Work It, Baby - Part Eight

This is going to be one hell of a video shoot.

I'm Nora. I'm the chick you've been hearing about here and there. Yeah, one of Terri's accomplices in the delightful transformation we've been bringing upon our asshole of a former boss. Oh, it's not that I'm particularly vengeful. At least, I don't like to think so. But, well, Terri had an axe to grind with Allison, and I've never been exactly falling head over heels in love with her myself. So when the idea of coming along and becoming a part-time kink model came up? And they said we were headed for Malibu? And the funds Terri made good on were the size they were?

Hell, yeah. For that, I'd be her paid accomplice even if I was kidnapping my own cousin. And if the victim happened to be Allison Meriweather? It was just that much sweeter.

I glance down now over the brief I've been handed by the director. We've got just about everything primed to go. Scene is set. Outfits and props all good to go. Lights and camera on hand. Sound guy's here, too. And most importantly, our nasty little star is primed and ready for the delightful—and audience-tickling—role we've set for her...

It really was fortuitous to hear about her little tummy quirk, wasn't it?

The director nods at me, and I hand over the clipboard. It's show time now, and I need to be ready for the tumultuous entrance of our little brat. And... action!

***

"Hey! You get your hands off me, you filthy creeps! Let me go! I'm gonna call the police on you, I swear to god-"

Allison certainly knows how to make an entrance. In she comes, hauled between myself and my colleague Lena. We're immaculately dressed for the part: in pale blue vintage institutional-style scrubs and aprons, their shortened skirts and aprons intended to show off our shapely legs in a fashion far more sexy than historically accurate. As for Allison? She was lucky enough to be given our version of the hipster yoga-girl outfit: running shorts, an athletic top, and of course her hair back in a simple ponytail.

Naturally she was elated less than half an hour ago, when we merrily stripped her out of her bonds and infantile gear and restored her to some semblance of adulthood. Perhaps she suspected something, and perhaps not. I can't say. But it's not like we could have told her what was up, even if we'd been inclined to. You see, the acting is always so much better if the scene really is a surprise for the main character...

Anyway, in she comes now, her usual profanities streaming from her foul mouth. We were beasts, we were criminals, we had no right to treat her this way- -ay -ayyyy....

Wow. The director had told me using real chloroform on an unsuspecting victim wasn't exactly rocket science. In the event, it's actually easy as pie. And as Allison's limp form sags down into dead weight between us, I stifle a gasp of surprised delight. Oh my god, it really is just that easy. And since we're going with the pie analogy, hell—it's just as satisfying, too.

We don't have too much assigned dialogue in what follows, so that actually makes things more natural. Across the floor we drag our unconscious victim, and then onto the medical-looking bondage table, there to strip her of her so recently acquired adult clothing. Oh, yes—we have plans for her. We've got stacks of diapers, and boosters, and more than enough bondage gear to keep her our helpless prisoner for months and even years...

Damn, those college experiments with kinky shit are finally paying off!

But this scene isn't about bondage per se. It isn't about rope or hypnosis or force-feeding—all themes I've quickly learned are tropes in this decidedly odd photo studio. No, we're doing a video shoot with our bratty victim, and it's our assigned role to ready her for our little performance.

So on goes the powder and lotion, plastered around our unconscious victim's nether regions. On goes the first booster-filled diaper, and then a second over that. Good. She'll be waddling everywhere, even before- Nope. Not going there just yet! We're industrious and efficient, Lena and I, as we now haul Allison's twitching body up and begin slipping it into her chosen outfit.

You see, she's gonna be our little doll, like it or not. Just like we models used to be hers.

It's such poetry when she finally awakens, blinking her groggy eyes as she slowly comes to understand her predicament. "What- what have you- done..." Her eyes widen in panic as she struggles to a sitting position on the table, glancing down to find herself bereft of every shred of former adult clothing. For in place of her jogging top and shorts, she's got the frilliest, pinkest, most humiliating toddler dress imaginable. It's festooned with little cartoon pigs, to boot. And between her legs bulges the infantile padding of her thick double diapers, covered over with a frilly pink diaper featuring—of all things—a curly little pig's tail.

"But- no, you can't be serious! I'm not gonna wear this, you assholes-" "Such a dirty-mouthed little piggy," I chide, right on cue. And in goes the gag: an apple, of all things, small and red, with an oh-so-satisfying crunch as her teeth sink down into it. Gargling protests, muffled curses, and wails swirl through the room, and my partner and I can't help but laugh even as we tug her flailing hands away from the zippers she's frantically trying to undo.

"Now, now! Sweet little piggy princesses should be seen and not heard," I remonstrate, tightening a pink collar snugly around her neck. "Get her hands too, will you?" I spot a thumbs-up out of the corner of my eye from the videographer, and I know we must be doing well. "Now, now! If little piggy princesses can't keep their hands to themselves, they're gonna have to go back to hooves, aren't they?"

And then we finally have her subdued: on her mittened hands and knees, her skimpy little skirt doing absolutely nothing to hide the massive bulk of her frilly, pampered behind and her delightfully curly tail. "Come on, then—good piggy!" And around the room Lena and I go, tugging our leashed little captive behind us in hapless distress. The tables have been turned at last. Allison is our model now, and we get to do whatever the hell we want with her.

It's poetic justice, really.

And when at last we tire of trotting the drooling, dribbling baby around the room for the cameras, we pull her upright. And once the apple-gag is removed and her panicked moans subside, I finally detect precisely the sort of development I—and the videographer— have been waiting for.

"Please, my gut- please, I feel so sick- You gotta let me- I can't take it much longer-"

"Aww, is our little piggy princess tired of modeling? Does our wittle model want to run off and use the potty like a big person?" We're sniggering openly at her distress now. And sure, it might be hammed up a bit for the camera. But both of us remember all too well the hell—the absolute fatigue and pain and hunger and dizziness and dehydration—to which Allison and others like her had subjected us in the name of fashion. And as Lena and I grin at one another, it's crystal clear that neither of us is about to give in.

"I think our little piggy princess needs to show everyone once and for all whether she's a big girl model who can hold it, or just a sweet little baby girl who actually needs these nappies," I chortle, yanking up her skirt to disclose the puffy bulk of her diapered bottom. "Come on, sweetie. Which is it going to be? If you're going to be a real model, you know, you're just going to have to suck it up: be a big girl, suffer, and keep on going." That's what you always told us, isn't it? I add internally. "So go on, then! If you really can't hold it, then-"

And then it happens: the first explosive burst of Allison's ultimate, lactose-fueled humiliation.

I don't need to describe it all in detail, I suppose. I'm sure the video will be out there for your viewing pleasure. But I must say that despite my initial wave of disgust, there is something so viscerally delightful in listening and watching as my former tormenter bends double, groaning as her bowels empty noisily and helplessly into her clearly bulging diapers. She is no longer a boss, nor a coworker, nor even a woman. For all intents and purposes, in this moment she is our stupid, brainless, hapless toy: existing only to tease and torment and humiliate in whatever sadistic ways we see fit...

It's perhaps a full five minutes until Allison groans and straightens up, sobs still racking her frill-clad frame. And in the slumped shoulders and helpless tears of abject shame running down her face, I can read only complete and utter defeat.

At last, at long last... Allison is broken.

And as the director shouts "Cut!", I smile and give Allison's shit-filled diapers a hearty smack. Oh, yeah. Terri is gonna be so delighted, isn't she?