Right on Cue : "Little Guy"

“I can’t believe this is actually how you’re wasting your summer.” Art sulked from the tub, pouting at Asher as he slowly poured another plastic beaker of luke-warm soapy water over his head. His right arm was still in the cast - at least for a few more hours - propped up over the lip of the bath to keep it nice and dry. 

“Someone’s a grumpy monkey.” Asher tutted, gently running the soft baby-blue washcloth over his shoulders. The soapy water ran down his front and over his smooth bare tummy, dripping into the low pool of still all-too-clear bath water just below groin level.  “You're just too cute, Artie. It would be a shame if a cutie-pattottie like you went back to being a grouchy grumpster meanie-weanie by the time school starts up again.” 

“You’re talking like an idiot.” Art hissed up defiantly, trying to look as threatening as it was possible to look while sat stark ‘nakie’ and ‘criss-cross apple-sauce’ - Asher’s words -  in a shallow brew of tepid water and Johnson and Johnson ‘No More Tears’ Shampoo. “You know you sound like an idiot, right?” 

Asher ignored him, stroking the ticklish terry-cloth texture of the wash-cloth slowly down Art’s back, then swiftly under his butt. The smaller boy let out a humiliated yelp, legs splashing about as he scooted away. “What the fuck!” He protested, only earning him a swift slap to the thigh. “You’re so so so dead in September!” 

“Hush up.” Asher dismissed. He’d heard it all before, afterall. He produced a small blue Thomas the Tank Engine toy from his side of the porcelain barrier between them, dropping it unceremoniously into Art’s naked lap. “Play with Thomas-Train while I take care of your head-lice.” 

Art’s fictional ‘nit problem’ was just the latest in a relentless sequence of humiliations. After the incident at the mall, the boy had decided his best strategy was to stay far away from Asher. Not knowing where the bigger kid might be lurking, that had mostly meant locking himself indoors. Somehow however, Asher knew where he lived. Self-confined to his room whiling away the hours on Xbox, it seemed Asher had been practicing his ‘powers of suggestion’ on Art’s mom for days before Art had even known a thing about it. 

It had all come to a head a week ago. Wandering down the stairs in sleepy, beheaded, two p.m haze hunting for potato chips, Art had been horrified to discover his mom and Asher politely chuckling over glasses of pink lemonade like two old friends.  Worse, already piled up on the kitchen counter, was a veritable cornucopia of infantile implements - toys, teddy-bears, sippy-cups, and clothes, the very same sets Asher had bought at the mall. Art could only watch in open-mouthed dread as his mom cheerfully explained how their wonderful, mature, responsible ‘neighbour’ was generously gifting him his ‘hand-me-downs’. 

Over the next seven days, Asher’s sinister influence had slowly but steadily contaminated the house. While Art’s Mom dragged his ancient miniature trampoline out of the garage and insisted on watching her little boy bounce up and down for hours on end, eagerly enthusing about the benefits of outdoor play, Asher had replaced his Xbox with a wooden train set; while they cuddled on the coach and she fed him cut-up apple slices, somehow certain that making him shout-back along to a “Go, Diego, Go!’ marathon was invaluable prep for high school Spanish, Asher took the opportunity to replace his entire wardrobe; and when she unexpectedly had to go into the office for the day, she had no hesitation in giving good-old grown-up dependable Asher a call - charging him with keeping a careful eye on her rambunctious, late-blooming, very special fourteen-year-old, going on four. 

To Art’s great relief, Asher never seemed to be able to plant the same glassy-eyed unthinking convictions in Art’s mom that he’d achieved on the grown-ups at the mall. If he could, Art was sure Asher would have banished him back to toddlerhood with a simple clap of his hands. As it stood however, Art’s mom needed a little more convincing. It wasn’t that the reasons needed to be good, they just had to be somewhat plausible. For instance - Art was sure his Mom would never have let Asher give him a bath in any other circumstances. Especially with the way he’d whined, and cried, and rolled around on the floor at the suggestion. But after their recent trip to the soft play centre, Asher had solemnly reported that Art’s beautiful long hair was positively infested with nits. Besides, Mom really did need to get that big email out before the end of the day. It just made sense that Asher helped out with the head-lice treatment. He was such a responsible boy, after all. 

So, Art had once again found himself in Asher’s clutches; and this time he was more vulnerable than ever. He tried not to wince as the bigger boy got to work - separating out his long hair into isolated sections, methodically applying the thick gloopy lotion, and running a fine jagged comb down the entire extent of his long straight shoulder-length locks. 

“Yow!” Art howled like an injured puppy with a thorn in its paw, looking up at Asher with big, blue, betrayed eyes as the comb caught on a stray tangle of hair. “That hurt!” 

“Aww, sorry Artie-pup.” Asher sympathised. “I’ll try and be more careful, kay?” 

