The Baby Book - Part 2

Sasha’s ears perk up.

She knows I’m there, she can tell she’s being watched, and she’s excited. Not because my presence means anything good, but because it means–at least–that her interminable time out is finally over.

Sasha can move.

Immediately, she shoves her chew toy into her mouth, like she’d been starving and the leather fish was a five course meal. Once that urge is satisfied, she reaches up, scratching at her nose like she’d been dying to do so for hours. She probably had. Sitting in her stink, unable to do anything but breathe and reflect on how helpless she was, didn’t seem to have improved her mood, but it did mean she was more afraid of my petty punishments.

I’d been nice, this time. I only left her there for around five hours. If she continues to be cranky, I could be far meaner.

“You didn’t go anywhere,” I say, as she continues to scratch, her nose, her cheek, her armpits. “Show me your shorts.”

“I…bu’…” she sniffs around her leather chew, taking it out so she can pant a little now that her oral addiction has been satisfied.

“I can leave again,” I warn. “Be a good dog.”

She whimpers at my threat and shudders in pleasure at my words of praise, then sits up and turns, sticking her mush tush in the air, giving me the best possible view of how badly she’d packed her shorts.

It’s a miracle the garment hadn’t blown out around the waist or the leg cuffs–or, well, it’s not a miracle. I wrote a note in the margins clarifying as much while she was busy bottoming out her fresh whites.

Her body language is so clear, I can read her emotions like a book. Ashamed, because her tail’s drooping on the floor almost as heavily as her shorts. Thirsty and overheated, because her tongue is sticking out, lolled all the way down her chin. It can’t be comfortable, either, stewing in her muck, because she is unable to fight the urge to reach back and scratch the seat of her shorts. In her defense, she at least wipes her fingers off before impulsively sniffing them.

I know how she feels, physically, but that’s not enough, I want to know how it feels in her head.

She describes how it feels, in humiliating detail.

Tail drooping, turning to sit down so she can face me, Sasha retracts her tongue for a second to explain, voice rendered in a nasal cast as she pinches her hypersensitive nose. “I feel like…like I just got stopped right before I was finished with the best sex in my life and my partner decided to throw me in the garbage instead, and then they just kinda left me there. These past…I don’t even know how long, I couldn’t even stop thinking about how much I wanted to go more, so I could get past that edge and feel good again, even though I knew if I did, I’d just smell worse, and you might not even come back, and… I’m so frustrated, it’s like… Emotional whiplash.

“I can feel all the crap, and it feels like it’s everywhere, like no amount of toilet paper will ever do the job, and–oh gosh, the smell. It’s like…earthy, and like rotten eggs, and it’s so strong and there wasn’t anything else to notice, so it started getting into my head, and, like…it was almost like being drunk, and I want to just find a way to cover up my nose and never smell anything ever again, it stinks, but I still wanted more because no matter what the consequences it just felt so good to go, but–”

I tap my pencil on the paper. “That’s not a bad idea, you know?”

Her eyes widen. “What?”

“The bit you said, about the smell making you drunk.” I grin at her anxious, wide-eyed frown, but there’s not much she can do except raise her chew toy to her mouth and wait while I codify the idea she gave me.

Breathing deeply, Sasha finds that she starts to like the smell–it’s intoxicating to her, though she can’t forget that nobody else thinks of it that way, that if any other person in the world smells her, they’ll only laugh and mock.

Inhaling sharply, Sasha turned her head in the air slightly, nose snuffling up and down as she does as the text compels her. A deep blush rises in her cheeks, but her tail starts to wag all the same, and without my prompting she even lifts her leg, lowering her head to sniff herself.

Smirking, I say, “And would you look at that? We’re already ahead of schedule, sog sniffer.”

She’s distracted by the humiliating, heady haze I’ve got her in, so distracted she almost doesn’t know what I’m writing next.

Her shorts turn into a diaper–one that contains every bit of the mess that she made in her shorts–and even though she knows better, she empties her bladder immediately every time she feels the slightest bit of pressure.

She will ALWAYS empty her bladder immediately upon feeling the slightest bit of pressure.

It’s adorable how little her behavior changes–brown-stained shorts transmute into a brown-stained diaper, and what little white remains turns yellow in seconds as her bladder gives way, but she’s still busily sniffing with her head down, getting high off her own stink.

I hesitate. Is she enjoying herself too much? Her tail is pounding on the ground so much it looks like she might sprain it.

I consider my options. I could take it away from her, or balance out the enjoyment with more humiliation, but this might be better. She’s so empty headed, so overwhelmed by impulses, that the mean, petty Sasha I wanted to toy with barely still existed.

Tapping my eraser in my hand, I think about the problem. I’d, unintentionally, left Sasha in an Experience Machine, a place of perfect but artificial pleasure. If I made no further changes, she could live in this book, experiencing deep satisfaction for as long as I pleased.

She wouldn’t feel humiliation, because nobody was watching her.

And sure–I got a few snickers out of watching her sniff and scratch like a good sog-sniffing short-fudging little dog girl, but that satisfaction was fleeting, too. I got way less out of it than she did.

Hesitating, my pencil hovers over the page. I think about what to write.

While I ponder this, Sasha discovers her own fun–she begins rutting in her diaper, grinding it against the ground. I guess the pleasure centers I’d lit up through her nose were close enough to sex that she was able to make the jump, and she doesn’t have the good sense left to care that I’m watching.

