The Baby Book

(Where am I?)

You’re in my book. Can you understand what I’m saying to you?

(What the…what the fuck? I can–it’s like there’s just a voice in my head. I can’t speak, I can’t move, I can’t–)

Sorry. Let me try something.

Sasha hears my voice as though spoken, and finds herself able to speak and emote, feeling a little more comfortable in the space she finds herself in.

“Is that better?”

Sasha pants for a moment, catching her breath, like someone who just escaped the vacuum of space. “Where the hell–this is–I can’t feel my body. Why can’t I feel my body? Am I dead?”

“Ah, okay, I can fix that too.”

Suddenly, Sasha is able to feel herself–her body, her face, it all becomes something she can experience. She can look around, she can touch herself, there is no longer any sensory deprivation. I can see her, too, as clearly as I want.

“I…” Sasha reaches down, hands running over her naked body, touching herself in reassurance that she’s still there. “I–what’s going on?”

“It’s like I said, you’re in my book. You’re lucky it's blank, that you didn’t appear in one of my works-in-progress. Nothing to be afraid of, just blank pages full of potential. Can you remember what happened just before you went in?”

“I don’t remember.” Sasha covers her chest, hands resting over her breasts. “I don’t know what you’re doing, it’s like…it’s like I’m talking to fuckin’ god, or some shit, but like, you’re just kind of there, and I don’t understand, and I don’t know, but–you can give me clothes, can’t you? Please?”

Sasha finds that she’s suddenly wearing a tee shirt and pair of loose shorts that cover her body modestly. She also discovers that she’s able to understand how I emote, too, so that she’s not just speaking to a disembodied voice.

Smirking, I explain, “I’m not surprised you don’t remember. You were probably a little too nosy–I told you to stay out of my books, didn’t I?”

A moment passes in shocked surprise, then she says, “You’re Kissy? That witchy bitch from the party who kept spouting shit about how she could do magic?”

“Hmm. I don’t appreciate your tone.” I hesitate, then pick up my pencil and scribble in the journal below the last line.

“I’m sorry for being rude,” Sasha says immediately. She blinks, stunned, and looks up–as though I’m above her, and not in another plane of existence entirely. “What the fuck was that? I didn’t say that, I said ‘Shove it up your ass’!”

Smirking, I tap the eraser side of my pencil against the page. I consider changing her repetition of the words, too, but leave them be.

“It’s my journal,” I explain, “I write the story. You’re a part of it, but I’m the one in control here. If I don’t like what you have to say, I might just… change it.”

Glaring up at me, Sasha decides to never use swear words, never ever again, for her entire life.

Sasha blinks. “What? I–fuss. Fork. Frack! You–what the finger’s wrong with you, Kissy?”

It doesn’t bother me, so I just shrug and snicker at her frustration.

“You bisque!” Sasha snaps. “You’re such a sog-sniffing short-fudging little… bitch!”

I snort. In part, because it’s cute watching her try to curse at me when she'd lost all her grown up words and they’re all being replaced by soundalikes–and it seems like there’s some Freudian replacements going on there, if I do say so myself. I am curious, though, how Sasha managed to sneak even one swear in there.

“You think I’m going to tell you?” Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she adds, “You’re dreaming, bitch.”

Sasha decides to tell me how she did it.

“I thought about a different meaning for the word, so it wasn’t a curse,” Sasha explains helpfully. “So I wasn’t thinking of it as an insult, but picturing a girl dog–oh dog slam it, seriously?”

“Hmm,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “A ‘sog sniffing pants fudging little girl dog’, then?”

“I guess,” Sasha says. “Whatever. You trapped me in this funky book!”

“I told you not to go through my things,” I remind her, tapping the pencil in thought. “You’re the one who got drunk and shouty and mad when I said I practiced magic. What, you couldn’t take someone shattering your precious fucking worldview so you had to throw a tantrum?”

“I didn’t throw a tantrum, I just called you on your bell shirt,” Sasha growls. “And then…”

Finally, Sasha remembers what she did.

She blinks. “Oh. Oh, no, no, duck–I did not–look, I was drunk. Okay?”

“Look,” I said, tapping the pencil in my hand as I think. “It doesn’t matter. In fact, if it makes you feel better–I’d probably write this anyways, even if you weren’t such a–a little girl dog. I’ve never managed to get anyone in my book before. I want to see how far I can take this.”

“You–” Sasha starts. “What are you…no, no, what are you going to write? What are you going to write?”

Sasha finds, suddenly, that she has a tail–a floofy puppy tail that starts just below her waist and that always gives her thoughts and feelings away.

Eyes widening, Sasha’s tail stands on end, shooting straight up–the fur sticks out in alarm, like there’s a predator nearby and she has to be on high alert.

She’s not wrong. I’m here.

“Please, Kissy,” she starts to say. “Just let me out, and I’ll apologize, and I’ll make it right–”

Her sense of smell grows far more acute–sharper than she realized was possible.

Sniffling, then wrinkling her nose at all the slight human smells she’d never noticed–sweat, body odor, perfumes that suddenly feel way too intense, sex–she mewls, “Please…”

Her ears change, too, moving to the top of her head and becoming floppy, pointed puppy ears.