Art couldn’t help but pout. “This is dumb.” he complained. “I don’t actually have nits. I didn’t even touch anything. Those places are disgusting.” 

“I’m almost done. Just another minute or so…” 

Art let out a dissatisfied huff, deciding to distract himself running the Thomas toy up and down his legs. He found himself surprisingly entertained by the way the six intricately spoked wheels all turned in tandem. Sure, the weird grey faces on the trains were creepy, but he guessed there were definitely worse preschooler obsessions that Asher could have foisted upon him. He guessed if he wanted to, Asher could have made him a Peppa Pig kid - or worse, a Bunnydale obsessive. At least Thomas was for boys - the pre-school character now routinely riding up over his shorts guaranteeing his gender.

His mind wandering merrily in the realm of preschool shows and toddler toys, of wandering around pants half down around playgrounds and doing the potty dance at soft-play centres, Art couldn’t offer even a token resistance to the now-familiar unwelcome icy feeling creeping down the back of his neck. He could only brace himself. 

“I gotta go pooody!” Artie’s high-pitched voice chimed out in a babyish begging treble, one free hand dropping the Thomas toy and sploshing below the sudsy water level to grab at his crotch while his bare bottom bounced up and down needily in the shallow puddle. He felt his throat croak up in fear as an overwhelming urge spiked in his bladder - when just a few seconds before, he’d felt absolutely nothing. Despite everything, all he wanted right then, all he needed was for Asher to scoop him up and plop him on the potty so he could go pee-pee like a big boy. 

“One second, baby boy.” Asher tutted impatiently, still finishing up combing his hair. All Artie could do was let out a shy whinge of disappointment, continuing to shudder and fidget in desperation for another long agonising minute, sloshing water this way and that and letting out muffled increasingly pitiful cries the longer Asher made him wait. For all that time, the babyish brain fog wouldn’t let up - and even as he remained horribly aware of how unbelievably infantile he must have looked, Artie could do nothing but sit there whining, desperately wishing and hoping that Asher would help him go potty soon. 

Eventually, Asher relented - taking just a few more seconds than he would have done otherwise just to see his little guy squirm. “All done!” he announced, purposefully placing down the comb and scooping two strong arms under both of Artie’s armpits to stand him up in the bathtub.  Now with only his feet still submerged in the water, the boy couldn’t think of anything but the potty-prize now in view - all thoughts of adolescent shame or big-boy modesty disappearing into insignificance. “Pooody!” he heard himself repeat in a quavering fearful voice, good hand extended to point at the toilet, knees trembling and legs splashing up and down in anticipation. Suddenly he faltered, feet threatening to slip on the slick surface of the tub. 

“Whoopsie daisy!” Asher sang playfully, saving him from falling at the last second and letting out a pained grunt of effort as he heaved him clear up into the air. He was only in Asher’s arms for a moment however, the bigger boy quickly manoeuvring him around to sit him down firmly on the toilet. Instead of cold porcelain however, Artie was surprised to find his bare butt poof softly into a comfortable cushioned surface. Looking down, he saw he was sitting not on the toilet seat but on a baby blue soft padded Thomas the Tank Engine themed potty ring, a bright red plastic protruding pee-guard at the front doing a half-hearted job of protecting his modesty. He cringed at the strange clammy feeling of the cushions’ plasticky waterproof lining against his skin, intense embarrassment flooding back to the forefront of his mind as he started to pee, and the strange mental fog parted all at once. 

“I don’t need this.” He whined, his butt un-sticking from the plastic lining as he wiggled on the cushion. Still, he couldn’t get fully-up - still going pee-pee. His cheeks burned in shame as he stared down at the childish print on the blue potty seat, realising that Asher must have already somehow convinced his Mom of the opposite. In fact, Asher had now so successfully adapted the house that anyone visiting would have instantly assumed a three-year-old lived there. 

‘I think you do, bud.” Asher contradicted. “Looks like you were desperate! You’d have soaked my pants if it wasn’t for that pee-pee guard.” 

To Art’s intense annoyance, Asher was right. When he was like that, he didn’t even have the mental wherewithal to position things correctly. As soon as he’d sat down, he’d just started peeing. Was the hypnosis really so powerful? He felt a wave of helpless sadness, staring down at the floor in shame. His wet hair draped around his head like a curtain, water slowly dripping from the long strands. 

“It’s okay, buddy. You made it!” Asher comforted, rubbing the boy’s good arm. “Do you need to go poo-poo, too?” 

“No.” Art mumbled, not looking up. 

“Are you sure? You haven’t gone all day…” 

Art pushed his damp hair out of the way, staring accusingly at the bigger boy. “Shuddup. You don’t know that.” 

“I do, buddy.” Asher continued. “Your mommy told me when I came in this morning. Maybe you’re feeling a little constipated…?” He paused. “That means when it hurts when you push. Does it hurt when you push?” 

