Premium Story #9: Custom Ordered

Premium Story #9: Custom Ordered (Content Tags: Light body horror, grim, surgery and medical procedures, physical ‘regression’ in unorthodox manners, messing, wetting, humiliation, hopelessness) The man pressed a hand to my padded bottom, and then with tense fingers, he dug into the bulging material with a steely grip; the warm sludge inside squished, it spread, it oozed, and I found myself letting out an embarrassed moan. "Messy. This one has soiled himself." He didn't loosen up, the grope turning into a forceful kneading, like my diaper was dough on a baker's counter, with talcum puffing up through the waistband like flour. The groove that split my cheeks was already packed full with the burning mud, and my buttcheeks themselves caked in a thick layer of smashed droppings, but his insistent fiddling was smearing it further. "This one, I think, is nearly ready. His heavy defecation has been consistent the last few days, and his body looks to have nearly completed its transition into the new morphology." That new 'morphology' was a cruel reference to how my form had been twisted at the hands of this institution; the impressive physique I had once boasted, a culmination of diligence in the gym and self-restraint at the plate, had softened considerably. No longer did I have a set of abs like a washboard, and instead, my tummy bulged ever-so-slightly over the elastic waistband of the bulky garment. The towering height that'd once been a feature to make women swoon, had been reduced by a large factor, leaving me looking up at the same men I'd been glowering down at a month prior. The chiseled features of my face, the same face that stopped getting carded for liquor at sixteen, had rounded out with a youthful pudge and had grown an ever-present pink. I hadn't had any freckles since childhood, but now they speckled my face once more, each one a little reminder of my place. The man's hand left my backside, giving it a firm couple of crinkling pats as it did, to remind me exactly my place here. He didn't leave me though, and instead, his hand next was groping at the swollen front of the dirtied diaper. Whether intentionally or not, his intrusive examination of the garb was pressing the sodden, squishy material directly against my reduced loins. "Soaked as well. It feels like the droppings have migrated to the front too." He casually announced, with the same cadence as a scientist examining a lab monkey. He took hold of the front waistband between two fingers, and peeled it away from my hairless skin. Peering down, he could confirm his hypothesis immediately as correct. "Pubic region is bare, genitals are fully shrunken; as thought, the mess has spread to the front." The waistband was allowed to snap back, and like with my backside, he gave the crotch of the diaper a firm pat. "Exterior is likely around ninety percent completed to the client's specifications." The client. That word was bitter to me now, especially with how often I'd had to hear it, and with the context of how it was being used. The grotesque manner in which I'd been sculpted anew, it was all in the interest of the client, as if I was a commissioned work of marble. The analogy was closer to the truth than I was comfortable with, because it was ultimately true; my body, my mind, my soul, they were all chunks of marble that needed to be chipped away by a chisel, so that I resembled the vision that had been requested. "Confirm his teeth." Another man mentioned, and a hand was suddenly gripped at my jaw, a thumb pressing against the side of my lip to coax my mouth open. "Adult teeth have all been replaced, except for number five and ten, which have remained removed, as per the specifications. All appear healthy, no problems with the grafting process. Gum tissue is rejuvenated; taste-buds have been scraped, replaced, and reprogrammed. Tongue's reduction was without issue." The gloved hand again retreated, and I was allowed to close my jaw again. I warily watched as one of them scribbled on a clipboard, the same checklist that had been utilized since the process had first begun. "Sight and hearing were checked earlier in the week. Macular degeneration was reversed, aural rejuvenation was completed, with sensitivity adjusted to a three. Recoloring the iris has been a full success; the shade of blue that was chosen has fully taken, there isn't any sign of the previous color." Even something as fundamental as that had been taken from me. The dazzling emerald orbs that I'd once taken a narcissistic pride in, had been deemed wrong, and they'd become a bright blue, the sort of shade that wouldn't be unsurprising on a young child, whose pigmentation hadn't fully developed. And speaking of pigmentation, the tan I'd nurtured over nearly thirty summers, had been taken as well. My skin was pale now, all sex appeal bleached away, and all sun damage removed. No wrinkles, no scars, no blemishes were to remain; the only things to mark my flesh were the freckles that dotted my body, and the artificial birthmark that'd been placed on my left thigh. "Hair texture is fine, but not complete." The man mentioned, taking a lock of my hair to rub between his thumb and index finger. "Color still needs a little work as well." I'd come here with very short hair, and with a color that resembled a chestnut. Now though, the color of my hair was closer to corn silk, and it was like a mop atop my head. The bangs hung in front of my eyes, the rest brushed at my narrowed shoulders, with the ends spiraling into little