little capsule from my pocket and hold it carefully between two fingers. With even greater care, I reach down to within range of the angry boy, who had now started to tug against his wrist restraints (caught a glimpse; combination-locked leather cuffs. Good old Mike. Combination 6969, as always) and wriggle away from me. He swung his legs out and lifted his feet towards me, claws out. I imagine he would have tried to slash at me. Not that it would make any difference. I reached in over the top, well out of his reach, and held the capsule under his nose while I grabbed a tight pawful of his hair to hold him steady. I took a deep breath and held it.
	Click. The capsule popped open when I squeezed it.
	The boy thrashed for a moment, making muffled noises of protest. Then the inevitable; he took a breath. And he was out cold, eyes rolling back and closing, body flopping forward, limp. I tossed the empty capsule away and waved at the air to disperse the chemical before letting go of my held breath. The stink of cabbages joined the smell of boy piss. Ugly smell. But it did the job nicely.
	“Right. Let’s get you upstairs.”

I cradle him as I carry him up. A limp little boy, sleeping an unnatural sleep, quiet and still and angelic. A real contrast to the rage he had in his eyes. Shame this moment of peace won’t last. No matter. The challenge is what makes it fun.
	I get his cuffs and gag off and his fur cleaned up and his wrists and ankles secured snugly in the bed’s shackles just in time for him to start stirring, making groggy noises of wakefulness. I hurried into position, standing at the foot of the bed, my paws on my hips, looking down at the lovely sight of a ten year old cheetah, laying naked on my bed, wrists and ankles shackled and chained to the four corners, pulling him taut and exposed. He was lucky the restraints weren’t set up for a kid as big as him. He’d be stretched a lot more uncomfortably if he were smaller.
	His eyes quivered open, and he blinked away the fog of unconsciousness. I waited for him to look around, until his eyes settled on me. A moment of confusion passed, before his face twisted into rage and he started thrashing, yanking at the clanking shackles and chains.
	“Let me go you sick fuck! Let me go! Help! HELP!”
	I hid my smile. Oh poor boy. He had no idea how far away from civilisation he was. I just stood still, watching him, waiting for his energy to burn out. It didn’t take as long as I expected. I guessed he was putting his anger on a quiet simmer, ready to blow it up again when it’d be of more use.
	“Well, that was-”
	“Who are you?!” he snapped.
	I frowned. “Firstly, your name.”
	“Fuck you!”
	“Now now, that’s not the right kind of language for a little boy.”
	“FUCK YOU!”
	I sighed. Normally, there was a routine to this. The boy would be frightened and compliant, trying to bargain his freedom by being obedient, hoping to please. This was different. What a difference a few years made.
	I fetched the tube from the dresser and ignored his angry questions. I ignored too his wriggling attempts to turn his body away from me as I sat down on the bed beside me and squirted some of the cream onto my fingers.
	“Get the fuck away from me! Get off me, you sicko! Get off!”
	I ignored this too. I rubbed my fingers against his little fuzzy balls, smearing the cream all over them and massaging it nice and deep through his fur, against his skin. He tried to struggle away, rolling side to side to dislodge me. But I had plenty of practice at this, and he couldn’t do a damn thing to stop me.
	I wiped my paw clean on his tummy fur and stood up, back to my position at the foot of the bed.
	And waited.
	He continued to glare. Continued to struggle. He hissed a few threats. A few taunts. Like an angry playground fighter.
	Then his breath caught with a little gasp. I watched the confusion sink into his expression. The knit of his brow. The searching, darting glances of his eyes, side to side. The lift of his head, craning to look down at his crotch.
	Then the first trembling moan. Not a pleasant one. I started to smile.
	He started to scream!
	I watched as he thrashed in agony. I couldn’t imagine how horrible it must be for your balls to feel like they’re on fire while you’re bound spreadeagled, utterly incapable of touching them, of doing anything to quench the agony, not even able to rub at them. The tears welled in his eyes, and he bawled like a little cub, screaming until his voice started to quake and crack. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Five minutes had passed. Enough for the peak of the burn to pass, leaving the almost bearable crawling, tingling embers.
