Umm&hi. This is, um, my presentation&
My heart is pounding under my frilly blue frock, my gut churning, my mouth dry as I try to articulate the words. Mommy is in the little eight-person audience: watching, waiting with our other kinkster friends to see just how well her little sissy babydoll can humiliate herself. I need to obey her orders, to give my little show-and-tell as best I can, and most of all, to make it through without embarrassing myself any more than absolutely necessary&
Honey, such big words! Mommy calls sternly from the audience. Remember - you need to be a convincing baby girl! Oh, poopy. I clutch the pacifier dangling from my dress and jam it nervously into my mouth. Mommy really does want me to do it just like we practiced, doesnt she? And so I begin again, my stomach knotting as I lisp out the words: Zhiff iff my pweefentayfhun&on why I neeth my Mommee&
The mommy dommes are cracking up now, clearly amused at my infantile enunciation - or lack thereof. I wuv my Mommee tho mush, I flounder on, blushing, desperate to make it through before - well, before I lost control. Thee makef me bwekfis, an feeth me my ba-ba, and dweffeth me in pwitty, pwitty cwoves& A squeaky fart escapes me, resounding through the thick layers of padding between my legs and provoking giggles among the audience. Oh, yes, Mommy does do all those things. Over the past twenty-four hours shes been taking special care of me, stuffing me with oatmeal and prunes and milk until I felt like I was bursting& Which, quite literally, was what I felt on the verge of doing right now - in my pants.
I neeth my Mommee becauth&becauth Im jufth a-a widdle giwl, I stammer, shifting from foot to foot, fighting back the urge to clutch my stomach, hoping desperately to quell the growing tempest in my gut. I don know mush, an I neeth hew to take good cawe ov me. My audience is snickering now at my increasingly obvious discomfort - discomfort that Mommy has precisely timed to strike during this little show of ours. Oh, Mommy is so devious. But worst of all, even as I rage internally at how shes stacked the odds so firmly against me, we both know deep down that I crave this humiliation so disgustingly much&
Then Sheila, the most forward of the mommy dommes, calls out: Looks like youre feeling a little nervous, baby! Do you need your Mommy to take you potty? Oh, God, yes - I need a toilet so very, very badly. But even now&no. I cant. My cheeks aflame, I shake my head, determined to make Mommy proud. No, maam, I mumble meekly. I don need da pottee. Oh, really? she asks, clearly amused by my stubborn response. Why not, little sissy?
Here it was. Cauth I don know how ta wooze it, I lisp loudly from behind my pacifier, blushing as I pull up my skirt and petticoats to reveal the frilly bulk beneath. Mommy thayth I beewong in dyeputh, I grit my teeth as another pang grips my abdomen, my sphincter screaming for release. I should, I must. I cant hold on any longer& can I? But I stubbornly hold out, praying that I can finish somehow before the inevitable explosion occurs.
Oh, of course! she exclaims, giggling. I should have known such a little sissy as you wouldnt be out of diapers yet. She cast a mirthful glance back at my Mommy. But sweetie, shouldnt you actually show us just how much you need them, instead of just telling us? No, please. No! I cast a panicked glance at Mommy, begging wordlessly for her to come to my rescue. Please, Mommy, Im already humiliating myself so much here for you. Please&
But all she gives me is a knowing smile. But of course, Sheila. Dont worry. My little sissy needs them more than she even knows - and Im sure shell be more than happy to give us a pretty little demonstration. She gestures firmly at me. Go on, baby. You heard the nice lady. Why dont you-
Alas, she is too late.
I dont know whether its a subconscious impulse on my part, or whether my poor muscles really have just reached their limit. Whatever the case, even before my Mommy has finished speaking, a series of muffled explosions emanate from under my frilly skirt; and with a sickening, torrential rush, the semisolid contents of my laxative-stimulated bowels squirt messily out into my pants. I double over in mingled pain and relief, clutching the little blackboard prop beside me, suckling instinctively on my dummy and not even caring anymore that I am giving my audience the most delightful upskirt view of my rapidly filling and sagging diapers. I am a messy baby indeed, and now the entire audience knows it beyond the shadow of a doubt.
Then, once the flood of mingled urine and poop has finally subsided, I gingerly turn, waddling and red-faced, to face my audience. It cant get any worse, I muse despairingly, so I might as well make Mommy proud& And fho, I whisper in crimson-cheeked conclusion, dat iff why Im a gweat big thithee baby, an I neeth my Mommee.