Her tail droops between her legs. No more shock and alarm, just worry.

She forgets how to walk.

Collapsing to all fours, she looks up, whimpering in pain.

Fine, I’m not completely a monster.

Her knees don’t hurt–in fact, crawling on all fours like a dog feels as natural as walking to her.

She will always pant when she’s hot or thirsty, tongue lolling out, and scratch when she’s itchy.

When Sasha discovers something new, she’ll feel an urge to explore it first with her nose.

She loves being called a good dog.

She gains an oral tic, a desire to chew things–if she doesn’t have something in her mouth, she’ll want something there.

I chew on my lip a moment, and then decide to be kind there too.

A leather chew toy appears in front of her.

It pops into the air, a little leather fish that’s been stitched together for her enjoyment. Desperate, like a marathon runner getting her first cup of water after the race, Sasha first sniffs it a couple times, then shoves the chew toy in her mouth and begins gnawing it, softly, working it around in her mouth.

Pondering, I consider going the whole way–I could just turn her into a dog, if I wanted, but dogs didn’t get embarrassed about being dogs. Humans do.

Her eyes are huge, realizing how much she’s changed in just a few seconds, how much more can change very quickly.

I smirk. “A little dog girl. Perfect. Though, we still have the rest to attend to, don’t we?”

Shaking her head, tail wrapping around her left leg, she asks, “The rest?”

“We’ll work our way back,” I explain. “We’ve got ‘dog girl’, time for a short-fudging dog girl.

“Huh?” Sasha asks, unaware of what’s coming, only knowing she’ll hate it.

Sasha’s shorts feel more snug than she remembers–tighter, revealing all her curves. And they’re white, since I didn’t specify a color before.

She looks down at her shorts, now rendered within the story in high detail, gnawing hesitantly on her toy. She tries to lower her face between her legs, to sniff the new shorts, though she quickly abandons the idea when she can’t get her face close enough. “What are you doing?”

And, sticking her bottom in the air, she finds that there’s suddenly an incredible pressure in her belly, that she desperately needs to poop.

Eyes widening, Sasha spreads her knees a little and arches her back to the ground, so her white-clad bottom waves in the air. I can see her thighs trembling, her whimpering as she struggles to maintain control.

She knows I won’t let her win the fight, but she struggles anyway. It’s almost adorable.

I just have to decide how to do it. I could make her go with the stroke of my pencil–or I could watch her struggle until she loses the fight, until she genuinely can’t hold it and has to deal with the shame of fudging her shorts without any control.

But I have a better idea.

Sasha WANTS to poop her pants. She craves it, desperately–the feeling of pushing out warm poop into her underwear is the thing she enjoys most in the world.

Tail hiking suddenly, Sasha gives in to her base desires. Her face scrunches up, her acute nose twitches, and her ears lay flat against her head as she begins to push. Immediately, the crease down the middle of her white shorts swells out, and only moments later the deep brown stain becomes visible, spreading out everywhere that the solid, mushy bulge appears.

I get impulsive–it’s a story, after all.

It’s the most she’s needed to poop in her entire life–it’s twice as much as she’s ever needed, in fact.

A moan escapes Sasha’s lips as she forces the mess out. The words I wrote are firing all the pleasure centers in her brain, and she grunts and balls her fists, working to go more, to ruin her shorts so thoroughly that no speck of white remains. Her tail wags feverishly in the air, and I even spot a few flecks of drool down her cheeks.

But such pleasure can’t last–unless I say it can last, and I don’t want to say that. As her shorts bulge so much it looks like she dumped a bag of mulch down into them, and her moans reach a desperate, whining fever pitch, Sasha’s bowels run empty.

I’m half tempted to fill them right back up again, but I don’t. I want her to sit in her shame.

Sasha sits in her shame.

Rocking back, Sasha can’t help but sink her weight into the muck squelching between her thighs and beneath her bottom. Her tail isn’t wagging anymore–I only conditioned her to love the feeling of going in her shorts, not the poopy pants themselves.

Her nose wrinkles heavily, as her canine sense of smell detects what she’s done and tries to escape from her face. Reaching down, she doesn’t remove the shorts.

“No, bu’–” she whimpers, letting the chew toy fall to the side, trying again to not remove the shorts. She can’t remove the shorts. Sniffling, she covers her nose with her hands, unable to do anything else to escape.

“Kissy,” Sasha whimpers, taking short, shallow breaths. “Please–you’ve made your point. Let me out of the book. Let me take these fudging shorts off!”

“If you’re still telling me what to do,” I say, “then I don’t think I have. Maybe a time out, though, will do you some good.”

Sasha blinks. “A–what? No, Kissy, you can’t–”

“I can.” Smirking, I lift my pencil. “And I will. Have fun taking shallow breaths, I’m going to go enjoy some fresh air, maybe take a nap, maybe toss this book in a dumpster and forget to come back for you.”

Sasha waits, motionless, just as she is.

I close the book.

End of part 1