	“Your name,” I stated, calmly, quietly.
	“F-fuck you!” he gasped. I slowly reached for the tube, an exaggerated gesture he was sure to see. “No! Tim! I’m Tim!”
	“Little Timmy,” I said, putting my paw back to my side. “How old are you Tim?”
	“E-eleven.”
	“And where do you live?”
	“At...at the home. P-please make it stop. It hurts!”
	“At the home?”
	“T-the children’s home! F-fuck, ow! Ow! Y-you know.”
	I did know. Damn it Mike.
	“P-please can you make it stop?”
	“I’ll be right back.”
	“Nooo!”

Stood at the foot of the stairs, phone to my ear, listening to the muffled whimpers from upstairs.
	“Stevie! Hi. What’s up?”
	“Damn it, Mike. A troubled kid? A criminal?”
	“Ah, you found out then.”
	“What are you thinking? This isn’t part of our agreement.”
	“I’m sorry, I should have explained when I picked him up. You know how you can be in a shop and you see something that makes you gasp and you must have it, even though it costs too much and it’s probably not a good idea, but you want it anyway?”
	“Yes.”
	“Well, it was like that. Except it was in the park toilet. While I was keeping an eye on the boy I thought I wanted, this kid comes right up to me and offers me a blowjob.”
	“What?”
	“Oh he wanted me to pay him for it. You should have seen him. Baggy jeans, dirty hoodie, ratty old trainers. And a cocky mouth and swagger. A right little wannabe punk. I was looking at this kid and thinking...I would love to see him after Stevie’s done with him.”
	“You could have warned me.”
	“I’m sorry, I know. Get out clause?”
	I paused, in thought. “No. I’ll stick with our agreement. You’re right, it’ll be a challenge.”
	“Nice one.”
	“So. Did you?”
	“Did I what?”
	“Take him up on his offer?”
	A laugh. “Well, of course! It would have been impolite not to!”
	“Talk to you later, Mike.”

The boy wore a more appropriate cowed expression when I returned. His eyes were reddened by tears, and the streaks down his cheeks matched the fetching black teardrop pattern in his fur. I could tell by the twitching in his taut thighs and the way his butt squirmed from side to side that the cream was still working on his tender balls. I pulled a chair over to the foot of the bed and sat, reversed, my arms crossed and resting on the backrest.
	“So. What’d you do?”
	“S-stole some stuff.” No hesitation. No confrontation. Clearly, he was a quick learner. Perhaps I could make progress with him.
	“What stuff?”
	He let out a little whimper, arching up from the bed and flopping back. The itching tingle in his balls must have been unbearable.
	“Jewelry. Necklaces and things. And some money.”
	“Where from?”
	“Some...some old lady’s house.”
	“Tut.” I stood up quickly, and he flinched. “That was very naughty, wasn’t it?”
	He watched me, silent, fear in his eyes, smouldering anger held in reserve. I walked over to the side of the bed, sliding open a drawer in the bedside cabinet. He lifted his head, trying in vain to see the contents. He squeaked a panicked cry when he saw the syringe and bottle.
	“W-what are you doing? What’s that?!” No more bravado. Just pure cubbish panic.
	“Nothing you need be afraid of,” I said, piercing the lid of the bottle and drawing the contents out. “Just relax.”
	“Don’t kill me! I’m sorry! Please don’t kill me!”
	I sat on the edge of the bed and clamped my paw around his upper arm. I readied the needle at his his inner elbow.
	“Stop being silly. I’m not going to kill you.”
	I pressed the needle into him. He yowled like a baby, far in excess of what might be justified from so small a pain. I chuckled. Just a little cub after all. I eased the contents of the syringe into his arm, then withdrew the needle.
	“There. That wasn’t so bad, hmm?”
	He sniffled, staring at me, his body trembling. “What...what is it?”
	“I told you. Nothing to be afraid of.”
	I reached over and, with a click, released the shackle on his wrist. His eyes widened and his breath caught. His arm shot up, fist clenched, and…
	...brushed against my cheek with the strength of a feather.
	I smiled sympathetically, taking hold of his wrist and lowering it back to the bed. He stared at his arm in baffled surprise.