ringlets. I had no doubt that my hair was the healthiest that it had ever been, but it also didn't feel like it was my own, even with it sprouting out of my scalp. "Leash him, we need to go take his measurements." The harness around my body, which went across my torso, and up under my groin, felt unnecessary by this point. I wanted to dryly ask what the possible purpose for restraining me could be; my body was so completely reduced, my spirit so utterly oppressed, that there was no real fight I could give them. These stubby legs, with this sagging diaper, how could I outrun them? And where even could I run to? I'd found out early on, within the first weeks of my confinement, that there was no escaping the facility that I'd been imprisoned in. The doors were locked tight, security was present all throughout, and I didn't even know where I was. On the off chance I could evade capture, that I could hide myself, I didn't know anything about the outside. This place could be surrounded by barb-wire fences, it could be built in the middle of nowhere, with hundreds of miles of barren land between it and civilization! Hell, it could be on an uncharted island for all he knew. Still, the sound of metal clasping came from the front of the harness, as the leash was attached. They gently tugged me along, and I didn't give them any resistance; my bare feet, now stripped of all callouses and taken far from the size twelve shoes they'd once been worthy of, started to pad along the cold floor. The plastic-backed diaper around my waist rustled, crinkled, sloshed, and squished; the cacophony of sounds, a symphony really, announced my every step forward. The stripping of my continence had been early on in the process; it'd started psychologically, with my access to a toilet barred from the beginning and diapers being a primary element of my wardrobe. The diet that they'd kept me on, one packed with fiber and bowel stimulants, had made using the diapers an inevitability; the mental torture that would come afterwards, and then the surgical procedures down the road, would make using the toilet a distant memory of a different life. "Okay, give me his height and weight." One of them gently pushed me against the wall, where a juvenile height chart took the form of a happy giraffe. A man moved some of my hair out of the way, for a more accurate reading, and then traced the mark on the giraffe's neck. "Forty-nine and a half inches for height." Not waiting for me to walk to the next station, one of them picked me up from under my armpits, and took me a few feet away to place me on the scale. "Approximately twenty-three kilograms, give or take some weight from the diaper." More shrinkage than last time. Four days earlier, during my last measurements, I'd been fifty-seven inches tall and weighed closer to thirty-five kilograms. Things moved fast in this facility; faster than I would have ever thought possible. "Good, he's nearing the target parameters. Go ahead and get a waist measurement too." I felt the measuring tape being drawn against me, and I obediently raised my arms from my sides. This had gone on long enough for me to know the expectations, to understand the routine; they had drilled into my head that compliance was my only option, and after the earliest tortures, I'd fallen in line, just like everyone else. "Twenty-four inches. We'll probably need to go ahead and adjust his diapering needs to match that." The diapers they had started me out with had been sized for adults, quite obviously, and over the course of my stint here, I'd had them replaced for smaller versions every few days. It'd been weeks since I first crossed the threshold between adult and youth sizes; if they kept going, then I'd inevitably end up with toddler sizes, or worse. From what they just said about being close to the target though, made it sound like my shrinking was nearly concluded, which would at least mean an end to some of the painful procedures that I'd been forced to repeatedly endure. "Physical examination is complete for today. We'll take an internal look tomorrow, to make sure there are no organ issues to fix up. Go get him cleaned up and prepped for screen time." It was a nice name for a nasty thing. It was all about conditioning, about reprogramming, to help wipe away what still remained inside my psyche. It was ostensibly less horrific than most of what they had done to my mind, since it was at least an intangible force, but it truly felt no less invasive. Sure, it wasn't the cranial adjustment or hemispherical shearing that I'd been subjected to earlier in the month, but the purpose was effectively the same. Perhaps I could at least take some solace that my section of the facility was considered one of the kindest; the small snippets I'd seen of other captives, from other departments within this place, had embedded gruesome imagery into my mind, which I frankly wouldn't mind getting scrubbed at this point. The sort of clientele that this mysterious organization catered to was of an utterly depraved nature; many of the victims here would be trafficked to real monsters with bizarre proclivities, mostly of a sexual nature. The side of the compound that I was being prepped in, was wholly different in the fact that there wasn't a dirty component to the motivation, at least not entirely. The only two sections I'd heard called by a nickname were here, which got called the 'orphanage' by workers, and then there was the 'retard factory' in a different wing, where the end results were far less coated in pastel paints. I'd