“I know what it means!” Art snapped, jumping to his feet - just so he didn’t have to sit on the strange-feeling potty seat any longer. 

“Alright, well let's wash your hands.” Asher continued, offering Art a bright orange towel. The boy snatched it, attempting to wrap it around his lower half, but it was a tall order with only one free hand. Asher took over, much to Art’s chagrin, successfully securing it around his tummy and planting an affectionate kiss on his shoulder. 

“You’re gross.” Art snapped, marching over to the sink. He sneered at the sight of the matching baby blue Thomas foot stall - but even he had to admit that he’d been struggling to see himself fully in the mirror lately. He hopped up, setting about running the taps and squeezing soap onto his open hands with fierce independence. That was when he saw it. 

His hair - every strand of it, from the crown of his head to the shaggy tips, had turned blond! Light, downy, golden, baby blond! Freshly combed in, shimmering in the yellowy light of the bathroom and paired with his puffy red cheeks, he looked absolutely adorable - like an angelic portrait of a perfect genderless toddler in a 1950s advertisement. Art had the bizarre thought that the colour would pair flawlessly with the white and pale green of a fresh pair of pampers. He stared slack-jawed for a few seconds, trying to work out what on earth had happened. When he put two and two together, he whirled around on Asher, teeth clenched in fury. 

“You dyed my hair!?” he practically screamed. 

Asher chuckled. ‘Sorry buddy. I would have told you, but I knew you’d make a fuss.” He came closer, grabbing the boy’s free hand and anchoring him in place to ensure he didn’t do anything stupid - like try and run away across the slippery tiles. “But it’s cute, right? Looks just like you’re a natural blond. Well, I guess you were a natural blond. Your mommy showed me some adorable photos from when you were in preschool. She’s going to be so happy to have her little boy back.” 

Art wanted to shout and stomp and pound his fist into Asher’s stupid chest, but instead he just found his lips trembling. He gulped, trying to stop himself from crying. “I look like a baby.” He complained.

“You look like you.” Asher insisted aphoristically. 

Art could only blink, a strange cold feeling - pleasantly cathartic this time - spreading from the back of his neck. He supposed it was true. He slipped out of Asher’s grip, and got back up on the step-stool, flicking his hair back and forth. It was strange how much the boy in the mirror didn’t look very much like him at all. In fact, he could very well have believed it was a girl in the mirror. And yet all that had changed was the colour of his hair.  The chubby cheeks, the button nose, the watery big blue eyes - all of those were still the same. Had he really been so oblivious to his actual appearance? Had he really always looked so babyish? He thought about all the mean things he’d said to people, and all the kids he’d picked on over the years - while all the time he’d looked like this. It was really no wonder Asher treated him the way he did. 

“Okay, Snow White. We all know you’re the fairest of them all.” Asher teased, gently taking him by the hand again and leading him away from the mirror. “You’re very pretty. But now it’s time to get dressed.” 

“I wasn’t…I mean, that’s not what I-” Art tried to explain, but he couldn’t quite find the words. Meanwhile, Asher had taken a pair of briefs from the linen cupboard. “And anyway, Snow White isn’t blond…” 

“Step!” Asher commanded, and Art did as he was told, stepping into the little leg holes. The linen cupboard had a heater inside, and the cotton was lukewarm and cozy soft.

Looking down, Art noticed with mild fatigue that the undies were Thomas themed - again. Asher had dressed him in at least a dozen different pairs of briefs in the past week - having him romp around the garden singing his ABCs in nothing but Sesame Street, laze on the couch like a sleepy puppy in only Paw Patrol, or play pretend shooting webs sans-everything but Spiderman. 

But whenever they were likely to leave the house and more than underpants was called for in the dress code, it was always Thomas. Asher seemed to like nothing better than the site of the chunky red THOMAS & FRIENDS letters framed in a cheery blue bubble poking out from above Art’s shorts like a name-tag. This particular pair were no different. Plain cream colour, the waistband, legbands, and a silly faux-fly were piped in classic Thomas blue, the train printed facing outwards on the butt - just underneath the lettering. 

“Where are we going?” Art asked shyly. He hated going out of the house. It was bad enough traipsing around, underpants showing, in whatever ridiculous outfit Asher had in mind - but they almost invariably went somewhere populated mostly by little kids. He’d been lucky enough that he’d only had a ‘potty emergency’ - that’s what Asher called it - twice in public.  It was not an experience he was loath to repeat. 

“We’re going to the doctors.” Asher explained. “You’re going to get your cast off, remember?” 

“Oh.” Art intoned. “You’re taking me?” 

“That’s right. Mommy’s got lots of work, remember?” 

“Oh.” 

Art supposed that wasn’t so bad. How much damage could Asher really do in a doctor’s office? Besides, once he got his cast off, he’d be able to pull up his pants whenever he wanted - even when Asher was holding his other hand. 