	“What?”
	“Muscle relaxant, little one.” I reached over him to release his other wrist. On my way back I gave his tummy a scritch, and was stood before his weakened paws could flop across to bat me away.
	“What?”
	I forgave him his slow uptake. It must have been hard for him. I released his ankles and watched as he withdrew his limbs towards himself, curling up into a protective ball, paws buried between his legs to massage at his tender crotch, his quiet crying absorbed into the bed.
	“It makes you weak and helpless, like a good little cub.”
	It was so easy to scoop my arms under him and lift him up, cradling him in my arms. He barely weighed anything. A lithe little sporty body, perfectly built for the track. Or, as I suspected, for running from the police.
	“You need to be a good little cub. Unfortunately, you’ve been very bad, haven’t you?”
	He struggled, but made no progress against my grip. I carried him out of the bedroom and across the landing, into his room. The pale blue room. The room bathed in soft, soothing light, with a calming scent of talc, with thick plush carpet underfoot, with the pleasant tinkling tune of a battery-powered musical mobile, suspended over a sky-blue painted wooden crib.
	His head turned, his eyes stared, disbelieving.
	“F-fuck is this?”
	“Mind your language, kitten.”
	I settled into the rocking chair in the corner and held him cradled in my arms. He turned his head away and feebly pushed his paws against my chest.
	“Let me go, please! This is fu...this is wrong!”
	“How sorry are you?”
	“What?”
	“How sorry are you for stealing that old lady’s jewelry?”
	“Very sorry!”
	“And her money?”
	“I’m sorry, okay? I got sent to the home! I’ve been punished! Let me go!”
	It was so easy to turn him over in my lap. I felt the warmth of his chest on my thighs, felt the quiver of his anxious breathing. I rested my palm on his pert little rump and felt it tense. I think he knew what was coming. I let him linger in the dread anticipation for a few moments longer.
	“Are you sure you’re sorry?”
	“Yes!”
	“As sorry as you can be?”
	“Yes! Yes! Pleaaase!”
	I raised my paw. His whole body spasmed, tensing. His claws unsheathed and pressed into my shin, barely more than a caress.
	“No no no, please no. Please. Please no. Please don’t do it I’m sorry please please please.” He babbled through tears, struggling and flexing his whole body in his panic to escape, but not nearly enough for me to be unable to stop him with a paw pressed against his back.
	“Are you as sorry as you can be?”
	“Yes!” he wailed.
	I brought my paw down as hard as I could, smacking it squarely against his rear. The pain that exploded in my palm would be nothing compared to the pain he felt. His whole body shunted against my lap, and the impact rippled through the muscles under his fur. His head flung back and his sharp scream pierced the air and made my ears ring. I rested my paw back on his rear, feeling the warmth pumping through his fur.
	“Are you more sorry now?”
	“Ye-e-es!” he sobbed.
	“So you weren’t as sorry as you could be before.”
	“Y-yes...no...what?”
	I let a finger tease down the furry crease of his butt, feeling his defensive clench against it, not enough to stop me stroking at the warm, smooth skin of his pucker.
	“If you’re more sorry now,” I said, calmly, patiently, “then you weren’t as sorry as you could be before. Isn’t that right?”
	A sniffle. “Yes.”
	“Good boy. Now, how many spanks do you think you should have to make you as sorry as you can be?”
	“One!”
	“No, I don’t think that’s the right answer.”
	“F-five?”
	“Still not right.”
	“Ten?”
	“Not quite.”
	A plaintive little whimper. “Twenty!”
	“Hmm.” I stroked my palm across his rear, then lifted it away. He tensed again. “Yes, I think twenty should do it. You’ve already had one. So say one for me.”
	“O-one…”
	My paw came sailing down and hit his rear with an almighty whack, bouncing back up again. The stinging blossomed again in my palm, but I didn’t care. I’d caught him across the left buttcheek, concentrating all the force on that one spot. He howled again, bucking his head up and down and kicking his feet.
	“How many is that, little kitten?”
	“Two!” I barely heard it through the sobbing. I gave him a moment to rest, stroking my paw in a soothing circle over his abused rear. I lined up for the right buttcheek.