briefly caught view of a man from that side of things, being taken to the 'shipment center', and it'd made me actually glad that things weren't as bad as they could be. There had been nothing left in those eyes, nothing but gums in that mouth, and while the scars had obviously been healed, it was clear that they'd absolutely mangled his brain with countless surgeries. The difference in treatment was stark. From what I could gather, the 'orphanage'  fulfilled the most expensive packages. The end product was supposed to be someone who would be treated with tenderness and care, at least I hoped, so the subjects too were treated with a softer hand during their reconfiguration. The procedures necessary to turn a man into a dimwitted buffoon were comparatively simplistic; brutalize the brain enough, and the job was practically done. For someone like me? The work was extensive and grueling, needing to be done with the most careful of hands. My transformation would be the product of millions of dollars worth of extreme and experimental medical procedures; I'd spent half the time in a surgical suite, with my body being meticulously altered by thousands of precise steps. Therefore, it was in their best interest to keep me in a physically pristine and stable condition, whereas it mattered a little less with the other departments. Perhaps it could be boiled down to a difference in philosophy, whether the transformation was primarily moved through destruction or alteration. One took a hammer, the other a chisel. I was led back through the corridor and into a friendly looking bathroom with a changing table and a plastic training potty. On top of the potty, I saw someone else like me, with the same tired eyes, with another lab-coat standing over him to take notes on his actions. He wasn't familiar, but that wasn't too surprising; while I was made to socialize with other captives, it was usually those who were to be put in the same 'group' as me. Whoever ordered potty-boy wanted him to come shipped with some semblance of toileting, but less-so than someone fully trained. Was that a lucky break? It was hard to say. Who was to say what constituted fortune in these circumstances; he might not be made to shit on himself like an infant, but for all I knew, he'd be spending the rest of his natural life being 'scolded' for accidents that were genuinely beyond his control. The clients were purchasing a false reality, a playmate for an extreme game of 'house', which was why the specifications became so important. They must have in their head a very particular image of the reality they wanted to have, of the dependent they wanted at their side. Why not just adoption? Maybe because those were actual children who would actually grow up, who would be able to formulate their own opinions and personalities, instead of being customized by a checklist. My own speculation was just that though, and I had little real evidence to support my theories. The people working here had helped to slip clues, all of which added up, but who was to say that they could see the full picture themselves? We were a paycheck to them, so why would they care that much about the motivations of the ones signing it? I got lifted onto the changing table, and I felt the muck squishing underneath the weight of my bottom. The sensation, the smell, the concept alone, had made me absolutely sick at the start of things, but it'd been far too normalized for me now. In an odd way, there was a comfort to sitting around with a load in my pants; it was sensory data that reminded me I was still alive, and it was a part of me that still felt my own. I knew how silly that was in actuality. My newfound feelings were clearly themselves manufactured, by either psychological programming, or by the hands of the surgeon. I knew that must be the truth, because my feelings towards dirty diapers had been a part of the checklist earlier on, whenever I'd be left in a soiled state for hours on end. My thumb found its way into my mouth as my muddy backside was wiped clean; the cloying sweetness of the talcum tickled my nose as I was powdered, and as quickly as the process had begun, it was over. Just another diaper change in a run of hundreds. Just another afternoon in this purgatory. "Okay, little guy. Let's get you to the Cookie Room. You have some cartoons waiting for you, and a little snack too. Won't that be nice?" "Uh-huh." I grunted from behind my thumb, too tired to contradict his deceptive words. The 'Cookie Room' was named that way because of the tasty cookies that they would give out; it was where my 'screen time' for today would be conducted, alongside other members of my grouping. It was just a brainwashing center, to help move the dial on our newly appointed personality traits, outside the need for any unnecessary brain operations. I knew I should try to fight it, to try to convince the others that we should band together in rebellion, but my spirit was far too shattered for that. Instead, I would eat my cookies and drink my juice; I would watch my cartoons, poop on myself at some point, and then fall asleep for a nap. After that, I'd either wake up in the surgical bay, or in the nursery. Just like every other day. Then tomorrow, the routine would continue anew, with the same miserable steps to take. Day in, day out, until I was finished baking. And then? I'd be ready for my new life, with the faceless client who had ordered me in the first place. I hardly felt like a person anymore, I was just merchandise. Custom ordered and custom-made.