The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Wolf in the Nursery

By MiaSMa

Wolf moved the corn broom across the barren hardwood floor as if each bristle was a sullen slacker owing him a personal favor. It was crucial that he do this clean-up job for Mr. Porter just right. Wolf needed the work; more, much more of the same, if he was to have a prayer of getting ahead. At all. Just, say, a place of his own, instead of having to crash on Carrie’s foldout sofa, weeks after she’d expelled him from her bed.

He adjusted the angle of the uncooperative broom, minutely, watched it move through the specks of dirt with eagle eyes. Lack of work had meant lack of drinking money, lack of drink meant lack of sleep. Wolf looked exhausted.

All the more reason, that weariness manifest in the tiny crinkles that trimmed his sky blue eyes, that to spot Wolf you wouldn’t take the young, or youngish, man to possess a strong work ethic… unless you consider “troublemaker” to be a kind of laborer. Yet a worker he was, despite the evidence of his shoulder-length sandy blonde hair, just beginning to pale to pearl and capped with a blue bandanna; the half-dozen tattoos apparent on his forearms alone; the gypsy biker leathers, tight at the ass but loose at the ankles to accommodate his thigh-high shitkickers. Wolf even wore a blousy pirate shirt. On anybody else his daily garb would seem an affectation, maybe a Mardi Gras get-up, but he moved in it with the authority of comfort. This was how he dressed because this was who he was, down to the pentagram dangling at his throat and the spiked wristlets below the multi-ringed fingers, only the thumbs left unadorned.

If most onlookers couldn’t see past the exterior, fuck them. Wolf wanted success, but not at the cost of his self-respect. In season, he was one of the best Tarot readers on Jackson Square. Always he gave careful thought to the destinies of even the dullest tourists.

This was not the season. It was too hot for tourists, so he was too poor. He had to take odd jobs.

So hot that he paused in his careful manipulation of the broom, looked around guiltily, then crossed the cream-and-ochre kitchen to rummage in the fridge. It was rare for Wolf to help himself while on the job, but he had to drink something besides tepid tap water. At least, he thought, I haven’t turned on the air conditioner.

That was because of his admiration for his occasional employer. He wanted the man to think well of him. “I’ll give you half again your usual rate and two days to get this place in shape for my next guest,” the elegant Mr. Porter had said, resting his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. The gesture made Wolf feel looked after, fleetingly. Since no else looked after him, he didn’t recognize the feeling for what it was.

“When is your next tenant—?”

“Guest.” Always with Mr. Porter, it was ‘guest,’ not ‘tenant’…‘collaborator,’ not ‘employee’…‘dear friend,’ not ‘trick’ or ‘pick-up.’ Wolf supposed he even meant his euphemisms, meaning they weren’t. Euphemisms, that is.

“—Guest, right,” Wolf smiled up at him, “fixing to move in?”

“The moment you’re finished. He waits only for you. And your expertise.”

“Double my rate and I’ll do in it one.” He suspected that in this case, ‘guest’ and ‘dear friend’ overlapped. Mr. Porter used the little bungalow off Marigny Street as a love shack for long-term assignations, Wolf believed, though he knew better than to ask.

“I’d rather you worked carefully than quickly. Though I know you to be capable of both.” And here he squeezed the smaller man’s shoulder. Mr. Porter’s hands were manicured but not soft.

Wolf’s own hands were long-fingered, tapered, and had been turned hard and smooth on a lathe by a master woodworker. He looked a little feral: sleek bodied, almond-eyed, with a wide mouth and prominent teeth. Because of the wanderer’s life he’d led since his father tossed him out at age 15, for getting a perfectly willing girl in “trouble,” Wolf’s skin had deepened to a permanent mahogany, almost reddish. It set off his pearl blond mane all the more.

Why they liked each so, Wolf didn’t really understand. What did he and Mr. Porter have in common, except fierce individuality bordering on the peculiar—hardly rare, in New Orleans—and an abiding belief in good manners?

He took a long pull on the pitcher of juice he’d found. Peculiar taste. Spicy almost. Had it turned? Can juice turn? Thirst drove him to take another pull. Whatever, it wasn’t bad. He sat at the kitchen table to remove his boots, a job in itself. He may read, sleep, party, eat, live in his leathers, but it was too damn hot to clean house with his boots on.