	“I’m sorry! Please no more!” he blubbed.
	His cheek rippled from the third blow. Again, he shunted in my lap. His muzzle butted gently against my thigh, and he rubbed his tear-streaked cheek against me. His wailing cracked and faltered into wet, gasping croaks.
	“How many is that?”
	“Three,” he whispered, throat sounding hoarse.
	“Good kitten. You can tell me the number each time. I don’t need to ask, okay?”
	“Please…” he gasped.
	I bit back my own discomfort as number four crashed into his rear. My paw was in searing pain, but it was worth it. He counted obediently through the rest. Sometimes falteringly, sometimes in powerful wails of pain and frustration, sometimes in a quiet whisper of defeated suffering. But always without prompting, and delivered promptly, all the way up to the final trembling gasp.
	“T-twenty!”
	I let him rest, massaging his bruised rear and making gentle shhing noises while he cried. I told him he was a good kitten. Over and over, I told him that. Letting those words filter through amongst the soothing touch.
	“Are you as sorry as you can be?”
	He nodded, sniffling.
	“Want to be a good little kitten?”
	He nodded again, quicker.
	“No more swearing? No more being naughty?”
	He shook his head.
	I hooked my paws under his arms and lifted him up, standing up myself. I drew him against my chest and cuddled him, one arm propping up his rear, the other across his back, holding him close against me. His head flopped against my shoulder, and his quiet sobs quaked his small body.
	“Shh, it’s okay kitten. Come on, let’s get you dressed.”
	I bobbed him up and down as I carried him across the room, patting his back as I went. He made no protest, just continued the broken crying. I laid him down on the cool, plastic-coated embrace of the changing mat. He didn’t protest still, but kept his eyes pointedly directed away from me. I knew withdrawal when I saw it; a retreat into himself, to try and ignore the strange and unbearable reality. I knew too how to drag him back out of it. But that would come later.
	My choice of colour for my boys was atypical amongst my group of friends. Most of them enjoyed the humiliation of girlish pink, loving to push their boys into the extremes of contrast against their normal, previous life, into the alien girlishness of the new life. But I liked the subtler approach. The soft, baby blue, clearly and strongly cubby, but with a definite boy flavour.
	Because, and this is the reasoning that the others never seemed to grasp, I didn’t want my boys to struggle and rail against a forced femininity. I wanted them to be nudged and regressed unwillingly, at first, into an earlier state, one they could remember; the warm and comfortable and helpless embrace of their own early childhood. I couldn’t do this if the life I created for them wasn’t like that early childhood.
	I petted his tummy while I pulled out the pure white diaper and the soft, baby blue flannel sleeper. It would be a little tight on him, but that was okay. I would obtain a more appropriate larger size tomorrow. And the childhood stage I was targeting would be a little further in his past than normal, but that was okay too. Perhaps, if anything, the plunge would feel deeper and have more of an impact.
	It was time to open my favourite drawer. My little stash of goodies. Little white cardboard boxes covered in text, little bottles with pills rattling inside, clinking bottles of sloshing liquids. The medicine drawer. And my new baby boy was about due for the best medicine of all.
	I held up the small, golden-coloured torpedo, feeling the soft, springy skin of it between my fingertips. I glanced down at the boy, seeing him watch it as well.
	“It’s glycerin,” I said. “Do you know what that is?”
	He shook his head, a tiny motion.
	My smile must have been a little too wicked, because his lip began to quiver.
	It was easy enough to lift his slender legs and slide the diaper under his rump. He had given up protesting, but the moment I touched the tip of the suppository to his delicate little pucker, he yelped and started a slow-motion, flopping struggle.
	“F...s-stop…” he gasped. I was pleased he didn’t swear.
	“Shh, it’s okay. It’s only a little thing. Almost there.”
	His pucker spread around the tapered tip, and my fingers pressed against the blunt end to ease it inside him. I felt the warmth of his body close around my fingertip, and kept on pushing, making sure the suppository was nice and deep inside him. The little kitten let out a plaintive little mewl, and I couldn’t tell whether it was distress or pleasure. Perhaps both. I imagined even he couldn’t figure out what he was thinking or feeling at that moment.