Leaving the Thomas undies still pooled between Art’s ankles, Asher took away the towel and neatly draped it around the boy’s shoulders. Then, going over to the toilet, he started to unroll a good few feet of toilet paper - neatly folding it up into a thick squidgy rectangle. Art watched him curiously, leaning down to pull up his underwear, but Asher stopped him in his tracks. 

“Hold on, buddy.” He instructed, halting the undies just short of his thighs. “We’re going to try something new today.” 

“What?” Art asked shyly, bracing himself for the worst. For all the humiliations, Asher was yet to try and use the ‘power of suggestion’ on him beyond the potty dance - at least as far as Art knew. What was he planning now?

“This is a special test.” Asher said vaguely, placing the toiler-paper down snugly in the gusset of the briefs. He secured them in place with a pair of safety pins - one on the front-end, and one at the back. Finally, he pulled up the undies. Art cringed at the strange feeling of the toilet-paper tickling against his skin. It crinkled as he fidgeted - the feeling of the flimsy disposable material combined with the rustling noise clearly intended to make him feel like he was in a diaper.  Though he supposed it wouldn’t come close to doing one’s job

“This is so weird.” Art complained bitterly. “If you wanna diaper me, just diaper me.” 

Asher smirked a threatening smirk. “You sure about that?” 

Art’s eyes widened - he was serious. “I take it back!” He squeaked. 

“Good. You go potty like a big boy, don’t you?” Art nodded. “And you do your special potty dance for me when you have to go, don’t you?”

Art gave another miniscule nod of his head. What was Asher planning? “It’s weird…” he repeated, trying the same objection with a touch less adolescent snark. 

“I saw some of your new undies had pee-pee stains.” Asher revealed, his voice taking on an ominous tone. 

Now Art understood. He had discovered that sometimes, if he really concentrated, he could hold off doing the potty dance and shouting out that he had to go for just a little bit. All he had to do was let out a teensy spurt of pee into his undies. It could just be a couple of drops - it wasn’t like he would soak his pants or anything.  After he peed, the baby brain-fog would clear up and he’d be able to hold it like normal for a bit. Ideally, he’d manage to hang on until Asher went home, but sometimes it only bought him a couple of minutes of respite before he was clutching at his crotch and hopping up and down again. At the very least, the advance warning had got him out of a few humiliating situations when they were out in public. If he was going to cry and hop and beg like a toddler, he at least wanted it to be at a time of his own choosing.

He really hadn’t thought Asher would have noticed the stains, but who had been kidding? The previous week had demonstrated that the bigger kid was positively obsessed with his potty habits. Now he was busted. 

“I’m not doing it on purpose.” Art tried to lie. “Sometimes it just…comes out.” 

“I’m sure you’re not.” Asher allowed generously. “But if you can’t handle big boy undies and doing your potty dance, I’ll have to think up some other way to make you behave.” 

Art knew what that meant. He gulped, thinking back to the pink Pull-Up from the mall bathroom. If he hadn’t let Asher ‘convince’ him to do the potty dance, would he already be back in toddler’s training pants? “I won’t do it anymore.” he promised. “I’ll tell you, and do the potty dance…” 

“Good boy.”  Asher praised. “But let’s do things my way for a while. The extra padding will make sure you don’t get anymore stains on your cute little undies.” 

“Ok…”

That seemed to satisfy Asher. “Go play!” he encouraged, giving him a gentle swat on his now slightly-padded bum. 

Art darted out of the room, eager to escape the groggy over-bearing heat of the bathroom. Toilet-paper stuffed undies rustling as he scampered down the hall, he shut his bedroom door behind him and sat down on the city road themed rug Asher had recently dug out of storage. He pushed a train down the wooden track set up on the floor, watching the unfamiliar image of an oversized blond toddler playing in the mirror.

---

“Drink some water, Artie.” Asher commanded, holding his arm firm so that he didn’t wander too far off. The smaller boy was red-faced and panting, his pouty plump cheeks even pinker than usual.

He was dressed in a soft grey cotton tank-top, a huge, unmissable print of Thomas the Tank Engine on the front  - the character facing directly outwards with the words ‘THOMAS - FULL STEAM AHEAD!’ printed above and below in huge red embossed letters. 

“A tank top will go on nice and easy with your cast, plus it’s easy access for tickling your super-soft, ticklish baby armpits!” Asher had explained as he’d dressed him, interrupting Art’s afternoon play session after a few good hours drip-drying in just his Thomas undies. 

As usual, Asher had made sure the pants were loose enough to adequately sag, choosing a cutesy set of navy blue gingham trousers made from cuddly soft corduroy. Now, after an hour walking across the park in the blazing sun, the pants had dropped almost to the back of Art’s knees - revealing all but the lower-most curve of Art’s toilet-paper packed briefs to the public at large. 

