Keep On Working It, Baby!

Thanks to our awesome patron Samantha for commissioning this sequel to "Work It, Baby"! Hope y'all enjoy revisiting this old story as much as I did!

***

What a big night for a Little model!

I stare impassively into the mirror through my artificial curls, no longer surprised by the stark-naked  character gazing back at me. That woman in the mirror… I know who she is. She's not a woman at all, really – at least not a mature one. She looks nothing like the middle-aged Allison I once knew myself to be. And she's certainly not Allison Meriweather, the one-time diva of the fashion world.

She – that is to say, I – am just Allie now. Allie, the sweet, overgrown baby girl. Allie, the pathetic adult model for all things frilly and infantile and humiliating.

My old employees and their friends have seen to it, you know. Terri… Nora… Lena… they all conspired against me. They're the ones who forced me out here all those months ago, who tricked me into resigning, who blackmailed me into committing myself permanently to the role of fetishy adult baby model. Over the past months, they've been toying with me: "punishing" and "disciplining" me, forcing me to model in ever-more humiliating situations. For kinky videos. For adult diaper commercials. Even for fetish clothing designers…

But this? Well, I don't know exactly what's in store for me this time. But from what I've been able to gather, I suspect this affair tonight just might take the cake.

"Now then, baby," I hear in my left ear, and in the mirror I see Lena's grinning face looming behind me. "Now I know you've been a good little baby slut for me today. You've been soaking your pampers like a good girl, and you've been eating and drinking all your food without complaining. You didn't even whine once about your pretty pink plug!" She giggles, and I wince visibly as I feel her hand traveling up and down, caressing the length of my naked and exposed ass. "I guess you're really coming to love being our plugged little babydoll, huh?"

Of course I'm not! Of course I've been pissing myself in these nasty diapers – I don't have a choice, do I? And of course I've been resisting the urge to whimper and beg for this girthy protuberance to be pulled out of my poor, clenching bumhole. For though I despise how it feels – how it invades me, fills me, prevents me from going a single minute without squirming from its phallic presence – I also know from bitter experience that begging to have it removed will only earn me further punishments. Most likely a muzzle or a ball gag, to hush my pathetic protests. Spankings on my already sore ass. Maybe a mouth soaping… or even all three.

And so, I merely stare back at her over my giant pink pacifier, suckling fitfully to bite back the torrent of vindictive words already springing to my lips. At least I can repeat them in my head, right? Bitchface. Stupid motherfucking cunt. Ugly-ass slut–

"Oh, but you're not allowed to have a plug tonight! For tonight's fashion show, we have something  else in mind for you. Something very special…" She forces me to bend over, and now as I clutch the sides of the childish little vanity, I can feel her tugging the giant plug free. God, that feels… strange. Such a relief, of course. And yet, it now feels so… empty…

But I'm not allowed to dwell on it for long. "First, your pretty new dipies!" Lena enthuses, and now she's leading me over to the changing table I know all too well, upon which I already see spread one of those horrifically humiliating new diapers that arrived just last week: princess pink, with printed lace and ruffles over its entirety, and the giant word BABY in caps right across the front. "Of course, it wouldn't be right to run the risk of you not using them properly…"

Uh-oh. I know they've been giving me extra-large portions of food the past two days. At first I just thought the glutinous oatmeal and the filling, chalky meal-replacement formula they've been filling my bottles with were just their way of fattening me up – you know, for the revolting rolls of "baby fat" that Terri keeps saying will make me "cuter" than ever. Even as early as a few hours ago, I muscled down another helping of a strangely grainy, fruit filled porridge, pathetically consoling myself at the time that my already-churning bowels would be able to relieve themselves during the lull between supper and bathtime. But now, I'm beginning to have other suspicions.

Suspicions which are confirmed when the giant, rubbery enema bag emerges from under the table.

Of course I whimper out my objections. Of course I shake my head and begin to struggle and shrink back from the greased tube as Lena laughingly lowers it to my defenseless – and still sore – bumhole. But there's nothing I can realistically do but comply, and we both know it. So in goes the tube, and open goes the valve, and I shudder and gulp as the first warm wave of soapy water floods into my poor belly.

Things are looking nasty indeed.