Sasha’s enjoyment goes down, just a touch. She still finds this all deeply pleasurable–

Pausing, I chew the eraser, then change my mind.

She finds sniffing her accidents to be as good as the best drugs or alcohol, and rutting in her ruined diapers to be as good as the best sex.

That seems like a good middle ground. I just had to walk it back enough to make it deeply compelling, but all the same, deeply humiliating. Besides, I haven’t changed how much she would enjoy filling her diapers: When she gets the urge to poop, it’ll be nearly irresistible for her not to stop what she had been doing and squat right down–but it won’t be completely irresistible.

It’ll be just enough that she’ll fail most of the time, packing her diapers for all to see but knowing the whole time that she could have kept from humiliating herself if she’d only tried a little harder. That’s better than forcing her, because it keeps the humiliation purely internal. She’d never be able to deny that she wanted it, and she chose to give in. Plus, adding icing on the cake, she’d be left horny and desperate, with her new favorite lover sagging between her thighs.

I wondered if she’d have enough willpower to keep from finishing herself off right there in sight of anyone watching, humping her freshly packed pampers for the whole world to see.

Sometimes, maybe, but I doubted if she’d always be able to resist.

She’ll be able to walk, but only if someone else is looking at her. In private, she’ll be a good dog who walks on all fours.

That’s better too. If I keep her crawling all the time, she’d probably choose to just get a wheelchair–if I make walking sometimes possible, she’ll feel an impulse to try all the time, and when she’s crawling on all fours like the puppy I’ve made her into, she’ll know what she’s missing.

“How do you feel, Sasha?” I ask.

She glowers up in the air, the direction she’s decided to look when she’s mad at me, and finally stops rutting. Her chew toy dangles from her teeth, and her tail is raised in aggression.

I sigh. “Are you going to make me make you answer, or are you going to be a good dog?”

Tail slapping the ground once as the prospect of a ‘good dog’ floats in the air, she looks away, searching for words. “I don’t know, I…I want to hump, I want to fudge–I meant fudge, not fudge, but I guess I want to fudge too, I want–I smell so good and so bad, and I–I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Okay, you earned it–Good dog.” Pursing my lips while her tail wags, I look down at her, trying to decide what to do. I’ve screwed her up plenty, twisting this girl’s urges into knots, but it doesn’t feel quite right.

There needs to be something…more.

I try something.

She gets a collar–she wants to put it on. She’ll always wear a collar with her name written on it, whenever she can, so people know she’s a good little doggy. She’ll love to hear it jingle.

The collar that materialized in front of her was bright yellow, matching the few parts of her diaper that weren’t a deep brown, and she snatched it out of the air. After a few dubious sniffs, she turned it over to read the collar–it had a small bell, and a bone-shaped tag reading, ‘Sasha’.

Hurriedly, she clicks it in place around her neck, breathing out a sigh of relief when it jingles.

That’s when I know I’m done.

I can’t do much more from here–any further changes, and she’ll just be a puddle of a person with no Sasha left to feel her own shame. I need to call it quits, turn her loose, and see if I’d made as much of a mess of her life as she’d made in her shorts.

So, I decide to write three more commands into this book.

Sasha forgets my name or any way to identify me, track me down, or get revenge for this. She’ll never remember those things, but she’ll remember that it was done to her.

Nobody will recognize it as magical or compelled. They'll invent their own excuses for the tail and ears, so that it only appears embarrassing and not in need of correcting. Sasha will not pretend or let anyone believe she's incontinent or otherwise incapable; these humiliations aren’t simply happening to her, she’s choosing them, embracing them, loving them.

Every day, she’ll write a public blog post, detailing every humiliating thing that happened to her, every pleasure she got out of it, and she’ll post pictures, so that every consequence of what I’ve done to her is documented and I can read it at my pleasure.

Sasha looks up at me. I can tell she’s furious, that she wants to chew me out, to scream, to yell, to hate me.

It’s too bad I’m the one with the pen.

Whimpering, Sasha says, “Thank you, Kissy, for helping me. This is so much better than before–I’m glad you fixed me. This is how I should be! I love being a sog sniffing, short fudging, diaper humping little puppy girl.”

“Good dog,” I praise, “For admitting all that! I think you deserve a reward.”

Sasha, again, feels the need to poop.

The puppy girl does what I’d rebuilt her to do. Tongue lolling out in a desperate pant, she screws up her face and empties her dignity into the already-swollen diaper. Needy moans melding with shameful grunts, she humps the last of her self respect away, needing only three quick, pathetic thrusts of her hips before she cries out in the best climax of her life.

She knows she’s never had it this good, but she can’t forget the circumstances of that ecstasy.

Face burning, and unable to take any more humiliation, she snaps, “Please, Kissy. Just put me back. Let me go home.”

I’m happy to oblige–though, I think, not in the way she wanted.

I’d already used her up, anyways.

Sasha gets what she’d asked for all along; she disappears from the book, appearing back home, wherever her home is. All of her changes, all her behavior modifications, all her urges, even her tail and ears–they’re all still intact, and without my help, which she’s unable to ask for, they’ll never go away.

And even if she could make them go away, she’s…

…not sure if she even wants that.

The End.