“I’m Right Here” An ABDL/MDLB fantasy story

  “I’m Right Here” An ABDL/MDLB fantasy story

By 2BeeBlake

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The small mason jar of water swirls with clouds as I clean the bristles of the brush. It’s been about an hour, and so far I’ve been working on this painting without much interruption. Through the open door leading to the living room I hear the gentle music and soft exaggerated voices of cartoon characters on the television. I twist around to see into the room a bit better and from this angle I can only make out his bare legs and the round, puffed-out edge of his behind.

He is lying down in his playpen, apparently asleep, though the blankie he always carries with him in his Littlespace doesn’t do much to cover his frame. He can never stay awake for too long after I’ve fed him. Perhaps it’s the stress of the week catching up to him, perhaps it’s the desire to embody his innermost personality as fully as he can, but on Sundays after his breakfast he will typically doze off. Not long after I plop him down in the playpen and he spends some time in toy land, the warm comforting feeling his belly gives him will eventually carry him away into dream-land in spite of the colors and sounds coming from his cartoons. Caring for a baby is a perpetual task, so I know that once his tummy feels satisfied and his nap begins I can get some of my own work done. Sometimes he will get fussy (a trick he loves to employ when he wants my attention) but he respects our dynamic enough to let me have my own time occasionally.

I shift in my chair, load the bristles with dark blue paint, and resume my work. It’s amazing how he can sleep through the cartoons. In my studio I’ll have soft instrumental music playing on Pandora, which puts me in the right headspace for getting some painting done. The sounds of the comical voices dully intermingle with the violin and cello, making a strange juxtaposition of “baby” and “adult” in my ears, but I don’t mind. The white noise helps, and it reminds me that no matter how mature some aspects of our relationship can be at times, there is always a level of immaturity to our dynamic. Some days he’ll throw me around our bedroom like a ragdoll, and on others he will be as weak as a kitten under my control. I reflect on this for a moment and smile.

Another quarter of an hour passes by, and I am in the middle of adding the highlights to the figure adorning my canvas when I hear a rustle and a whimper from the other room. Rinsing the liner brush off and placing it back into the box of paintbrushes, I wipe my hands of any wet paint and get up from my stool to check on him.

I approach the open door frame and peek in.

He is still lying down, one hand wrapped around his baby blue terrycloth blankie, the other balled up tightly. There is a look of slight distress on his face. I sniff the air. Sometimes he will pretend to be asleep and deliberately wet his diaper when he wants to be frisky or playful, but the sour smell of ammonia doesn’t hit me. I enter the room and walk around so I can face him better.

My little boyfriend lies amongst a small sea of toys. Oversized Lego blocks and Lincoln logs litter the large playpen like the remains of some bizarre explosion. His stuffies are scattered about; a few of them found their way out of the playpen and onto the floor surrounding it. His Tonka trucks and police cars lie upturned. I briefly remember back to the noises I heard drifting from the room earlier, and putting two and two together I gather that there must have been some sort of epic battle in his imagination which led to such small-scale carnage.

For a moment he wriggles slightly. The scruff of his beard scratches against the foam alphabet play mat beneath him. The diaper encasing him crinkles as his legs shift again. His brow is furrowed. Perhaps he’s uncomfortable because his little “soldier” is trying to stand at attention and it’s being restricted by the soft padding around his body. He’s mentioned that can happen sometimes.

Such a handsome man makes for quite an adorable baby. Despite his childish dress and babyish environment, his arms ripple with knotted muscles. His legs are slightly shaggy with dark hair. The sides and back of his head are buzzed close to the scalp, but the hair on his head is longer and falls over one eye at this angle. When his adult persona is in control it would be hard to imagine such a man eating from his high chair or drooling from behind a pacifier, but when his baby side comes out to play that grown man’s power gets tucked tightly away and the purity of his real self is expressed. Strangeness of our dynamic be damned; I reflect on how lucky I am to have him as my partner.

He whimpers again, and his eyes twitch, and I notice that his chin and eyes are churned up in some expression of tension. His legs spasm.

Strange…

I lean over the edge of the playpen and with a delicate stroke I brush some of the hair away from his eyes. With a start he wakes, jerks away from my hand, and gasps.

“I’m sorry baby,” I apologize quickly, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

His eyes dart around. It looks like it takes him a moment to get his bearings before he relaxes back against the foam mat, but his expression doesn’t soften.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I ask, trying not to betray the feel of worry creeping up inside me. He shakes his head. “Do you need your paci?” It’s on the floor near him, still glimmering with the traces of spittle from his nap. Using my own spit (the universal cleaner for any mommy) I wipe off a few stray hairs from the rubber nub and offer it to him. He shakes his head again and hides his face beneath the blanket. “Do you need a diapee change already? I changed you after your bath this morning so you should still be ok.” Not waiting for permission I slip two fingers into the legs holes of his adult-sized Tykables diaper. It’s dry. The blanket swishes back and forth as the head beneath it shakes again. I gently pull his hiding place from his face.