Beautiful place, this was. Every room. Practically a pleasure to clean it.

Part of the affection, he realized as he drank again, was that Mr. Porter, a real estate speculator by trade, had recognized Wolf for what he was, almost immediately upon sitting down in the rickety folding chair opposite Wolf to get an impulse reading—he’d had a particularly lucrative deal pending—one lovely day this last spring: a good-hearted man who constantly became enmeshed with troubled women, like that first tramp, like Carrie now; a hard worker who just hadn’t caught the right breaks; an intuitively intelligent listener without much book learning. In the conversation that ensued from Wolf’s laying out of the cards, his client told him almost as much about him as he told the client about his future. (He would close the deal, Wolf saw, and did.) It was good, and rare, for anybody to be understood. Who can say no to friendship with someone who appreciates you?

When the dictionary defined “diamond in the rough,” there was a pen-and-ink sketch of Wolf to illustrate, said Mr. Porter some weeks later.

“You calling me a diamond?”

“I’m calling you a jewel.”

“Wouldn’t that be kinda gay?”

“I suppose. What isn’t nowadays?” They both had laughed. Wolf had turned a few tricks in his time, when things were tight. French passive only.

“I’m partial to aquamarine, Mr. Porter.” He held out his pinky, the one with the appropriate ring.

Mr. Porter tugged at the long finger. “The birthstone of the Scorpion? Quelle surprise.”

“You know that?”

“Worn by sailors to keep them safe in rough water. Symbolic of youth, healing, and happiness.”

“Doesn’t sound like any Scorpio I know. Me included.” He had not withdrawn his hand.

“It’s what they seek, not what they are.”

“Harbor.”

“Very good, Wolf. Harbor.” Nor had Mr. Porter released it.

Wolf had learned not to press Mr. Porter about his personal tastes. He was reserved, courtly, a manifestly distinguished man. Always he wore a tailored cream linen suit, even in the high heat of a New Orleans August, changing only the shirt, the tie, and the pocket square. As set in his style as Wolf was in his. Mr. Porter must own several such suits, Wolf supposed, for he never looked less than crisp.

At some point in their friendship—which developed over cafés au lait and beignets, open-air jazz, minor Vieux Carré museums; never ever drink—Mr. Porter had begun calling Wolf “little wild one,” joshing at first. Younger and smaller and taken aback, Wolf had failed to object immediately; now it was too late. Anyway, he guessed he didn’t mind. He was not intimidating, he knew. The life he led may have left him lean, with not an inch to pinch, but neither was he muscular. He supposed his friend, older and plainly unhandsome even in youth, had earned his peculiarities. Besides, Mr. Porter always paid on their… well, dates. Wolf was broad-minded.

And lately, Mr. Porter provided work. This cleaning had to be thorough. Wolf swept, mopped, scrubbed, dusted, vacuumed, polished. For hours. Methodically, room by room. Starting in the back, that well-appointed kitchen, and working his way to the front. To the nursery.

Which was bizarre really, a nursery at the front of the house, even by New Orleans’ standards. Even by Mr. Porter’s standards. Wolf had only glanced at the room upon first arriving, getting at once to the task at hand, starting in the bathroom in the back.

An entire nursery in a small guest bungalow? And just inside the main entrance, where a living room, or parlor perhaps, should go?

He looked around more carefully. Of all the lovely rooms in the bungalow—Mr. Porter’s guests, or dear friends, could count themselves lucky—this was the sweetest. The most delicate, the most serene. Nothing was not pastel, but all of the pale yellows and dusky roses and sky blues were not tedious. They blended together into a reverie of spring. You looked at one corner of the room and your eyes were carried gently around it all, past mobile and fainting sofa and toy chest and crib, and around it again. The nursery insisted on itself, decorously, as Mr. Porter himself did.

The crib…? Wolf sat down on the sofa, staring at it. The peculiar juice long gone, his throat was starting to tighten again. He seemed to be coming down with something.

The crib was a full size bed! What? Well, a twin bed; all right, a single, with a headboard and baseboard that seemed made of crystal, and wooden sides that could be pulled up for safety, but still… it was far too big for even the biggest infant.

He got up and pulled back a down-soft blanket. Daisy Duck sheets. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said aloud to her heart-shaped, tufted, shyly smiling face. “Long time no see.” Then he shrugged. A crib it was. Must be handmade, to be so far off the standard design.