	I slid my finger out as slowly as I could and grabbed a wet-wipe to wipe my hands. I watched him wriggle weakly, and saw his buttcheeks clench as he tried to push the pill out. But it was no good. It was in too deep, and he was too weak.
	I took my time in dusting his crotch with baby powder. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but I wanted the scent to be with him for the rest of the day. That truly babyish smell, unlike any other. For me, it was comforting. For him...it would be too, eventually.
	Up went the front of the diaper, closing over his crotch. I fussed at the tapes, making sure I pressed them down neatly and squarely, getting just the right amount of squeeze around his slim waist. I fed my fingers through the leg holes and run them down either side to get the ruffles positioned just right. Then, satisfied with the pretty sight of a perfectly-diapered little boy behind, I gave his tummy a little pat and picked up the sleeper.
	“Mmmph,” he gasped. I raised an eyebrow. He looked away from me and closed his knees together an inch. The diaper creased beautifully, treating me to the soft crinkling noise.
	I lifted his ankle and admired his pretty little paw, before almost reluctantly sliding it into the waiting comfort of the sleeper. I kept glancing at his face, wanting to see the conflicting emotions as I slid the warm, comfortable fleece up his legs, under the bump of his padded butt. I sat him up and cradled his limp body as I worked his arms into the sleeves, smiling when his fingertips reached the mittened ends. With an affectionate last rub to his bare back, I pulled the zip up to his neck and lay him back down.
	I stood back.
	“You are so pretty,” I said. Good old Mike. Even when he gets it wrong, he gets it right. Who would have thought that an older boy could look so adorable.
	He was ignoring me, or at least trying to. Retreating into his own thoughts as a defence, I should imagine. That was okay. I scooped him up into my arms, cuddled him against my chest, and carried him back to the rocking chair.
	We sat, the kitten in my lap, head resting against my chest, his mittened paws weakly fretting and struggling to move, while I gently rocked the chair and read to him from a colourful book about happy trains.

Soon, his attempts to move died down. I shifted his position slightly and rested my paw across his tummy. And waited…
	...there it was. The clench. And his face...yes, he had a folded brow, a vacant grimace, an air of tension.
	“Is something wrong, kitten?” I said, sweetly, innocently, rubbing the tips of my fingers against his tummy.
	He shot a weak glare up at me, then groaned and closed his eyes. He was trembling ever so slightly.
	“Feeling like you need to go?”
	He hesitated. Then, the tiniest little nod.
	“Is it hurting?”
	Another nod.
	“Aww, well that’s okay. That’s what the glycerin does. It makes you need to make a mess. It makes you need it really, really badly.”
	His breath caught, and a small, keening whine escaped his lips.
	“But that’s why you’re padded in a nice snug diaper, like a good little cub. You can go ahead and…”
	“F-fuck you!” he gasped, tensing with a cramp. “You f-fucking sicko!”
	I blinked, stunned. Then I knew what I had to do. I lifted him by his armpits and stood up, dangling him from my paws and staring right into his eyes.
	“Bad kitten! I told you not to use language like that!” I sighed, theatrically, like a disappointed parent. “Now I need to punish you again.”
	His little legs kicked weakly, and he started to whimper.
	“Don’t spank me again, I’m sorry! I’ll be good.”
	“You said that before, kitten.” I held him back against my chest and carried him to the crib.
	“Please! I’ll do anything. P-please? Please don’t spank me! I’ll s-suck you off. I’ll do whatever you want. Please!”
	I set him down on his feet in the crib, then held him as his legs buckled beneath him, easing him down into the bedding.
	“Now where did you learn to offer something so naughty, hmm?”
	“A-at the home. Please? I’m very good!”
	I closed the lid of the crib and clicked the padlock shut. The mobile above started to play, detecting the motion below. “That’s very naughty, kitten. Little baby boys shouldn’t be doing anything like that.”
	“But I’m not a baby!”
