"That was nice, wasn't it?" I ask, holding my little man up for close inspection after our bath together. "You feel a little warm to me. Lets check it out, shall we?" I enjoy the way he scowls at me as I cradle him naked on my bare legs. I shake the thermometer, his scowl disappears and his eyes widen in worry.

I dip the end in the large tub of petroleum jelly, making a bit of show of it for Tim's benefit. He follows my every movement, his face slowly turning bright red. "Ok, here we go!" I giggle, rolling him over my knees. Separating the chubby cheeks of his little bottom with one hand, I gently insert the thermometer with the other.

He squeals with anger, glaring at me for an instant with that familiar look of pure, absolute hatred, as his hands clench, forming tight, pink little fists, and his tiny toes curl. Sobbing, he buries his face in the blanket.

"Oh, such a fuss!" I chide, holding the thermometer in place between my fingers.

I saw a photo of Tim before his regression: a huge, intimidating man dressed in leather, sitting on a motorcycle. He was convicted of several rapes, and the Judge handed down the sentence: permanent age regression. Tim would spend the rest of his life trapped inside the body he had when he was three months old.

I wait, my hand gently resting on his perfect baby bottom, and I muse over the appropriateness of his punishment. Here was a man who used women like objects, who took great delight in humiliating his victims, relishing the power that he had over other people simply because of his strength and his size, now reduced to a tiny plaything.

I admire his tiny little fingers, shuddering when I recall the huge, filthy hand that clenched tightly across my mouth as he dragged me off into a corner of the parking garage. He held a knife to my throat as he pulled off my panty hose and thrust himself into me, savagely ravaging me for what seemed like an eternity.

Sometime during this horrific experience, I suppose in some kind of crazy effort to distract myself, I found myself singing a song that I'd just heard on radio, the Beatles song 'Let It Be'. Mocking me, my attacker joined in, ramming me rhythmically in time to the song.

He kicked me with the back of his boot when he was done with me. The blow cracked my skull, and sent me into a coma for almost three weeks.

"Why did you have to kick me, Tim?" I ask looking down at the naked little baby stretched across my knees. "You got what you wanted. You didn't have to hurt me."

Tim babbles in response; he's quite incapable of speech. Well, I suppose that not entirely true. He did scream 'Nooooo!' when court officials granted me temporary custody. It's really a shame that he can't talk because I'd really like to know what he's thinking about now.

"I guess it must have been my imagination," I snicker, pulling out the thermometer and pretending to read it. "I could have sworn you had a slight fever." I carry him to the changing table, placing him on his back. "We're having lunch with Paula," I whisper, spreading the powder over his tiny penis. Paula was another girl he hurt; we got to know each other very well during Tim's trial. She was anxious to have some time alone with little Timmy, and was waiting for her turn rather impatiently "And then we're seeing Dr. Denton about this nasty thing!" I pinch his intact foreskin between my finger and thumb and sneer in mock disdain.

Dr. Denton is Tim's new pediatrician. I wanted to get Tim circumcised, and after making sure that I was legally permitted to make that decision, called last week and scheduled the procedure. His appointment is this afternoon.

As is his habit, Tim turns his head away from me as I pin the diaper in the front. Again I wonder, looking at his adorable little nose and his flawless pale skin, how a baby so perfect and precious could possibly grow up to be such a hideous, violent monster.

Since we were lunching with Paula, I am tempted to put him in something especially cute, perhaps that adorable lavender sundress, but in a fleeting moment of sympathy, decide to dress him in a simple yellow jumper instead. His day is going to be tough enough as it is.

"No breakfast for you," I say, lifting him up to my shoulder. "Doctor's orders!"

I put him in the middle of my bed; he looks so tiny as he twists and squirms spastically on my bedspread. Poor little Tim! It must be difficult to find that you've become a helpless prisoner of an immature nervous system. I read somewhere that it's exactly the same as having severe cerebral palsy; each muscle seems to have a mind of it's own.

"Have you ever been to Enrique's Place on Central?" I ask from the bathroom as I apply my makeup in the mirror. "That's where we're meeting Paula." I stop what I'm doing and stand in the doorway, watching little Tim as he stares at the bedroom ceiling, a rivulet of snot running from his nose and down the side of his face. "I suppose not. It isn't exactly a biker bar, is it?" I wipe his nose with toilet paper and he squeals in protest.

I lie down beside him on the bed, and pull him close. He's just so absolutely perfect in every way; I can't stop touching him.

"And then we're off to see Dr. Denton," I whisper, playfully squeezing his diapered crotch. I feel his entire body shake. "He says it will only hurt for a few minutes, and you'll heal within a week or so." His trembling bottom lip sticks out in the most adorable pout. "Oh, and I'm sure you don't mind. I told Paula that she could come with us to Dr. Denton's to watch you get snipped."

His face gets red and his eyes scrunch up. His hands ball up into fists as he starts to cry, that distinct high-pitched cry that little babies make. It immediately takes on a rhythm, and as if on cue, I draw him even closer pushing his face into my breasts as I begin to sing: "When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be."


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