Straightening up, the crown of Wolf’s skull brushed the mobile, as crystalline as the headboard and baseboard, and set it in motion. It too was large, with long cross pieces. In motion it orbited his head without getting caught in his hair, dipping and waving round his eyes. And it began to play a lullaby.

This is the damnedest room, Wolf thought, staring at the revolving crystals and taking in the music with his breath. The bobbing, weaving pieces reminded him of blessed stones he sometimes used in his readings. In fact, they even looked to be aquamarine!

I wonder if this mobile’s designed to improve a baby’s attention, his spatial skills, he thought. Maybe as I watch it I’ll get smarter. I could afford to be a heckuva lot smarter. And it had to be motorized. Once started, it keeps going… it just keeps going…

Crystal up, crystal down. Crystal up, crystal down. Crystal back, crystal forth.

Now…what now? What time was it…Wolf was so tired the room was spinning. Such a long day, on so little food. He almost staggered. It was as if he’d gotten stinking drunk but skipped the penultimate elation. He had to lie down, just had to, for a few moments….

Daisy Duck it was. He collapsed face first onto her. Hoisting himself up and staring loopily into her wide-eyed, friendly, feminine duck face, Wolf giggled. Donald was nowhere to be seen. They were alone with the endless lullaby. “Yer awful pretty, Miss Daisy,” he purred seductively, before falling face first again.

After a few moments to collect himself, he rolled over to watch the mobile some more. It looked even better from below. More like a spiral, an oblong spiral.

Night was falling, and to Wolf’s mild surprise, lights came on. He rolled over onto his flank. Had Mr. Porter come in? No. Another autotimer. Maybe not such a bad precaution, given the dicey neighborhood.

They were strange lights, though. There was soft illumination everywhere, but the source was impossible to determine. Hidden maybe, behind the molding? No. Not enough room for even ice cream bulbs. Where was the light coming from? The pastel walls seemed to glow, but not steadily. It was like light underwater, ebbing and flowing, rolling up and down the walls in gentle waves. An extension of the mobile. Of the music.

And the ceiling began to shimmer like a clear night sky.

No baby could ever be unhappy in this nursery, Wolf thought. No one at all could be unhappy here.

Relaxed, smiling for the first time in days, damned if Wolf’s bladder didn’t open. With not a hint of warning. He soaked his drawers. He soaked his leathers. Jesus Christ!

He’d have been angrier if he weren’t so disoriented. And calm. But how the fuck could this happen? His pants would be ruined. Wolf peeled them off fast and shook them hard, enjoying, as he always did, the rush of air his thighs welcomed whenever he removed that second skin, even under these circumstances. Especially under these circumstances. The pleasure overtook him as he shucked his soaked briefs. For a few moments he just laid back on the bed with his legs spread wide, enjoying the freedom of his springy flesh. Carrie didn’t know what she was missing. I am too good enough for her sofa. If I’m good enough for this crib, I’m good enough for her ratty sofa.

He loved his leathers, but… it was so hot, and this felt so fine…

Fuck it. It was late. Mr. Porter had given him two whole days. And for all he knew, the way he was behaving, he might be running a fever. Wolf removed the rest of his clothes. The laced vest, the pirate shirt, the bandanna and wristlets; everything. Everything except his rings.

Which he spent long moments staring at, the aquamarine in particular. Comparing it to the mobile, moving his pinky back and forth between it and his eyes. Listening to the lullaby. It sounded different. It had to change over time, didn’t it? Music was supposed to make babies smarter too.

Finally Wolf came back to himself, puzzled. Why was he naked in his employer’s house?

Then he remembered, panicked just a little. This would never do. What if Mr. Porter came in, to check on his progress? OK, OK, Mr. Porter wasn’t likely to come in tonight. But Wolf might well nod off here, all sleepy, only to be woke up in the morning by the elegant man, finding him not only asleep on the job but naked as the day he was born…

Those stars on the ceiling, they sure twinkled pretty. “Pretty,” he said out loud. This was a swell place. Mr. Porter was a swell guy.

Wolf so wanted to please him. He’d understand Wolf sleeping here, sure, but naked? No. That was disrespectful. Wolf had to respect Mr. Porter.