***

"…and that's why we're introducing our latest line of baby gear for you all tonight! Over the last year, we've noticed a real lack of truly beautiful, feminine adult baby girl clothes in the fetish market. We here at Flights of Fancy have decided to fill that gap – thanks in no small part to the concerted efforts of our designer Terri Ferguson. So tonight, here to model the first design of our brand-new, never-before-seen Little Lolita lineup, please welcome none other than our own sweet baby princess, Allie!"

I step forward into the lights on my cue, awash in a bewildering haze of shell-shocked mortification and stomach-churning nausea. The announcer here on stage is beaming at me, and I gaze silently back over my giant pacifier, more acutely aware than I've ever been before of my pathetic predicament. Some folks may have nightmares about standing on stage in nothing but their underwear. But that's nothing – absolutely nothing – compared to what I'm doing tonight.

"For the pretty pink princess in your life, we bring you the Blushing Babydoll ensemble!" She's practically giggling, as are all the hundreds of people seated in the audience before me. I blink through the blonde curls of my wig, feeling the outfit rustling around me, squeezing and caressing every inch of me in its humiliating grasp…

A tight, shirred, high-waisted bodice of powder pink that flattens my meager adult curves into infantile non-existence. Puffy cap sleeves that descend only halfway to my elbows. A high peter-pan collar of floppy white lace, and a similarly lacy white bow billowing out across my back. While underneath, a tulle petticoat flares out, leaving the butterfly-strewn pink skirt bobbing and swaying well above my naked and trembling knees.

And of course, peeking out from beneath this absurdly infantile party dress is the thick, booster-swollen bulk of that new pink diaper. My new diaper. The diaper that I'm trembling on the verge of using… very, very thoroughly.

"Go on, give us a twirl, baby!" I do, mechanically, like some dolled-up little kid on Toddlers and Tiaras. I'm mortified, of course, but even in my moment of humiliation I'm also too preoccupied with my churning, aching gut to do anything but obey. If only I can make it through- Last until they're done with me- I can do this. Just two more minutes, and then I can let it all out once I'm back stage-

"…and the delicate lace petticoat is the perfect length to let your pretty little princess show the entire world her adorable, diapered little derrière! Here, baby, bend over for us and let these nice people see your pretty bum-bum! Aww, come on – don't be shy! Nobody here minds that you haven't quite mastered the potty yet…"

Amid gales of laughter, I turn and obediently bend over. A mistake, of course… but one that I only realize once it's far too late to correct.

For, with a final, titanic cramp that almost sends me stumbling to my knees, my enema-gorged belly gives out. A gurgling, wet explosion erupts within my diaper, and I gasp and let out a pathetic, pacifier-muffled moan as a wet, spluttering rush of filthy water and poo bursts into the seat of my waiting diaper. I can only freeze, breath suspended, wincing as my very being convulses in spasms of pent-up relief. Wave after wave of nausea comes, and splutters out in a fresh wave of diarrhea, and leaves me shaking like a leaf in a storm. I'm practically emptying my over-stuffed bowels in front of everyone, and I can already feel the boosters and diaper swelling and sagging with the heavy weight of my infantile mess…

From the crowd behind me, I can hear gales of laughter and amused snickers. Over the sound of their mirth the announcer's voice comes, and even she is clearly laughing at my distress. "Oh… oh, dear! I guess it's only to be expected now, isn't it? Poor little dear simply doesn't know any better!" I feel her hand on my wig, and I let out a defeated little whimper as she forces me to turn gingerly – legs shaking and spread wide from the thick, smelly bulk of my disgrace – to face the audience once more.

"There, there, Allie," she smirks, and the audience titters as she strokes the messy blonde curls away from my sweating forehead and beet-red cheeks. "Feel better? Like Shrek says, baby-doll… better out than in!"

It's then, as the audience hoots and breaks into a spontaneous round of applause at my pathetic, impromptu display, that my terrified eyes catch sight of a strangely familiar face a mere four rows back. A face I'd know anywhere. The face of Jeffrey Lernowitz, whom I'd given full control of my old company. And judging by the wry grin on his face, it seemed that he is having the time of his life.

What a horrifically big night indeed.