“I’m not thirsty…” Art resisted, despite the heat. It had only been a few hours since his last trip to the potty, but he didn’t want to take any chances during his appointment with Dr Jenkins. Unfortunately, Asher seemed to have had the exact opposite idea. The journey to the doctors office should have only taken twenty minutes on foot, but after stopping at the cafe for juice, running a circuit of the playground, and taking four separate hydration breaks, it had taken triple that time. At long last they’d made it - but Asher didn’t seem to want to cross over the threshold without making Art polish off his bright blue Thomas water bottle. 

“Come on, buddy. There’s just a few more sips.” Asher encouraged, keeping the kid rooted to the spot with one hand while pinching his nose with the other. 

“No!” Art squeaked in a nasal voice, but all Asher needed was for him to open his mouth. He plopped the nipple of the water bottle between his open lips, holding him there until he’d glugged down the whole thing. Despite what Asher had said, there were at least half a pint still inside. 

“Good boy.” Asher praised when they were done, despite Art’s pathetic wheezing coughs. He gave him a few slaps on the back to make sure he was okay - but as far as he was concerned, the most important thing was that his little guy stayed hydrated. “Ready to go inside?” 

Art nodded, still a little out of it. The sooner he got this cast off, the sooner he could pull up his pants. 

Asher pushed open the door and sauntered up to the reception desk, Art in tow. 

“Got an appointment for Arthur O’Ryan.” He declared confidently, shooting his best attempt at a charming smile towards the receptionist. “Little guy’s having his cast off…” 

To Art’s amusement, the lady behind the desk looked thoroughly uncharmed. She was older, with greying brown hair tied up in a neat bob that seemed so tight it stretched back her skin, and cracked dour lips permanently folded down in an unimpressed frown. She didn’t look up, tapping her spindly fingers across the keyboard. “Arthur O’Ryan, age fourteen?” she recited from the screen. 

“He goes by Artie - but um, no. That’s wrong.” Asher insisted at once, clearly struggling to make eye-contact with the uninterested woman. Frustrated, he tugged Art closer, then suddenly grabbed him under his bare armpits - heaving him up onto his hip!

Art let out a yip of surprised, pants sagging even lower as he was forced to wrap his legs around Asher’s waist like a baby monkey hugging a branch - clinging on for dear life. When did he get strong enough to do that? 

“Hey!” he complained in a girlish squeak, the higher frequency finally seeming to attract the receptionist’s attention. 

She regarded the two boys with the same weariness she’d shown her computer screen, finally turning her lazy disdainful eyes on Asher. “Oh?” she intoned. 

Asher seized his opportunity, his own dark eyebrows furrowing with concentration as he stared purposefully at her - all the while gently patting Art’s bottom. “Artie here is uh…four.” He decided, seemingly picking a number from random. “Broke his arm playing tee-ball….” 

The claim was absolutely ridiculous. Sure, Asher was attempting to carry him like one - but it was plainly obvious that Art wasn’t a toddler. Asher had certainly grown, but there was still barely a foot between them, maybe a foot and a half if he was generous. He’d had to heave so hard to pick him up, he was clenching his teeth! Surely she could see that? 

Still, Art grimaced. The week's experiences had hardly given him an abundance of hope, and he was expecting the old woman’s eyes to glaze over just like Asher’s other subjects at the mall. Afterall, that crazy woman with the baby had thought he was two! To his immense surprise though, the receptionist didn’t seem to react one way or the other. She just blinked, returning uncaringly to her computer screen. 

The smaller boy wiggled nervously against Asher’s hip, feeling the toilet paper rustle in his underpants. He wondered. Was she somehow immune? If only someone would believe him, even a random receptionist at the doctor’s office, then maybe - just maybe - he’d be able to reverse all this! Was this his chance? 

“I’m not four!” He blurted out desperately, whacking a little fist against the top of the desk as if to wake the lady from a daydream. He pointed an accusing finger up Asher’s face, almost poking his eye out. “He’s lying!” 

The woman sighed a long, exhausted sigh. If Art had been expecting her to rush to his rescue, it hardly seemed likely. His heart sank. 

“Sir.” She droned, half-glancing at Asher above her computer screen. “Are you this little boy’s parent or guardian?” 

The question took Asher off-guard. “What?” he spluttered, now very obviously struggling to hold up Art’s weight. He shifted him around so that the kid was practically on his back, one good hand hanging off him like a backpack holding on by a single worn strap. “No, of course not.” He explained, trying and failing to regain some of his prior confidence. “I’m fourteen. I’m his babysitter. I mean - his Mom knows I’m here.” 

The receptionist spoke very slowly, as if reading from a script. “Okay. And do you have the parent or guardian’s authorization to speak to us about the child?” 

Asher took a deep breath,  back on solid ground. “Yes.”

“No!” Art interrupted, wiggling around like a badly behaved kitten. He kicked the desk in his efforts to shift free, making the cheap hollow wood echo.  “I’m not four! He’s lyyyying.” he whined. 

