#adult baby girl
Drink your bottle and try to practice not thinking. Dollies don’t need to think, just look pretty and keep their hands folded while real girls play with the dollies however they want.
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Oh, yes, her father and I are very proud that she never struggles against being diapered anymore. And wait until you see the other developmental milestones she’s reached!
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Baby girl with her legs wide open. The way they should be.
Show Mama how wide Baby can spread.
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I have told you a dozen times, you little slut – wet that diaper! If I don’t feel it getting warm in there in five minutes, I’m going to coat your tiny little pussy in something you really want to wash off, so get widdling! It’s time to get used to your new life, baby-whore.
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Mummy has her keep doing her chores until her diaper is full. With her feet sore from being forced to wear those pink heels and her nipples sore from rubbing against the conveniently scratchy inside of her apron, she has incentive to lose that inconvenient toilet-training all the quicker.
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Awwww, look at Cousin Sally Anne’s wet little diaper! I know you’re shy, dear, so let’s play a game to motivate good behavior. If you can go both ways on the potty while your aunts and uncles watch you, we’ll add what you leave in the potty to Sally Anne’s diaper and you can have nice fresh panties. (The tight ones, of course.) If you can’t go in the next two minutes, Sally Anne will get your panties to keep and you can wear Sally Anne’s dirty diaper.
Better hurry, baby. You’re running out of big-girl panties in these games …
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Dirty inside the diaper means cleaner outside. I don’t know why it works, but we’ve followed this practice with our last three maids and we’ve always been happy with the method. Milly! Hands off that diaper right now! … sorry, she’s probably itchy. She swept some dust-bunnies under the rug so I simply had to stuff them in her diaper, so she’d learn what we expect of our staff.
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Daddy’s Babydoll <3
How little girls should greet Mamma’s friends.
Step One: Curtsy like a good, sweet girl.
Step Two: Lift your skirt like a polite, hospitable girl.
Step Three: Let them see that you’re really a bad, naughty girl.
Step Four: Resign yourself to them knowing you’re really a “deserves everything she gets” kind of girl.
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“It’s time for your daily curtsey practice, princess.”
She is solicitously ushered to the dance studio, where cheerful hands pull off her dress and stockings. She’s laid on a mat on the floor, her diaper removed and her under-diaper parts efficiently wiped down. Gloved fingers – she can’t see just whose – massage an ointment into her clit and pussy lips. Almost immediately she knows which balm she’s been treated with today: the one that makes her swell and tingle, makes her private parts pink and plump.
“Let’s get you dressed for your lesson, now.”
She used to think of herself as an average-sized woman, but she is lifted so efficiently by her attendants that she feels small and frail. The leotard is pulled over her head. Its hem lies in soft scallops just above the well-waxed, already-swelling skin of her mound. The top is tight enough to force her breasts into strained mounds above a punishing seam, the fabric stretching sheer over nipples that have grown erect against her will.
“Up we go, princess! Onto the practice stand.”
She’s lifted by her arms, and she knows enough to point her toes as the dildo slides home. Long and soft, it’s already been oiled for her; she saw the coating glisten over the pink and blue glitter silicone, and anyway she can feel how it slides home like it was made for her. (For all she knows, it was.) It’s flexible enough that it doesn’t carry the vibrations from the little, humming bulb attached to the bottom of its upright shaft.
“Remember, right foot forward, left knee tucked back, and do try to be graceful enough that the stand won’t bend. Now, down.”
She has to do this every day, and she doesn’t hesitate anymore. Daintily pinching out the short skirt, she sinks into a girlish curtsey, head up, smiling for an invisible audience. Her pin-curls bounce as she rises in time with the instructions. She can see herself in the mirrors that circle every studio wall, smiling like a little film star.
“Up … and down.”
She manages to sink deeper this time, feeling the soft silicone ripen into a firmer impalement as her weight compresses it.
“You must touch the curtsey-button, princess! It’s so easy for you to forget things, isn’t it? Touch the button each time – Or we shall get the pink cane. Up … anddown.”
On the third try, her plump clit kisses the vibrator. It’s nearly silent but shockingly powerful, enough to rock her on the stand even as the dildo pushes inexorably at her cervix. The full dip is always enough to make her feel the dildo in her core.
“Much better, princess! But mind your balance. Straight up, straight down.”
She doesn’t need that reminder. Any torque on the dildo turns this daily practice’s feeling from discomfort to pain.
“Better, dear. Up … and down.”
She’ll be at this for exactly half an hour, just like every day. She widens her smile, re-settles her feet, and tries to find a pace that will give her the right stimulation in her aching clit.
I am a doll, round and poseable. My skin is textured like a dainty glove. My clit is a little rosebud of pale pink silk, vivid between legs stuffed to perfect plumpness. When I’m naked and upright, it barely peeps out to be visible, but it’s so easy to spread my legs. Every time a finger strokes that silky bud, or anything at all touches it, the feeling thrums through my soft body, but I am curiously weak and I cannot flinch away or hide myself from the touch.
Most of the time I’m dressed, though, and to get to that part, you have to lift or lower layer after frilly layer: pinafore, dress, petticoat, lacy bloomers, ruffled panties, snug little diaper. With tight, tight panties pressing its thickness close to me, the diaper is taut and smooth and puts a constant, steady pressure on my ribbon-slick clit.
My face is re-painted regularly, making my mouth a rosebud the same color as my clit. When you lay me down, my eyes close softly and I can’t reopen them until you sit me up.
When you don’t get your way in some other realm, you come to mine to relieve your feelings. When you’re bored, you pull down my bloomers, panties, and diaper and you rub my clit absentmindedly until I can’t think. You tie my hands with baby-blue yarn, turn my ragdoll body over the arm of the sofa and spank my round bottom with assorted implements. I live in a dollhouse filled with the torture implements you’ve devised out of popsicle sticks, clothespins, little plastic hangers with lambs on them. All the furniture in my dollhouse has little ribbon cuffs in which you can secure me in any position you like. I spend hours rubber-banded to a little china potty chair with my ruffles around my knees. I live in silent fear of your shoelaces.
You dress me however you like, always in absurd lace and layers. You’ve taken the belt from a toy soldier and put it around my neck as a collar. It will always be a little too tight.
Today you came in with a bobby pin. It’s as long as my stuffed forearm. There’s nothing I can do.