Somehow he managed to crawl to the dresser. He might’ve walked had he put in enough effort, but crawling was easier. Crawling was fine.

One drawer, another, another. Children’s tops, shorts, socks, though they all seemed a little bigger than usual. No underwear. No underwear!

The last drawer. Diapers.

He couldn’t…! Wouldn’t that be worse than nothing at all…? Asleep, hot with fever, in diapers…

Wolf felt his bladder move again, fixing to burst. Jeez! What had he drank? He figured the distance to the bathroom, how fast he might crawl to it with given his spinning head, gave up on the idea. Hurriedly he pulled the diapers past his knees, up over his fanny, fumbled a little with the tapes at the waist. The diapers, thick and comforting, fit him like a glove. He let out a surprised giggle. What a great feeling! He wriggled a little in the soft cotton.

Not bad, he thought, not bad. So that’s why babies coo when they’re changed! He tried a coo out loud, smiled at the silly sound of himself, and cooed again.

It would be so great, he thought, so wonderful, to get the chance to start over. To be a baby again, relive all of the turning points, remake all of the bad decisions, make them better and smarter…!

He snapped out of his reverie. The diaper wasn’t gonna be enough! His bladder was about to explode. Wolf almost cried. Mr. Porter!

Whimpering, struggling to hold all of it in one minute more, he pulled a pair of rubber pants over his diapers. And, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the dresser, his bladder flowed again. Much harder than before.

Empty and soaked, and dazed, Wolf sat and smiled for long moments. He’d done good. His big boy clothes were safe, the bed was safe cuz he was on the floor, everything was just fine. He looked down at the pale blue rubber pants, squirmed a little. Shouldn’t he change into a fresh diaper?

Wolf thought and thought, rubbing his fist against his scrunched-up eyes. Changing his own diaper seemed awfully complicated. And what if, what if he just wet himself again? Mr. Porter might get upset at Wolf, going through too many diapers and all.

Wolf never wanted Mr. Porter to be upset with him, never ever.

Better just wait ‘til morning, ‘til he felt better. The blue rubber pants were protection enough. It sure was a pretty light blue, like a robin’s egg. Wolf sat and savored the relief in his tummy, the lullaby, the twinkly stars, the warmth… the warmth…

Why was it so hot in here? For sure knowing Mr. Porter wouldn’t mind—not really, not if he was sick—Wolf crawled over to the little bed, hoisted himself into it—and that was really hard, boy! His muscles were sooo weak after all that hard work!—to turn on the air conditioner. Unsure which dial was the right one, he tried it three times before he felt and heard the rush of cool air.

Yay! I got it! Wolf stuck his nose right up against the grid, sucked deeply at the relief flowing from it.

Funny smell the cool air had. Really sweet, like Kool-Aid. But a kind of Kool-Aid he’d never tasted. Or had he? Cinnamony. Cinnamon Kool-Aid? Had he smelled something like this before? Or, or tasted?

Oh, well. Whatever the smell, it was nice and cool. Wolf just kneeled there, at the head of the bed, on the Donald Duck pillow, and breathed and breathed.

Until, relieved, cheerful, he got kinda bored. It wasn’t bedtime yet. There must be something fun to do. Fingering the edge of his rubber pants, he looked around the nursery. There has to be toys here somewhere. Oh yeah, he remembered, swinging his legs over the side. The chest!

Bu then his toes caught his attention. He contemplated them for a few moments, reached out and poked at the big one. Count ten? Nah. Boring.

Wolf thought about it. He wasn’t here to play. He was here to make Mr. Porter happy. What would make Mr. Porter smile like he was smiling, or even bigger?

Mr. Porter was always dressed so keen. If he was gonna find Wolf here in the morning and not be mad, Wolf would have to take after him. Show him that he’d learned something. Wolf was just gonna have to be wearing more than a diaper, for gosh sake. What was he after all, a little infant baby who couldn’t dress himself? Unh-unh.

Feeling much better now that he had a plan, Wolf crawled back to the dresser. Cool air or not, it was too soon to try to walk. Fact, the relief of the strange air tickling his nose made going to any unnecessary big trouble seem really pointless. Crawling had turned out to be fun.

He was pretty sure he’d seen a sailor suit in the second to bottom drawer that was mostly, except for the white collar and the big red buttons, the same color as the rubber pants he liked so much. So they’d go together for sure.

