Regressive Ad Campaign: Part 3

By Sage Ann

This story is set in the incredible world created by AlteredStates14. Her universe is brought to life not through traditional written narratives, but through a powerful collection of images—advertisements, media articles, and other visual artifacts—that vividly capture everyday life in her setting.

All images associated with this story are her original work. Please consider supporting her so we can continue to explore and enjoy more of this fascinating world.

You can find her work here:
 https://www.deviantart.com/alteredstates14

Another author has also written a story based in this universe from a different perspective. You can find it here:
 https://www.deviantart.com/fatherfish/art/Pampers-and-Propaganda-1028729633

Three weeks later, Kalie stood in the cereal aisle of the grocery store, staring at a display that hadn't been there during her last shopping trip. Beside the Cheerios and Frosted Flakes sat boxes of "Teen-Time Cereal"—oversized, brightly colored packaging featuring cartoon characters and the tagline "Perfect for your growing-down girl!" Behind the display, a video screen played a commercial of a mother spooning cereal into her teenage daughter's mouth, the girl seated in what looked like a high chair designed for an adult body. Kalie gripped her shopping list tighter, the paper crinkling between her fingers as she hurried past, pretending she hadn't seen mothers actually placing the cereal in their carts.

The regression had infiltrated every corner of daily life. Billboards that once advertised cell phones now showcased "ReNursery Furniture"—cribs with reinforced frames, changing tables with stairs, rocking chairs built for a mother and her adult-sized "baby." Radio stations ran ads for "Second Infancy Support Services," offering daycare facilities for regressed teens complete with giant playpens and scheduled naptime. Even the mall had transformed—entire storefronts now dedicated to oversized onesies, decorative diaper covers, and pacifiers designed for teenage mouths.

Kalie's social media feeds had become a parade of mothers posting photos of their diapered daughters, hashtagged with #MyBabyAgain and #ReclaimingMotherhood. The algorithm, sensing her gender and age, bombarded her with advertisements for products she'd never use: Teen-Sized BabyBjörn carriers, adult pacifier clips, bottles with "big girl" designs.

Most disturbing were the new services: specialized schools where regressed teens sat at desks with safety straps, attended by teachers who were trained in both algebra and diaper changing. "Mommy and Me" classes redesigned for mothers and their teenage "infants." Apps that allowed mothers to track their daughters' diaper changes and feeding schedules.

The following Monday, Kalie met Tara at their usual spot before first period. Except nothing about Tara was usual anymore. Her hair, once straightened with militant precision each morning, now hung in childish pigtails tied with pink ribbons. Her clothes had changed too—a dress with a Peter Pan collar and a ruffled skirt that hit just above the knee, white ankle socks with lace trim, and shoes with Velcro straps. The bulge beneath her dress was unmistakable.

"Hey," Kalie said, trying to keep her voice normal, as if her best friend hadn't transformed into an oversized toddler over the weekend.

"Hi!" Tara's voice had changed too—higher, with a slight lisp that hadn't been there before. She clutched a backpack shaped like a cartoon unicorn, nothing like the structured leather tote she'd carried for years. "Look what Mommy got me!" She thrust the backpack forward.

Their fingers brushed, and they felt a spark – static from the dry air, but it jolted them nonetheless. Kalie forced a smile. "It's... cute."

"I know! And it has a special pocket for my changing supplies." Tara unzipped a compartment, revealing diapers decorated with butterflies, wipes, and a changing pad. "Mommy says I need to be prepared since my accidents are happening more now."

"Right." Kalie shifted her weight, uncomfortable with the casual way Tara displayed items that, just a month ago, would have been mortifying. "Do you need to... change a lot during school?"

Tara nodded, no trace of embarrassment on her face. "Ms. Peterson says I'm one of the advanced cases. I don't even always know when I'm going. Mommy says that's a good sign—it means I'm fully embracing my true needs."

The first bell rang, saving Kalie from having to respond. They walked to class together, Tara skipping every few steps, occasionally humming fragments of children's songs. In the hallways, at least half the girls now showed signs of regression—childish hairstyles, juvenile clothing, visible diaper lines. Some were being led by the hand by teaching assistants who cooed encouragement. Others clutched stuffed animals or sucked on pacifiers between classes.

