Losing Control

Little Stuff

Sarah stood in the centre of the living room, her gaze fixed on the array of brightly coloured items that seemed to mock her teenage sensibilities. The pacifier dangled from its strap, its rubber teat gleaming under the soft glow of the room's lights. Beside her, her mom watched with a mixture of encouragement and concern, her presence a reassuring anchor in Sarah's sea of uncertainty.

"Go ahead, sweetheart," her mom urged gently, her voice carrying a blend of understanding and gentle insistence. "You might find it more comforting than you think."

Sarah hesitated, her fingers twitching nervously as she eyed the pacifier. Its design, meant for infants, clashed starkly with her desire to appear mature and composed. She glanced up at her mom, who offered an encouraging smile, her eyes warm with empathy.

With a resigned sigh, Sarah reached out tentatively and took the pacifier in her hand. The rubber teat felt foreign against her fingertips, its softness at odds with the weight of her self-consciousness. She fidgeted with the straps, trying in vain to adjust them to alleviate the discomfort.

Her mom stepped closer, her movements deliberate yet gentle. "Here, let me help you with that," she offered, reaching for the pacifier and deftly unfastening the strap. Sarah tensed, but before she could protest, her mom guided the pacifier toward her mouth.

Instinctively, Sarah recoiled, her lips pressing tightly together in resistance. She wanted to refuse, to declare this experiment futile, but her mom's persistent calmness nudged her toward compliance. With a mixture of resignation and curiosity, she reluctantly opened her mouth, allowing the rubber teat to slip between her lips.

The taste of rubber flooded her senses, and Sarah grimaced inwardly at the absurdity of the situation. Her mom adjusted the straps, securing them snugly around Sarah's head and fastening them at the back. The sensation of the straps pulling taut sent a shiver down Sarah's spine, the pacifier now firmly in place.

"There we go," her mom murmured softly, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "Not so bad, right?"

Sarah tried to respond, to voice her discomfort and unease, but the rubber teat muted her words into an unintelligible murmur. She glanced at her mom with pleading eyes, silently begging to be released from this uncomfortable charade.

Her mom smiled warmly, oblivious to Sarah's inner turmoil. "You look adorable, sweetheart," she remarked with maternal pride.

Adorable. The word grated against Sarah's pride, stirring up a mix of embarrassment and frustration. She stole a glance at her reflection in the nearby mirror, unable to recognize the teenage girl staring back at her with a pacifier strapped to her face.

Despite her reservations, Sarah couldn't deny a faint sense of relief that washed over her. There was a strange comfort in the pacifier's rhythmic sucking motion, a soothing distraction from the anxieties that had become all too familiar. She closed her eyes briefly, allowing herself to surrender to the oddly calming sensation.

As Sarah stood there, enveloped in the stillness of the living room, she began to feel a subtle shift within herself. The weight of her condition seemed momentarily lighter, replaced by a fragile sense of peace that she hadn't experienced in a long time. The pacifier, once a symbol of childishness, now became a lifeline—a tether to a simpler, less burdensome existence.

Her mom watched with quiet understanding, her gaze filled with empathy. She knew this journey into age regression therapy would be challenging for Sarah, but she also believed in its potential to offer her daughter a reprieve from the relentless demands of her condition.

"Let's take it one step at a time, okay?" her mom said softly, breaking the silence. "You don't have to figure it all out right away."

Sarah nodded slightly, the pacifier bobbing with the movement. Despite her lingering doubts and discomfort, she felt a flicker of gratitude toward her mom for standing by her side through this unfamiliar terrain.