Work It, Baby - Part Four

Darkness. Confinement. Claustrophobia closing in.

And in the blackness, the inane tinkle of a music box lullaby, repeating itself for the two hundred and seventeenth time.

The bastards have trapped me in here - those good-for-nothing, gloating whores who blackmailed me and dragged me all the way out here. It's all apparently for their own perverted amusement, from what I can tell. And what's worse, none of these people looks remotely like an artist to me, let alone a model. The "director"? A plain face, an ugly complexion, and scarcely a B cup. That photographer idiot? Probably some high school drop out - or more likely still, some voyeuristic peeping tom who never learned to respect women. And Terri...

Ooh, Terri. I despise you - so much.

I grit my teeth as the lullaby begins yet again. I don't know if this is something genuinely intended to soothe me and give me a good night's rest, or whether it's some diabolical form of torture. Whatever the case, right now it most definitely feels like the latter. I hear it repeating over and over even in my brain now, tinkling like some annoying little brat's battery-powered toy that refuses to shut up. God, what I'd give to be able to throw the thing out the window...

But I can't. Not when I'm trapped in here like this.

Perhaps it's for the best that I can't see myself or my surroundings anymore. When they first dragged me in here, struggling and protesting as best I could, I couldn't help but cringe at the insane decorations of the place. This room is decorated like some fucking toddler's nursery - and in cheap taste, too. I'm talking cartoon animals on the wall, and stupid mobiles, and stuffed animals that just collect dust and make me sneeze. But worst of all are the two massive pieces of tacky-looking furniture: an over-sized crib, in which I'm currently imprisoned, and an equally large table: the purpose of which is clear enough from the over-sized diapers they've forced me to wear.

Oh, I've seen a crib this big once before. It was an art installation in New York, and well done at that. I remember it being presented as a deep philosophical meditation on the frightening nature of infancy, with everything in the adult world being so large and intimidating. I can't deny that the artist had actually done an impeccable job at scaling up a nursery for adults - you know, to see how enormous the world looks to little kids. It had been profound in that context, at least...

But here? Well, I guess it is still a bit frightening, though I'd rather not admit it. But the taste is gone, and the profundity is gone, and, well... Mainly, it just feels gauche.

I roll onto my side on the softly crinkling mattress, sensing the imposing bars that are only inches from my face in the blackness. This is disgraceful. Why on earth should I, one of the best and brightest in her field, be spirited away and reduced... to this? How dare they? How dare those goons strip me down naked and dress me in this outlandish outfit, laughing in my face the entire time? How dare they drag me in here and force me to drink all those matcha lattes? And how dare they then lock me away in here, as if I was some sort of child - some sort of pet? It's nothing short of criminal.

"It's all so you'll be good and ready for your first real shoot tomorrow morning," that cunt Terri sneered at me, before shutting the bars atop this cage with a thunk. "So go on, settle on down to sleep, Baby Allison - if you can. Hope all the caffeine in those lattes doesn't keep you up too much!"

What an absolute bitch. Of course she knows that caffeine always keeps me up; it's what I always rely on to be sharp and energized every morning. So naturally, I'm awake, lying here in this idiotic contraption while that stupid song keeps repeating and threatening to drive me insane. And as one might expect, I'm also fretting and fuming over what they're trying to do to me...

Okay, fine - I'll say it. I'm also trying not to think about something else.

I have to pee. I'm a human being, after all - contrary to what those hooligans seem to think. And they haven't seen fit to give me even a five-minute toilet break ever since I arrived here. Nine hours without a toilet isn't easy on anyone, and well... Look: when you make someone gulp down three big lattes there's only one logical outcome.

I sit up abruptly, only to bash my head full tilt into the top bars. Fuck! I've momentarily forgotten how low the goddamned lid is on this piece of shit. Okay, whatever. I'll grope my way back onto my stomach and get on my hands and knees. Maybe then I'll be able to force my legs together and delay the impending flood.

And so I do, trying not to think about what I must look like, crouching here in this over-sized crib. I'm a grown woman, on hands and knees, clad in double bulky cloth diapers, obnoxiously crinkling plastic pants, and some stupid babyish onesie. And yes, I do need to relieve myself - so badly. I'm trying to close my legs, naturally, but the accursed diapers are constantly in the way, spreading my thighs, preventing me from clenching my muscles...

I have to think about something else. Think about New York fashion week, about the new collections we were working on, about the issues with QC. Yes, that's better. Think too of those offshore bank accounts, the new vacation home I've just signed a contract on. It's a lovely place, so sleek and modern. Beautifully positioned on the cliffs in Kauai, with the warm sea crashing and foaming beneath, and distant waterfalls tinkling...

No, no, nooo...!

A gasp escapes my lips as I feel the dam break. I've never felt anything quite like it before: a sudden internal sigh as if my straining muscles have quietly given up. I freeze as I feel the hot rush of urine spouting from my body, hissing forcefully into the darkness. I'm pissing myself - my first real accident since I was three. And I wince as I feel the warmth spreading - not down my legs or into the mass of blankets beneath me, but through and around my entire groin.

It's the diapers. They're clearly doing their job, absorbing and containing my shameful accident. Just as I, I muse despairingly, am clearly doing mine.

I'm apparently supposed to be a great big overgrown baby of a model, according to these imbeciles. So I suppose it's only natural that they actually want me to piss myself like one, no matter how degrading it is. They expect it, and I can't help but give them what they want. And so, as I cringe and slip down into the soft blankets below me, stifling a quiet sob of rage as the now-sodden mass of cotton compresses around my most intimate places, I know that, for the moment at least, I have been beaten.

Damn you, Terri. Damn this whole motherfucking place. Damn everything.

And damn this stupid, stupid song!