His eyes are watery.

“Sweetheart,” I ask, realizing, “what’s the matter?” I stroke his cheek and feel the bristles of his beard beneath my fingertips. He shakes his head again and hides his face in a calloused hand. “It’s ok, baby boy. Mama’s here. What’s wrong? You can use your big boy words.” He turns back to me.

By the look of raw, unfiltered distress etched into his face, I can tell that this goes beyond our role-play. Worry stabs my heart like a knife. A tear rolls from his eye. Something is wrong.

I immediately climb into the playpen, dodge the stray toys surrounding him, reach down and pull him against my chest. He dives into the hug like a drowning man grasping for a life preserver. He buries his face against my bosom. I know he can hear my heartbeat against his ears.

“… N-ni-mare…” he whimpers after a moment.

The sincerity of his emotions is enough to make a knot wrap around my throat. “Oh honey… sweetheart, it’s alright. Mama’s here.” Kneeling, holding his head against my chest, I rock him slowly. His large arms wrap around my waist. He does his best to hold back his tears, but I can already feel the front of my blouse getting damp.

No matter how young he gets in his littlespace, he can’t help but hold onto a bit of that adult male bravado, and I hear him do his best to choke back any cries or whimpers that threaten to escape from his mouth. His cries come as low, bass moans and half-stifled grunts. I feel terrible, both at how proud I am to have a man who values strength and at how hard it is to watch your love break down while trying to maintain his masculine demeanor. Some things a man can’t simply unlearn. “What happened, sweetheart, do you want to tell mama?”

Still pressed against my chest he tries to let it slip out. “Ahhhlssssffooommmm…” I feel the words get lost against my breasts.

I stroke his hair. He still smells like the silky bubble bath I gave him not too long ago.

“I’m sorry little one, say again for mama?” 

He turns his head and speaks again. “I… I lost you…”

My rocking slows a bit as the weight of his words hits me like a sucker punch. “Awww I’m right here, sweetie. What happened? How did you lose me?”

He doesn’t look up at me, but continues to hold on even tighter than he did before. “I… I was lost. I couldn’t find you.” He sniffles, then goes into his story, slowly regaining a little more of his adult voice as he does. “We were walking around. I think we were at the park. And we were look around and walking and talking, and then a bunch of people in suits and uniforms and dresses and grown-up things started walking around too, and suddenly we were in the city. The buildings were all high and I couldn’t see the sky very much. And there were only a couple of people at first, but more and more started showing up. Every time I turned around there were a few more people. And so we held hands tighter, but eventually there were so many people walking in every direction around us that we were getting crowded. And everyone was talking. They got louder and louder and louder. And then I felt your hand let go, and I looked for you but you were getting dragged away. It was like this sea of grown-ups was pulling you away from me. You were reaching out to me and I tried reaching out to you but my hands felt so heavy I couldn’t lift my arms. And I tried running through the crowd to get you but I could barely move my legs. And then I felt myself getting smaller and smaller and I looked down and I was a real baby. I could hear you trying to call out to me, but everyone else was so much taller and so much bigger that I couldn’t find you. I started crying.”

Then everyone started falling down. One by one they just kind of… died right in front of me. People were grabbing their chests and some were bleeding. I was so scared. I looked around and I saw everyone around me falling down. Their eyes were still open. I tried to crawl to get away but I needed to find you. And eventually everyone was lying dead on the ground. I was alone, and I was crying, but I couldn’t find you. And I crawled through this sea of people and eventually I… I saw… you were… I tried to wake you up but…”

His voice cracked and I pulled his head into a tight hug against my breast. “Shhhhhhh oh sweetheart,” I said, not trying to let him hear the waver in my voice or see the tears rolling down my own cheeks, “It’s ok. I’m here. I’m right here. Mama’s got you. I’m not going anywhere. Shhhhhhh… it’s ok, baby. It was just a dream. Just a dream, sweetie. I’m right here. Mama’s got you.”

I continue to hug him against my chest and rock him slowly, whispering softly into his ear, assuring him. For a moment or two the grown man in my arms is as weightless as an actual infant. Despite his masculine frame and physique, in that moment there is only the child, the pain of something as simple as a nightmare overtaking any resolve his grown self may possess. I feel the inner child reaching out from beneath the knotted muscles and furry skin.

Eventually I hear his sobs die down a bit, and I know the child within him has taken over his body. Like a baby wearing the costume of an adult, I can feel his adult personality shrink back beneath the baby’s. I imagine myself peeling back the calloused, scarred, toughened skin to reveal an infant’s silky soft skin underneath. I breathe, and the knot in my throat loosens as I sense his innocent need to feel comfort and safety become a bit satisfied. The baby inside is given a chance to fully take control of the body and feel the comfort of a woman’s embrace. In that moment, the adult part of him is tucked away quietly and securely inside himself. There’s only a baby boy, my baby boy, and his mama sitting together made whole by each other’s presence and closeness. 