The receptionist slowly took off her glasses, letting the disappointed silence hang in the air as she slowly turned her gaze on the misbehaving brat scuffing up her nice desk. Art felt a shiver go down his back - immediately thinking better of his plan. “Sir.” The receptionist repeated. “Are you able to confirm the child’s age?” 

“N-noo-oh-oh…” Art mewled, much quieter this time. He felt completely crushed. He’d felt so sure that would work! 

“Yes, of course.” Asher nodded through gritted teeth. He re-adjusted Art again, the oversized toddler-teen hanging off him clearly starting to take its toll on his back.  “I’m so sorry about him…” 

“It’s quite alright.” The receptionist dismissed. “You just need to fill out these forms…” 

“Sorry. One second.” Asher interrupted, finally putting Art down on the ground again. “Young man, we need to have a little chat.” He announced performatively, making sure the receptionist heard every word, before he grabbed Art by the good arm and marched him over to a quiet corner of the waiting room. 

“What are you doooing?” Art complained. “You can’t tell the doctor I’m four. He won’t believe you.” 

“Hush. No more back talk.” Asher instructed. He grimaced down at the smaller  boy, eyes hardened into black points as he slowly shook his head in disappointment. “You’re being a very bad boy right now. You’re embarrassing me, Artie.” he intoned. 

Art pouted. He wanted to scream. He wanted to kick. He wanted to punch Asher in the chest over and over and over again. He was embarrassing him? Maybe Asher should try crawling around his own living room in nothing but a pair of Thomas the Tank Engine briefs - and then he could ask him how embarrassed he felt! 

Still, there was something about the way Asher was staring at him that made Art shiver all over. He froze up, quickly glancing over at the mean receptionist - who’d gone back to tapping away diligently on her computer. It was pointless. If he wanted to, Asher could certainly make things a lot worse. 

All the fight went out of him all at once. He hung his head in shame, not wanting to look at Asher’s eyes anymore. “Sorry…” he mumbled. 

“That’s okay.” Asher said gently. He opened Art’s palm, manipulating his hand so that the thumb was sticking out. “How about you suck on this, just to make sure you don’t say anything else silly when grown-ups are talking.” 

“Wha-?” Art babbled, interrupted as his own thumb was planted in his lips with a soft wet plop. Without even thinking about it, he started steadily to suck - a pleasant icy chill spreading out from his mouth, to the back of his neck, and then massage-like all the way down to the tippy top of his toes. He sighed in relief, a little bit of drawl dripping out of his loose open lips and trickling down his chin. 

Asher was ready to wipe it away, producing a napkin from his pocket. “There’s my good boy.” he praised. “You love sucking your thumb, don’t you buddy?” 

Art shook his head violently from side to side. He could still think straight - it wasn’t like when he had to go potty - but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to beat the urge to keep on sucking.  “I do’t…” he denied, garbling the words through his thumb. 

“Go and play.” Asher insisted, taking the opportunity to readjust the boy's pants so that the Thomas logo was fully showing again. Art wanted desperately to pull it up, but he just couldn’t stop sucking! 

Instead, he toddled over to a low table that was covered in little kid’s toys, leaving Asher to return to the receptionists desk. Straightaway, the two of them go to work on the form - but with their conversation out of earshot, Art’s desperate urge to keep on sucking his thumb slowly subsided. Still, it felt fantastic. He kept it in for now, taking a few more slow indulgent sucks as he surveyed the table for something to do that wasn’t completely infantile. 

Settling on a toy race car, he was just about to take his good hand out of his mouth to grab it, when someone else’s pudgy hand snatched it away. 

“Heeey!” Art complained, finally popping his thumb out of his mouth. A slick trail of drawl drew out from his mouth to his thumb, breaking off and leaving a sticky wet mark on the front of his tank top. “I wanted…” he heard himself mumble pathetically, before he stopped himself. It was only a stupid toy. “Whatever…” he said, slouching down to sit his bottom on the carpet. 

The hand belonged to a red-headed little boy, maybe five or six. The presence of another kid in the waiting room made the deception Asher was in the process of weaving at the reception desk sting even harder. It must have been obvious to anyone looking that Art was at least four or five years older than this kid. How could anyone believe he was four? He felt an anxious urge to pop his thumb back into his mouth and suck away all the bad feelings, but he just about managed to resist. 

“Sorry!” The red-headed tyke spoke up, dropping the car again. But Art didn’t make any attempt to reclaim it. “Are you a big boy?” he asked abruptly. 

“Huh?” 

“Are you a big boy?” The kid repeated, staring at him curiously. “You’re tall like my big cousin, but he doesn’t like Thomas. And he doesn’t suck his thumb.” 

Art was taken aback, but before he could answer, Asher was back. “Artie’s four.” He interrupted, indulging the red-head with a forced kid-friendly smile. He grabbed Art’s hand and ushered him to his feet. “Come on buddy, the doctor's ready for us now.” 