Their AP Literature classroom had been rearranged. Several desks had been replaced with larger chairs with safety straps and trays. The back corner now featured a changing station behind a folding screen. Ms. Parson, who had once quoted Virginia Woolf with passionate intensity, now spoke in the slow, exaggerated cadence of a preschool teacher.

"Alright, girls, let's get settled for our story time. If anyone needs a change before we begin, please see Ms. Winters." She gestured to a classroom aide Kalie had never seen before, a woman in scrubs who stood beside the changing area with an encouraging smile.

Three girls raised their hands, Tara among them. They were escorted to the changing station one by one. Kalie stared at her copy of "The Yellow Wallpaper," a story about a woman's descent into madness that suddenly felt less like fiction and more like documentary.

When Tara returned, smelling of baby powder and looking pleased, she leaned over to Kalie. "Mommy says soon I might need to switch to the special school. The one with naptime and snack breaks. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Kalie nodded mutely, unable to reconcile this infantilized version of Tara with the girl who had once stayed up three nights straight to perfect her research paper on feminist theory in dystopian literature. The classroom around her felt increasingly surreal—half the girls following the lesson with varying degrees of attention, the other half coloring with crayons on simplified worksheets or playing with quiet toys provided by the aide.

After school, Kalie rushed home, desperate for the normalcy of her own house. She found Mary at the kitchen table, homework spread out, utterly unchanged—the same perpetually annoyed expression, the same too-loud music leaking from her headphones, the same tendency to eat directly from the bag of chips beside her.

"Hey," Mary said, not looking up. "Mom left money for pizza. She's at some conference thing until late."

Kalie nodded, relief washing over her at the mundane exchange. She dropped into the chair across from her sister. "Have you noticed how many girls at your school have started wearing... you know."

Mary snorted. "Diapers? Yeah. It's weird. Sophia—you know, the eighth-grader with the blue hair?—she came to school in a onesie today. A actual onesie. With snaps at the crotch." She shuddered dramatically. "Her mom was all proud about it on Facebook. Posted like ten pictures."

"Doesn't it freak you out?" Kalie opened Mary's bag of chips without asking, earning a glare. "That it's spreading so fast?"

Mary shrugged. "People are sheep. Also, Mom would never. Can you imagine? She can barely remember to sign permission slips."

Their mother, whose idea of nurturing was occasionally ordering Kalie's favorite takeout without being reminded, who delegated household responsibilities with the efficiency of a military commander, who referred to her daughters as "self-sufficient" with obvious pride—the idea of her suddenly wanting to diaper and spoon-feed them was absurd.

And yet, a traitorous whisper of doubt crept into Kalie's mind. Other mothers had changed, seemingly overnight. Mothers who had once pushed their daughters toward independence and achievement were now cooing over their helplessness. What if the influences that had affected them somehow reached her mother too?

The front door opened, and their mother appeared, still in her work clothes, phone pressed to her ear as she nodded along to whoever was speaking. She waved distracted acknowledgment at her daughters, mouthing "pizza?" at Mary, who gave a thumbs up. Then she disappeared into her office, voice fading as she closed the door: "Yes, I can have those projections to you by morning..."

The knot in Kalie's chest loosened. Nothing had changed. Her mother remained consumed by work, treating her daughters as capable individuals rather than overgrown infants. Whatever social contagion had swept through their community, their household remained immune.

For now, at least. But as Kalie picked up her backpack to head to her room, she caught sight of a magazine their mother had left on the counter—one of the parenting publications that had begun featuring articles about teen regression. It was folded open to a page with the headline: "Working Mothers and ReParenting: Finding Balance in the Baby-Again Revolution."

Kalie stared at it, a cold uncertainty settling in her stomach. She reached for the magazine, then stopped, her hand hovering above the glossy pages. Some questions were better left unasked, some fears better left unexplored. She turned away, leaving the magazine untouched, and walked upstairs to her room—still decorated with posters she'd chosen herself, still filled with books she'd read without anyone's help, still hers. For now.