It didn’t take him too long to dress himself, even with the sailor cap he found by the suit. He crawled to the mirror, knelt up so he could see.

And surprised at the sight—a big strong boy wearing a blue sailor suit all shiny and crisp, like one of Mr. Porter’s, like for church or school—he almost started to cry. “Nguh- nguh- nguh- ” Noises between choking and hiccupping.

Too soon! he thought. Too soon. I want Mr. Porter be proud me, but- but- I not ready to go to school! I not ready go outside. I want stay here ‘n’ play.

Wolf really didn’t know what to do. He hadda see Mr. Porter smile, but he dint want to grow up this fast…

With the last of his ability to reason, Wolf compromised. He took off the anklets and the buckle slippers. He took off the shorts with the red piping. He replaced the sailor cap with a bonnet he’d found. For good measure, he tucked a bib into the sailor shirt. Because he was hungry!

Wolf was back in bed very soon. He found a bottle under the pillow, plopped it into his mouth. It tasted like the same stuff he always drank. Good.

Deciding he could explore the toy chest in the morning, bright and early, Wolf used the last of his strength to pull up the side rails. Then he lay back, comfy in bonnet, bib, and diapers, snuggled up in his blanky, suckling on his bottle. Just as he was drifting off, he started to count his toes, for practice, but he couldn’t remember his numbers past five. So he just went to sleep. He’d had a big day.

The lights rippled and swam. The lullaby played. The scented air wafted. All night.

Daylight, and the little wild one heard the front door open. “Wolfie?”

Daddy was home! Daddy was home!

Daddy entered the nursery, smiling a small smile. Yay! His linen suit was perfecto. “Wolfie. My boy.”

“Hi, Daddy!”

Going to the chest first, Mr. Porter opened it briefly, removing a wooden thing Wolfie didn’t recognize as any kind of toy, set it on the lid. Mr. Porter came to the side of the bassinet, gently pressed his thumb into Wolfie’s mouth. “You look very sharp, Wolfie.”

“Denk kew, Daddy.” Wolfie talked around sucking Daddy’s thumb, fast and hard. “I really wanted you to be proud of me.”

“And I am proud of you, little one. Dressing yourself like this.” Done in the mouth, he stroked Wolfie’s hair, played a moment with the bangs. “But now, those aren’t really clothes to sleep in, Wolfie. Are they?”

“No, Daddy.” Mr. Porter was removing his suit, folding it carefully. “I’m sorry.”

“PJs are for sleeping in.”

“Yeh. Do you like my hair?”

“I love your hair. Your hair on your head, that is.” Once shirt and tie were doffed, Mr. Porter ran his strong right hand up Wolfie’s leg, and hmm’ed. “I think someone needs a little depilatory this morning.”

“What’s depilatory?”

“Never you mind, Wolfie.” Now his hand was inside the diaper, on Wolfie’s pee-pee. The little one shuddered all over. He couldn’t do anything but make water there yet, of course, but some day...! “Did you wet yourself, Wolfie?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Wolfie sniffled. “I tried not to.”

“Roll over.”

“Dad-deeee…!” Mr. Porter was removing his shoes and slacks. Wolfie saw that he wore something dark over his thing, night dark with shiny starry studs all over it. It was literally the only black anywhere in the room.

Except for Daddy’s eyes. “Roll over.” Back at the chest to get the paddle, he glanced back at Wolfie, all fearful and pleading, thought about all the little wild one had to learn, and relented.

“I’m not mad at you, Wolfie. You know that, don’t you? I am never mad at you. This,” he hoisted the paddle, “This is only so you’ll grow up to be smart strong man like me.”

Relieved, outright elated that Daddy wasn’t mad, Wolfie did as he was told. More. Not only did he roll over, fast fast, he pulled down his diapers all by himself and stuck his fanny high in the air, way up high, so Daddy would see just how grown up he could be.

The last thing he saw, looking backwards and upside down, his head pressed into Daisy’s smiling face—the last thing cuz in just a second he had squeeze his eyes shut and scream—was that dark thing over Daddy’s cock start to shift and swell.

Focusing on the dark there, growing and coming closer, suddenly seemed like a way better idea than watching the gentle play of light in the nursery. That was for babies.

[THE END]