“Are you sure?” The red-head insisted, confused. “I’m six. So I’d be bigger than him. But he’s so tall!” 

“Quite sure.” Asher insisted, hurriedly marching Art away. Art could only manage a single glance at the other kid before they turned the corner, but the look on his face was nothing like the woman in the family bathroom, or the receptionist, or even his Mom. He didn’t look the slightest bit convinced. 

---

Asher sat in a nearby chair, nonchalantly scrolling on his phone. Meanwhile, sitting on the examination table, Art’s socked feet - Thomas theme, of course -  wiggled nervously in the air.  The receptionist was one thing, but he’d had the same doctor ever since he was born. Surely it would take more than an amended form and swapping out numbers on a database to fool him? 

“So, Artie!” Dr Jenkins enthused, finally entering the room - clipboard in hand. “How’s my favourite four year old?” 

Art scrunched up his face in annoyance. How could Dr Jenkins be so easily bamboozled? He was a doctor! Art was pretty sure his Mom had told him he’d gone to Harvard! Besides, he had his chart right in front of him. Didn’t it mention the time he’d had his appendix out when he was ten? Or when he’d fallen out of that tree? How could he have broken his arm in a high school fight if he was meant to be four years old!?

“Don’t you remember me?” Art replied, sounding almost heart-broken. 

Dr Jenkins paused, blinking at his chart for a moment. But in the end, all it took was a single line from Asher. He didn’t have to try nearly so hard as he had with the receptionist. 

“Artie O’Ryan.” He instructed in a monotone from the corner, still staring at his phone. “The little boy who broke his arm playing tee-ball.” 

Dr Jenkins broke into a broad smile again, continuing on as if Asher hadn’t said a word. “Of course I remember you! The little baseball star.” He started to flip through his clipboard as he approached the examination table. “Let’s see, four years old, no medications, four foot two inches tall…” 

“Wait.” Art interrupted. He wasn’t so vain that he didn’t know his height still started with a ‘four’, but he was absolutely certain he wasn’t that short. “I’m taller than that.” 

“Well, that’s what your grown-up put on your form Artie…” Dr Jenkins observed, looking him up and down. “We can always get you measured properly, but it looks about right to me. Besides, you’re already plenty tall for a boy your age…” He started to scribble something on his clipboard, bushy white eyebrows furrowed in mild concern. “In fact, I suppose in percentile terms you must be in the ninety-ninth point nine nine…” 

Asher rose from his chair. “We’re not really worried about Artie’s height. We just came about his broken arm.” He insisted, getting the now thoroughly-frazzled doctor back on track. 

“Oh, yes. The arm!” he exclaimed, extending his own towards the interloping fourteen year old in a confused attempt at a handshake. “And you are…? 

“His babysitter. Art’s mommy told me everything I need to know.” 

“Of course, of course.” The old doctor mumbled, as if nothing at all were amiss. 

“Excuse me!” Art tried to involve himself, momentarily drawing Dr Jenkins’ attention - but it was a hopeless endeavour. 

“Artie, grown-ups are talking now.” The bigger boy cued, and all at once Art was sucking his thumb again. His body shivered ecstatically, and his mind seemed to retreat. He could still hear the conversation between Asher and Dr Jenkins, but he could no longer bring himself to care - listening with no more interest than he would an old black and white movie droning in the background while he gorged himself on a big bowl of delicious chocolate ice cream. 

“And how has he coped over the last eight weeks?” 

“Oh, so-so. He’s been a little frustrated, that’s all.” 

“How so?” 

“Just not really acting his age. Being needy. The thumb-sucking for instance, plus he’s had a couple of little potty accidents.” 

Art gave a little grumble of annoyance, even as he kept on contentedly sucking his thumb. How could Asher be so hypocritical? He’d never sucked his thumb or peed his pants at all before that kid got involved. 

“I wouldn’t be so concerned at Artie’s age. A thumb is certainly better than a pacifier. And I can see he’s out of Pull-Ups now…” 

“Yep. Though he sometimes dribbles just a little. I’m honestly more concerned about number two. I think maybe he holds it too long because he wants to keep playing, and then he gets constipated…” 

“There’s something I can give you for that…”

Art fazed out, losing interest - choosing instead to focus on his thumb. He was amazed he’d never thought to try it before. Babies seemed to love it, afterall. Even if at the back of his mind he knew Asher was somehow making him do this, he still couldn’t resist. It just felt so good! He was so enraptured, that he barely even noticed when Dr Jenkins brought out what looked like a buzz saw - starting to cut away at the cast. 

“There’s no need to be afraid, Artie…” Dr Jenkins was saying somewhere far away. “This is a special saw that won’t hurt your skin. 

“Mmmm-hmmm….” Art nodded, taking a few more weaning sucks before he managed to pop his thumb out of his mouth. He blinked, wondering what else Asher had talked to the doctor about while he’d been distracted. 