	“You look like a baby to me, kitten.” I walked back to the rocking chair and sat back down, relaxing. I checked my watch. “But if you want to prove that you’re not a baby, I’ll give you an hour. If your diaper is nice and clean and dry at the end, I’ll let you go.”
	He tried to sit up, reaching for the bars, but his grip slipped and he flopped back down into the bed, huffing and whimpering. “T-that’s not fair! I can’t…I can’t hold it. It hurts!”
	“One little hour, kitten. That’s all you’ve got to manage. But if you can’t, well, you’ll just have to stay as a little baby, won’t you?”
	“Please! Please make it stop!”
	“One hour, kitten,” I said, closing my eyes, rocking the chair with my toes. I didn’t need to watch. There’d be plenty of time for that. I enjoyed my imagination for a while, prompted as it was by the lovely sounds of his panting and his tense little whimpers as his gut cramped and convulsed and his pucker trembled with the intense effort needed to clench it shut against the inevitable.

Thirty-six minutes. A noble effort. Far longer than most of the younger boys last, and with fewer tears as well. But that’s not to say there were no tears. I could hear his sniffles from the rocking chair, and the small sobbing wails of distress. I heard the soft noise of his diaper stretching, and heard the wet, sticky noise of his loosened stool flowing helplessly into the padding.
	I smiled, rocking, listening. Baby’s first messing. He’d be feeling the hot liquid spreading through the fur of his rear. He’d be shivering in disgust, contributing to his tears. He’d feel helpless and miserable and defeated. But he’d also be feeling comfort, disturbing and alien, from the warmth and softness cuddled in all around him inside the sleeper, from the firm, safe embrace of the thick padding, from the contained and humiliating mess leaking from his helpless rear. The sight of the crib bars around him, the soft bedding, the gentle chimes of the mobile above him, the scent of the baby powder.
	Everything around him was tapping into his long-forgotten memories of his own true childhood, taking him back there, to the powerless but safe embrace of it. No worries, no fears, no control.
	And what does every powerless baby need to make him feel safe?
	I unlocked the crib and lifted the lid, reaching down inside to scoop the crying boy up into the safe, strong, confident embrace of my arms.
	“Shh, it’s okay. There’s my good baby. My good baby kitten.” I patted his lap and let him cry against my shoulder, feeling his shoulders quake under my paw. He was still weak, and would be for at least another day, give or take. More than enough time for me to prepare his next shot at any rate.
	I sat back on the rocking chair, feeling a little sleepy myself. I cradled him atop me, and his crying eventually died away to quiet, thoughtful silence, punctuated by his shaky breathing and the occasional sniffle. I rubbed my paw over the soft, crinkly bulge of his rear, feeling the extra weight there. He’d stopped trembling. The glycerin must have finished its work. A nice messy diaper taped snugly onto a little baby boy’s butt.
	Before sleep took me, I had a thought, and reached for the shelf behind me. A nice clean pacifier. I doubted whether he’d take it, and wasn’t really prepared for a battle to enforce it. But, when I touched the rubber teat to his lips, they parted for it without resistance. And though he still avoided my gaze, doing all he could to preserve the tattered shreds of his dignity, but accepting the instinctive comfort of the pacifier. It filled his little mouth nicely, and I closed my eyes to the pleasant sound of his quiet suckling.

Taking a boy back to this regressed, better state is never an easy job. Nor is it reliable or predictable. But is it worth it?
	Of course it is!
	Even the most reluctant, most grown-up little boy can be regressed to a happy little cub, if you’re willing to put in the effort. And with the right friends, and the right tools, it can even be easy.
	Little Timmy soon settled nicely into his new life. He stopped swearing almost completely, only letting slip the occasional blue word when he couldn’t help it. Each spanking helped beat the habit out of him. And the home was drifting further and further into his past, taking with it all his naughty adult ways.
	One habit, however, was harder to break than the others.
	It first happened about a week after his arrival. I came to check on him in the night. I must have given him too small a dose that day, or he had managed to muster a lot of effort. He had managed to get the zip of his sleeper down far enough to wriggle an arm out of the sleeve and plunge it down inside the front of the sleeper, and under the waistband of his diaper, into the hot and humid embrace of the damp, piss-soaked diaper he was sleeping in.