For a minute I lose myself to that feeling. I allow myself to hug that child. A few minutes pass. His sobs drain away. He coos a bit.

I lift his head up and look at him in his brown eyes. A man’s face looks back at me, but his eyes give little to no sign of maturity. Within the wells of brown I can barely detect the adult and can only see the baby. My heart begins to pound with fervor. It’s a rare and wonderful thing to find a man who can look at you without a sense of worry or doubt, whose eyes you can look into and know for sure that the soul behind them trusts you completely. That this man can trust me in such a way fills me with womanly pride. I desperately want to kiss my man’s lips…

I kiss my baby’s forehead.

He nuzzles his face against my tear-soaked chest.

“I love you,” I hear him whisper as he hugs my much smaller frame. His voice has calmed now, and he says it with the low tone of his masculine self. The baby has receded slightly. The man has started to take control again. The baby doesn’t usually slide his arm around my waist like that…

Love ignites like fire within me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he feels my nipples stiffen beneath my bra. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

He looks at me again. The man is coming back to the surface.

We sit for a bit, just looking at each other. No words are said. No words need to be said. We just sit in his playpen, an adult-sized baby and his slightly smaller mama, and I can tell he is thinking the same thing I am: “This person is my everything.”

Somewhere, a million miles away, the cartoons are still playing. I hear a commercial for Huggies diapers click on the television and we are both momentarily brought out of our heart-shaped stupor with a simultaneous chuckle. I wipe the tear tracks from his eyes. 

“Thanks, Huggies,” I wry to the television, “but my baby just got a new pack of Bambinos. He’s good on diapers for now, thanks.”

His cheeks flush red-hot and he smiles, making his nose crinkle up in mild embarrassment. Such a sight pours premium gasoline on the fire in my heart.

He buries himself in my chest again, this time not out of sadness, but out of playfulness. “I’m sorry I got your shirt all wet, mama. It was just a dumb nightmare.”

“It’s ok, baby,” I say with a smile to match his, “It’s ok for little boys like you get nightmares sometimes. It’s part of growing up. When we have bad dreams it’s just the yucky grown-up world around us playing tricks with our heads. But those bad feelings aren’t there forever. Little ones like you are strong. Those yucky ni-mares can’t hurt to a superbaby like you.”

I see a sense of confidence begin to bubble back up within him. His grin is one of bashful pride. I punctuate the little pep talk with, “besides… all responsible Mommies are there to dry away their little baby’s tears. Mommy just has to quick change before she goes back to work on her painting, that’s all.”

His eyes light up. “Ooh! Mommy changies! Can I watches?”

Yep. The man is back in control it would seem. He always likes to watch me change into different outfits; my baby’s own private little strip tease. Well, if that’s the game he wants to play…

“Well… alright then,” I say. I feel a smirk crawl across my lips as I place one finger, still slightly speckled with paint, on his chest. With a force more gentle than a springtime breeze I push him down onto his back. Once his head is resting on the mat I slowly lift my blouse upward. He wriggles excitedly, clearly not expecting me to change my top right there in the playpen.

As soon as my bra is visible, his eyes snap to my chest. Like clockwork. Boys usually waste no excuse to look at a woman’s endowments, and baby boys are the biggest opportunists in that regard. I seize my chance once I catch his eyes locked on my bosom. I drop my shirt back down, dive between his legs, lift up his shirt, and tickle his belly furiously.

Caught off guard he bursts into a wriggle-fit and squirms to get away, but trapped within the playpen and apparently not wanting to shove me away there isn’t much he can do to free himself from the tickle-monster. It doesn’t take long before my previously distraught baby is howling with laughter. “S-s-s-stop mama!!!” He gasps from within his laughter.

After such a heart-wrenching display of raw emotion, it elates me to see a smile on his face and laugh in his throat. I continue to tease him and tickle him, until the tears pouring from his eyes have switched to tears of laughter. Unluckily for him I know the exact spots on his tummy that are most sensitive to tickling. Eventually I feel he has been thoroughly rescued from his brief bout with sadness, I oblige him, and stop the onslaught. Also, I reflect, I put him in this diaper shortly before breakfast; it would be a shame to have him wet it so soon. He calms down, coos a bit, and gives me the grabby hands with a smile.

I don’t lift him up, but instead I hold his hands and get on all fours above him. “Babe, you are too good to be real,” he says. The deep tone of his voice rocks my core like a bass guitar strum. For as second I know my man is back. I feel my heart start pounding again. This man is a dream I don’t want to wake up from. This baby is a gift I feel guilty about calling my own. I am too wrapped up in thinking about how lucky I am to coherently answer him for a moment, so I wait until the lioness within me has calmed down before answering.

“And I couldn’t be luckier to have such an amazing and sweet baby boy as my own. And I am not going anywhere, sweetheart. I’m right here.”