Work It, Baby - Part Seven

I've awakened, but the hideous nightmare drags on.

I guess I must have dozed off at some point during the night, shuddering now and again at the feeling of my own sodden diapers pressing wetly against my intimate regions. And then I awoke, only to find some hellish contraption strapped to my head: some virtual reality torture device, complete with that bitch Terri whispering in my ears. God, that was revolting! She was taunting me about how she and my "aunties" would be taking care of me, about what a little baby I was, about how I should cry for them to change me...

And yes, I had cried—in hot angry tears that stung my eyes as much as her words stung my ears. I'd wailed too, not because she told me to, but because I simply couldn't help it.

Now here I am, one diaper change later, and still being manhandled by these models whose young strength easily resisted all my efforts to free myself. I seem to be in a different kind of diaper now. This one is almost as thick as the one before, but it crinkles with every move I make here on this godforsaken table. You see, they've left me here, the little bitches. I'm still cuffed fast, shackled hand and foot, and every little gurgle that escapes my gagged and drool-filled mouth only makes me wince at just how infantile I now sound.

No. I'm not going to be made into a baby, I swear. They can force me to do all these humiliating things, but they can't break me. They can't take away who I really am: Allison Meriweather, fashion icon, mature woman and CEO. I have to hang on to that, no matter what.

"Guess whose breakfast is ready now?" It's the cheery voice of one of those two skanks who tied me up here. They're back, looming formidably above my captive form. "Time for some num-nums, little one! Come on, we'll get you all fed up for your big day." Fed up is right, I mused darkly, watching as they released my wrists from the table's iron rings. I'm so fed up I'm going to punch you right in the fa-

Wait... What are they doing with my wrists, pulling them up to my face? There's a metallic snap, and then another. Ready as I am to clobber those little cunts for what they've done to me, I give a sudden jerk—but only end up nearly cracking my neck.

"Gwwhhuuuh?!"

They've clipped my cuffs to the collar, until now forgotten, that they've secured around my neck. Shit! All I can do is tug fruitlessly, my cuffed hands dangling before my face, as I burble furious and ineffective protests at my captors. And then they're pulling me upright, slipping me down to the ground. Free at last, at least in a sense! Maybe I can run out the door, down the hall, find the exit-

And that's when I discover the spreader bar between my ankles. A bar which forces me to my knees, leaving me no choice but to crawl humiliatingly behind these two laughing young women, who clearly seem to think my predicament is the best joke of the year.

***

I never was much of a breakfast person. Forget the stupid cereals and smoothies and fried eggs. Give me a couple shots of caffeine, preferably in the form of matcha lattes, and I'll be good to go. Fashion doesn't think highly of extra pounds, after all, and neither do I.

So why the hell do they think I want to be sat here like this in a over-sized fucking high chair and fed whatever they think fit to give me?

"Open up for the airplane!" the first bitch coos, her stupid nursemaid's cap bobbing atop her cheap blonde hairdo as she waves a pudding-filled spoon before my eyes. "Come on, let's not be a cranky baby, okay?" Fine. I know their game now. I know they want me to resist, to protest, to misbehave. It will just delight them all the more, and lead to even more straps and gags and collars and god knows what else in my future.

And so, I open. Like a good baby should.

It's not completely revolting, I must admit. But it's that cheap vanilla flavor, that sticky, cloying aftertaste, the thick coating it leaves on the tongue that I dislike. It tastes almost like it has... it has...

Oh, shit.

Terri, you absolute motherfucking cunt! I'm raging mentally, even as my horror-struck eyes watch the spoon dipping back into what now seems an enormous bowl of the vile substance. They know. And the only way they know would be for Terri to have told them. Oh, how she must have gloated as she told them about my dietary restriction, about how my lattes are dairy-free for a very good reason, about how ill I become after having anything with lactose...

And now've they decided to feed me an entire meal of the stuff—with all too imaginable consequences.

"Nooo!" I wail, my voice cracking in desperation. "I can't have milk, you bastards! You can't make me eat this, you can- mmmpph!" But that doesn't seem to faze this chick one bit, or prevent her from forcing the spoon back into my mouth mid-protest. "Oh, nonsense," she snickers, dabbing at what must now be a thin smear of pudding around my mouth. "Everyone knows little baby girls need lots of milk to grow big and strong! Besides, how else are you going to learn to use those diapers like you're supposed to?"

It's good for her that I'm strapped into this chair and still cuffed, or I might have murdered her right there. But I am, and I can't, and the only response my desperate protests receives is yet another spoonful of the pudding that I know will send my intestines into spasms. I feel the stuff spreading, cool and viscous, coating my entire face with a disgraceful—and yes, truly infantile—smear of pudding. And yet I continue pursing my lips against every spoon, rocking my restrained body back and forth in desperation. I will fight it. I will keep this stuff out, spit it out, vomit it back up...

In the end, they win. Of course they win. I don't even know the name of the device they finally affix in my mouth: a rubbery thing that fills my cheeks and sets me gagging and swallowing as the hideous stuff flows inexorably into me. I'm slowly, painfully force-fed, helplessly stuffed like a goose whose liver is destined to become foie gras. And finally, once the entire bowl has been emptied into my already-churning stomach, they wipe my pudding- and tear-stained face, reinstall the loathsome ball gag, and lower me back to the floor, cuffed just as before.

"Now, who's ready to go play?"

As the bright voices chirp down at me merrily, I stare up at them, awash in more hatred and dismay than I have ever felt in my entire life. They know what's going to happen—and so do I. But there is literally nothing I can do to change anything about it. Not now.