I eye the plate before me with trepidation. It’s such a pretty cake - so colorful, so artfully decorated. How can I ever do it? I look up mutely at Mommy from my oversized highchair, but she merely smiles down at me knowingly. “Go on,” she encourages me kindly. “Show me what a messy little princess you are…” She strokes my tousled hair affectionately and leans down to whisper in my ear. “Or don’t you want to be changed after all?”
I nod my head, remembering the terms Mommy has stipulated, and feeling the thick wet bulk squishing silently between my naked thighs. That’s right. No clothes and no diaper change for me until I complete the seven little challenges she’s set up for me. My skin tingles with the heated beginning of a rash - perhaps psychosomatic, perhaps not. I simply have to get changed before that happens, and definitely before my aunties come over to visit this evening. Of course they know Mommy is diaper training me, but still - to face them in a 24-hour old, bulging, sagging diaper? No. I simply can’t.
“Good little babies love making all kinds of messes,” Mommy breathes softly in my ear. “And you do want to be a good baby for Mommy, don’t you?” I nod once more, feeling my reluctance melting away under her quiet words. “So go on, then. Eat up. Show me you love making yourself all messy for me, okay? And once you find the first key somewhere deep inside that yummy, gooey cake, we’ll move on to the next one, okay?”
I nod. I sink my trembling fingers into the cake, and bring the first gooey, crumb-caked bite to my mouth.
There is something cathartic about this, I begin to realize about three minutes in, feeling the cool wet frosting coating my fingers, my face, even my naked chest. As much as I hate messes, it really is liberating not to worry about etiquette or protocol. To just dig in - to eat - to feel the sugary mess slipping between your fingers… And just when I think I might never find it, my fingers close on the key: the first of seven that will unlock my salvation.
Mommy is beaming from ear to ear as she snaps pictures of my gooey face, then brings out my next course. It’s a bowl of pudding - a massive one - and as I sink my already-sticky fingers into its creamy surface, I reflect that I’m probably going to be at this for awhile. The pudding slithers, cold and wet, down my front as I fish about and stuff fistfuls into my mouth. Eating isn’t really necessary, but Mommy wants to see me enjoying her food, so…
Things take a turn with the third course. Mommy produces a large jar of what appears to be honey, and sure enough, right at the bottom I see the third key gleaming. “Have fun getting it out of there, baby,” she smiles. “Or better yet, why don’t I help you? Here, why don’t you open up for me?” Oh, I do - and feel the sticky stream slip easily through my hair, down my face, into my mouth, down my chin… It’s strangely erotic, this sensation, and even as I gulp down some of the incredibly sweet flood I feel a sudden urge to smear it all over my body. And so I do.
Oh, Mommy is being tricksy now! Next comes a massive bag of shredded coconut, which obviously ends up clinging to every inch of my sticky body and turning me into an odd, white, coconut-covered blob. Once that key has been discovered - at the very bottom, of course - Mommy produces a classic: a whipped cream pie. “Now, why don’t we get started on this the easy way?” she teases…before lovingly grinding it into my food-plastered face.
If I found the honey to be erotic, that hasn’t even begun to prepare me for the unexpectedly beautiful feeling of the warm chocolate Mommy now begins to pour over my head and face. “Key’s at the bottom, sweetie,” she coos in my coconut-encrusted ear. “So why not just enjoy feeling this wonderful yummy chocolate run all over that cute little baby body of yours?” I nod my filthy head, moaning and gurgling a bit in mingled disgust and arousal as I feel the warm flood running down my front and even down into my soggy diapers. So erotic, and yet so humiliating…
By the seventh and final challenge, I know I must be unrecognizable. Covered as I now am in honey, frosting, pie, and chocolate, Mommy gingerly unbuckles my high chair tray and leads me, dripping and waddling, to the sunny back yard. “Here we are,” she smiles, leading me barefoot through the soft grass to the edge of a kiddie pool - which happens to be filled with the gooiest-looking mud I’ve ever seen. “Go on, baby! See if you can find that last key for Mommy! You do want a bath and a change, don’t you?”
And so, like the obedient, filthy, messy baby I am, I drop to my knees and begin searching, the mud squelching beneath me with every move I make. I know Mommy is snapping picture after embarrassing picture. I know that with all this mud it will probably take me an hour or more to find that darn key. I even suspect that she may have actually “forgotten” to throw the key in here at all, just so she can show me off in this humiliating state to my aunties. But even so, I can’t deny that deep inside me I’m eating up this humiliation, relishing how wonderfully Mommy is turning me into her filthy little plaything. And after all… there’s not much I can do now, is there?
And so I keep on searching, the sweet taste of chocolate and honey and abject humiliation filling my mouth… I’m a good baby… Such a good, filthy little baby…
blakekathryn
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
ellievsbear
gracieabrams
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