Dr Jenkins was only about halfway done however, when a different cold feeling inched its way down Art’s spine - culminating with a desperate stinging feeling spiking in his bladder. He gasped. No! Not now! Not in front of the doctor! His legs twitched impatiently, and his toes flexed beneath the soft blue cotton of his socks. Inside his underpants, the toilet-paper-padding rustled as he involuntarily bounced his bum up and down on the squidgy surface of the examination table. He groaned, thinking of letting out just a little pee-pee to try and hold back the humiliating brain fog - but the thought of soaking the toilet paper in his pants was too humiliating to bear. He let go, giving in to the inevitable. 

“I gotta go poooody!” He heard his childish toddler-voice squeal, but there was no chance the doctor would stop for something as silly as that. 

“Hold on, Artie. Just a couple more minutes.” 

The boy started to bounce even more desperately, letting out adorable kitten-like squeaks of discomfort as Asher held him in place - letting the doctor finish the job. With such a long delay between surrender and release, Artie’s mind was completely overrun.

“That tickles!” He exclaimed with a playful screech as the cast saw cut through and buzzed against the skin at the top of his shoulder, finally fully releasing his arm. 

“There we go champ, all done.” Dr Jenkins smiled. “How about a high five?” Art gave a dopey smile, trying to raise his newly freed right-arm - only to let out an adorable yip of pain as he moved it out of its stiff position. “Easy, tiger!” Dr Jenkins instructed. “Let’s remember to take it easy with that arm for a few more weeks, okay?” 

Art nodded, happily offering his left hand for the high five. If Dr Jenkins minded that his thumb was still slightly slick from sucking, he didn’t show it. 

“I have to go poddy!” Art repeated sweetly, now using both hands to grab at his crotch, legs rhythmically knocking together in longing. 

“We hear you, buddy.” Asher dismissed. “There’s just a few more things the doctor and I need to talk about.” 

Artie was going to put his thumb back in his mouth, but Dr Jenkins presently offered a much more appealing solution - presenting a bright red strawberry flavoured sucker and applying a large green sticker showing a cartoon of a lion cub with a broken arm to the front of his tank top. Eagerly grabbing the lollipop, Artie tried to focus on reading the bubbly letters written around the picture on the sticker, but he just couldn’t concentrate - happily sucking and humming a silly tune to himself as he tried not to think about how desperately he needed to go pee-pee. 

Finally, the grown-ups stopped talking. “...and remember what I said about keeping it moisturised.” Dr Jenkins concluded as Asher scooped Artie off up the table under his armpits, standing him up on the ground still in only his Thomas socks. The boy hopped up and down as if the ground was made of hot lava, feet skipping this way and that in an improvised silent tap dance. 

“Poddy!” He reminded the grown-ups once again, eliciting a round of adoring chuckles. 

“Looks like you better hurry.” Dr Jenkins sympathised. “There’s one right through there.” 

“Thank you so much Doctor.” Asher smiled, folding a small piece of paper away into his pocket before taking Artie by the hands and leading him through the door. “Come on, lil’ monkey. Before you have an accident” 

Finally getting to the potty, Artie perched up on the toilet seat while Asher held him in place. As he released his bladder, he felt like he was waking up from a dream. He stared straight forward as he finished up peeing, wave after wave of embarrassment hitting like waves battering against flimsy flood defences. Had he really just done that? Had that really been him? 

“Wow, good job Artie-pup!” Asher praised, examining the pad of toilet paper still fastened securely to the inside of his underpants. “Bone dry! And you were super brave for the Doctor too, just like it says on your sticker.”  

Art blinked, hardly feeling able to match Asher’s excitement. He wondered why Asher kept talking to him like that, even after he’d gone pee. He must have known the brain fog always wore off by then. Maybe it was deliberate? Maybe he was slowly grinding him down, and someday soon he’d always be like that? He shuddered at the thought. 

 “Great.” he grunted stoically. “Please can I get up now?” 

“Sure, bud.” Asher agreed, lifting him to his feet and pulling up his briefs for him. He waited until after they’d washed their hands together before he pulled up his pants - making sure they were sagging, as usual. Gently taking the boy’s right hand - the one that had been in the cast - he directed the other thumb directly into his mouth, leaving the Thomas logo peaking up in pride of place. “Bet you’re glad to be out of that cast.” 

“I gueff…” Art lisped. 

“You just love sucking your thumb  - don’t you, lil’ monkey?” 

Art grunted in annoyance, wanting to take out his thumb and pull up his pants just to prove that he could - but it was impossible. It was like being asked to spit out a delicious spoonful of chocolate pudding. 

 “And just think.” Asher continued, starting to lead them back out into the waiting room, and over to the reception desk. “In just a couple more weeks, you’ll be playing tee-ball again!” 

The boy moaned in horror at the thought. He couldn’t make him, could he?