	His breath caught with a gasp when I clicked on the light, dazzling him after seeing by the light of his nightlight. He tried to yank his arm free, but he got tangled up in the sleeper.
	“Kitten!” I said, in the stern voice that let him know he was in trouble.	 “What are you doing?”
	“Nothing daddy,” he gasped, guilt dripping from his voice.
	I unlocked his crib and reached in, rolling him onto his front and extricating his arm from the sleeper. I pulled him up into sitting position and placed my paw over his crotch, and squeezed.
	And there, under the soggy padding, was the unmistakable firmness of a little cubby erection. I looked at him, and he shied away from my expression.
	Well, this wasn’t something I normally had to deal with. My boys normally aren’t old enough for this.
	I tapped his nose. “Bad! Little baby kittens aren’t allowed to play with their peepee. It’s naughty.”
	His lip trembled. He was still fighting being a baby, but doing so quietly, fearful of punishment.
	After that night, I set up a baby cam to monitor him, catching another attempt at misbehavior two nights later. I put him over my knee in the morning. He managed four nights after that, but his roaming paw found its way into his diaper again.
	He looked sheepish and shamed like the guilty little cub he was when I scolded him. And the fear that grew in his eyes when I threatened punishment again.
	“No, not a spanking this time.”
	It was morning, and time for his normal diaper change before breakfast. But not today. I gave him his weakening injection early and set him back in the crib, closing the lid and locking it. He looked up through the bars, confusion in his eyes.
	“No change today. Naughty boys don’t get a clean diaper.”
	I left him alone. I had a phone call to make…

Mike joined me for the show. The baby cam had a perfect view of the prone baby boy lying in his crib, fingertips kneading gently against the bedding. He was panting, struggling.
	You’re evil typed Mike into the chat window. What did you give him?
	The usual. His muscle weakening injection. Plus...something unusual.
	Let me guess. Mix 16?
	Oh yes.
	Like I said...you’re evil. lol
	Mix 16. My favourite medicine. Certain to ensure a rock-hard erection and unbearable lust for anyone under its influence who doesn’t manage to scratch that itch within about ten minutes. It’s perfect for an adult who wants to feel really good. I’d never had cause to use it on a boy, until now. I couldn’t imagine what the dose would feel like in his smaller body.
	And it had been twenty minutes since I injected him. His poor cock must have been unbearably aching. His paws were fidgeting with the need to touch it, and he was fighting...fighting…
	There he goes.
	With intense effort, he fought his weakened limbs to wriggle his arm free from the sleeper’s arm. He started to sob as his will cracked and his paw slid down into his diaper. I watched the bulge at his crotch shift and move as his fingers closed around his cock, starting to pump.
	Gonna let him do it?	
	Hell no. I’ll give him a few minutes. And then…
	When he got close…
	“Bad kitten!”
	He yowled and clenched his eyes shut against the light. So evil indeed.
	I cuffed his wrists to the bars at the head end of the crib, and he spent the rest of the day enjoying the torment of Mix 16. A whole day of lust like he’d never felt, and the growing, scratching itch of diaper rash forming between his butt cheeks. When I came to feed him at dinner time, he was begging and pleading, saying he’ll be a good boy, he’ll never touch his peepee again. I told him I believed him, and cuddled him close, kissing his nose.
	But...the messy diaper stayed on, and he slept fitfully. Even as Mix 16 faded, the rash persisted and grew.
	And then, the next day, and the next, and the next, his morning injections again contained Mix 16.
	And on the fifth day, he managed it. A whole day of fighting, with his hard little cock right there, aching for attention, right where he could stroke it at any moment. But he managed it; a whole day of resisting. He collapsed limp in my arms when I came for him, and through his sobbing and pleading for a diaper change I patted his back and bobbed him up and down and told him what a good kitten he was.
	And then, finally, I got him into a nice clean diaper, with soothing cream and disinfectant on his raw, stinging rash. And once into his nice clean, fragrant sleeper, sat in my lap for his morning bottle, he did something he had yet to do.
	He smiled. And said thank you.

So yes, it can be a difficult task. But oh so worth it.