Quantify the effects of the experiment.

"Will you be soiling yourself?" she asked, pouting her lips and batting her formidable eyelashes. "No!" I shouted back, totally shocked. "People do that?" She smiled and purred, "Oh yes." I shuddered in horror. Before I could regain what little composure I had left, Caress grabbed both of my feet and in one fluid motion hoisted them skyward while pushing my knees to my chest.

"Let's begin then, shall we?" she said, now wielding a small spray bottle in her free hand. "Whoooooo!" I cried, as my surrogate "mommy" spritzed my most private of areas with cold water. Refreshing really wasn't the word. Perhaps she was doing an experiment of her own, measuring the effects of frigid fluid on male genitalia. Or perhaps she was just trying to coerce me into the role by inducing some befitting physical changes.

With my knuckles white and tightly wrapped around my elevated ankles, I winced as M.C. introduced a baby wipe to my ass crack. I can only assume that she'd been keeping the container in the fridge. "There!" she said with a satisfied sigh. "Baby's all fresh."

Gingerly hovering by the door were two of Caress's assistants, Baby and Suzy. A smile from their employer told them it was okay to wander in and witness the horrible scene for themselves. No one asked me if it was okay — and I was the one with his dingus greeting all and sundry. I supposed that children are to be seen and not heard.

Terrified that I'd be chided for breaking character, I hesitantly asked the stern and beautiful woman who'd just wiped my arse if it was de rigueur for me to communicate with her. "Well, most people just gurgle. You know, goo-goo gah-gah. That kind of thing," she said, cocking her head at my bum as she powdered it. "Others prompt me to say certain things or act in a certain way."

Well, nothing sprang to mind. And it was far too early in the day to gurgle like an idjeet, so I acted like the good baby I never was and took the Fifth. Chuckles emanated from the back of the room. I felt ridiculous.

Thankfully, the time had arrived for me to get dressed — sort of. With my legs still high in the air, Caress fed my feet through the legholes of a diaper. Wearing it didn't feel unpleasant, and I was grateful to be covered up. After that came a pair of plastic knickers that featured a truly massive safety pin, a white T-shirt and a matching blue-and-white, polka-dot bib and bonnet set. An oversized pacifier (called a "dummy" in England, which seemed kind of appropriate at the moment) was shoved into my kisser and a plastic rattle shoved into my hand. With a red lipstick, Caress went about making my cheeks and nose rosier. I'm still not sure if she was trying to make me look babyish or Irish.

"Aw, what an adorable baby!" lied Baby the assistant. I looked like your worst fucking nightmare. There was no shortage of mirrors for me to take in this gangly, scruffy-faced, hairy-legged, gin-blossomed brute in a diaper. It depressed the hell out of me — it really did.

Lunch time! I really can't remember much about how baby food tastes. But I do remember that a slightly hot 'n' kooky girl at my high school used to eat it. So I was certain that it was doable. I sat on the edge of the bed next to Caress, who popped open a jar of pureed carrots. She did the whole choo-choo-going-into-the-tunnel performance that I have recollections of loathing as a lower-case G. She motioned me to make an O shape with my mouth as she covered my upper and lower lips with a spoonful of the cold orange slop. I got a good whiff of it and it took every sinew of my being to stop from blowing chunks everywhere. My tongue curled and fell back toward my throat; I retched uncontrollably. Through fits of my tears, Caress continued to jab the spoon in the general direction of my mouth. Clearly this was a woman who remained undaunted by anything she might coax out of my body. I begged her to wipe off the carrot slime. "No one really likes the carrots," she admitted, still chuckling. "But I've never really seen anyone do that before." Great. Now I was a baby and a pussy. Baby handed Caress a jar of bananas. "Let's try these." Again with the getting-it-all-over-my-punim, and again I almost spew. In the unlikely event that I'll be siring a litter, I'll seek alternative nutrition for my kids before supporting those fucking Gerber people. The dessertif was apple juice in a baby bottle, and I was totally jonesing it, if only to get the sticky carrot-banana amalgam out of my mouth. As with the food, Caress teased me with the juice. "Stick your tongue out!" she said, as I craned my neck to get the bottle's teat in my mouth. "Oh, someone's going to be a very popular boy when he grows up!" She said it with that smushed jaw, pursed lips and rising intonation thing that people use to talk to babies. Finally, I managed to get a good mouthful of juice before it was decided that I had been a bad baby for getting messy. Cripes, it was spanking time.

Caress put me over her knee and pulled my diaper over my cheeks. She wasn't out to hurt me. She just gave me firm, from-the-wrist pats on either side of my powdered arse. I could safely say this was the closest I got to being turned on during the session. From my position, I couldn't really see what was going on, but judging from the frequency with which Adam's flash was lighting up the room, my bare, slapped ass must have looked spectacular. I closed my eyes and tried to regress to a simpler time when a tanned fanny would have been tantamount to death, but I was enjoying it too much. Not in a sexual way, of course. More in a "this is so much easier than having to eat those shitty carrots" way.

"We usually like to finish up with bath time," suggested the mistress. I clapped my hands together in front of my face. "Yay!" Caress's henchwomen ran me a bath while their employer helped me undress, never breaking eye contact. "Get in," she instructed and handed me a rubber ducky to play with. Once in the bath I hammed it up, slapping the surface of the water and splashing around in the bubbles. The mistress grabbed one hand and yanked it high above my head so she could give me a good scrub down. Once I was squeaky clean, Mistress Caress toweled me off and gave me a big maternal hug, effectively ending our session. I got dressed, said my goodbyes and scurried out onto sunny Eighth Avenue — once again a fully grown man.



Summarize your findings. Don't forget to attempt to identify possible variables that could result in different findings for others trying to recreate your test results.

As Mistress Caress explained to me, the infantilism sessions are typically driven by the person living out the fantasy, so she was really giving me an overview of what a session may include. I did enjoy my experience with Mistress Caress, although I must profess that I was in no way turned on by being mollycoddled, even by a beautiful woman. It didn't occur to me at the time, but nursing would have been the perfect bridge between role-playing an infant and getting turned on purely from having boobs in my face. (I'm a simple guy, really.) Stupid, stupid, stupid. I emailed Mistress Caress when I got back to the office. She replied that nursing was never included in her commercial sessions and was saved only for really good babies. Damn.
Most men are fully aroused during the session. Often, the excitement of Mistress Caress dishing out some maternal admonishment to their heinies is enough to bring them to orgasm. Caress makes sure to lower their diaper just enough to expose their buttocks, taking care to keep their hair-trigger pee-pee covered. I asked her why so many men get off by the hand that rocks the cradle. "I believe that most of these men grew up at a time when more moms were going to work," she explained. "Even some stay-at-home moms just aren't physically expressive with hugs, kisses and touches. These poor babies just didn't get enough nurturing, tenderness and female affection." I guess I got enough. n°

Do you have an idea for Grant's next I Did It for Science? Let him know here.

Visit Mistress Caress's official website at www.mistresscaress.com. Her Manhattan-based, woman-owned-and-operated studio is seeking part-time and full-time assistants. Experience is not necessary. If interested, call 212.924.1564.