The Date

Chapter 3
Breakfast with Baby Candy chapter 1

Chapter Description: Here's hoping this one goes over better than the last one. Not as messy and humiliating as the others, but still somewhat messy and humiliating. Viewer discretion advised.

Candy slept peacefully beside me, the stress of the evening’s events taking their toll. Curled up like a kitten and sucking a pacifier, blankets bunched up around her, her bulky, diapered butt sticking out from under her wispy pink nightie like a big, white bubble, she looked exactly like an overgrown baby. I had to commend myself—I’d done a great job.

I watched as she slumbered peacefully, emitting an occasional sigh or groan. Smiling, I studied her eyes flickering beneath her lids She was dreaming. Stroking her hair gently, I closed my eyes and gently slipped into her mind to watch…

In the dream, Candy was dancing.

Alone on a bare stage, she performed in tights and a tank-top before a panel of pinched-faced middle aged people who looked on sternly like vultures, just waiting for Candy to slip up so they could rush in and gobble up the remains. An audition, apparently.

From the look of it, they would have to wait for the next girl—Candy was on, more on than I’d ever seen her. I watched silently in the wings; Candy danced her heart out, beautiful and triumphant. I almost had second thoughts about interfering.

Almost.

She finished. The audience applauded. So did I—she really deserved it, and I knew.

Candy stood onstage, beaming, savoring the adulation. She’d aced it and she knew. Poor kid, I thought as I began bending the dream around us; I don’t think she’s going to be happy about what’s coming next.

“That was excellent,” said one of the women on the panel, “truly one of the most remarkable performances yet.”

“I agree,” the man sitting next to her said in lightly accented English. “You embodied the music, but still left your own imprint.”

“Obviously I agree,” said the woman on the far end, “but before we cast you for this role, there is one more absolutely vital thing we must know… One final task we must be absolutely, positively sure you have ably mastered before the role can be yours.”

She hesitated, almost afraid to ask. “What is it?” Candy inquired warily, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Her pulse was racing, and not just from the intense physical exertion; her response to what the woman was about to say would probably determine whether or not she would get the part she so desperately wanted.

The woman leaned forward, gazing at Candy with a solemn look. Candy gulped nervously. The woman folded her hands on the table in front of her and said seriously: “Are you fully potty trained, young lady?”

Candy looked taken-aback. It was a strange question, absolutely the last thing she ever thought she’d be asked at an audition. Regaining her composure, she answered: “Well… Yes, ma’am. I’ve been potty trained for years now…”

“I’m afraid,” I said through the woman, “That we will require certain reassurances. This would not, unfortunately, be the first time a young lady had exaggerated the extent of her potty training just to get a part. Would you be so kind as to, perhaps, give us a demonstration?”

At the far left of the stage, a spotlight came up, revealing a children’s potty chair, adult sized.

Candy stared incredulously, her thoughts racing. Is this a joke? Some kind of prank at her expense? Were these old bastards having a laugh at her? She could tell by looking at them they weren’t, but she still couldn’t accept the strangeness of the situation. Potty training? Problems with other girls? This had to be some kind of candid-camera thing. She stared at the potty. The notion was absurd. Besides, she didn’t even need to go—

She didn’t even get to finish her thought. I grinned, warping the dream with my mind, first putting pressure on her bladder, then her bowels. Instantly, Candy was desperate. Her first thought was to run to the restrooms, but I ratcheted up the pressure, taking her out of desperation and into the realm of a full-blown emergency.

Clinching her butt-cheeks, she pressed her hands against her crotch and began prancing in place. I couldn’t help grinning—when she came to show off her fancy moves, I doubt Candy ever thought she’d end up performing the potty dance.

“Go on, Candy,” I encouraged via the woman, “show us you can potty like a big girl. One last simple thing and the part is yours.”

There was little choice for her now—Candy had waited too long, and her only options were to use the potty or have an accident.

With one hand holding her crotch and the other pressed against her butt-crack, Candy desperately pranced across stage to the potty in a humiliating parody of her earlier grace and elegance. Standing beside it, bouncing up and down in distress, she hesitated, looking around desperately for another option. I gave her bowels and bladder another squeeze.

That was all she needed. Franticly, Candy dropped her tights to her ankles and slammed her butt down of the small plastic seat. Even though the potty was larger than normal, it was still small, and her knees were up around her chest.

The pressure on her bladder had become almost intolerable. She began peeing almost immediately, the hiss and tinkle of her stream amplified in the theater. “Ahhhhh!” she sighed theatrically, more relieved than she’d ever been.

(Back in bed, Candy unwittingly released a long gush of pee into her soft cotton diapers, snoring softly through it.)

A loud fart echoed in the theater. Her bowels gurgled insistently-- Candy blushed and tried to hold it, clinching her butt-cheeks tightly and tapping her feet onstage in a desperate effort to maintain some dignity.

But I couldn’t allow that. I gave her tummy a gentle squeeze, and that was all she wrote; even clenching her sphincter and cheeks as tightly as they’d go, Candy still couldn’t prevent the mushy mess from farting out of her noisily and sloshing into the bowl below her. She tried to prevent what she knew was coming, but once the flood gates had been opened, there was no stopping it, and Candy began involuntarily plopping and farting her mess into the bowl below. She nearly died when she heard the audience laughing and applauding the bizarre turn of events.

(In bed Candy emitted a small grunt in her sleep. Her sphincter blew and she began uncontrollably loading the seat of her diaper with a warm mess.)

Candy squeezed her eyes shut, unable to fathom how it was that this was happening to her. The audience applauded. She remained seated for another five minutes. Every time she thought she was done, she’d begin to rise, only be forced to sit once more as she began peeing again, or felt a sharp cramp in her side and had to flop back on the seat to endure another flatulent bowel movement.

Finally, she finished. As the panel applauded her performance, Candy sat on the potty, pants around her ankles, sweaty and spent.

“Excellent young lady, just excellent! You’ve got the part!”

Perched on the potty, Candy could only stare at her, not even sure what to say. Before she could think of anything, I appeared beside her, roll of toilet paper in my hand. “C’mon, sweetie,” I encouraged, tearing off a handful and squatting beside her, “spread your legs.”

She complied, and I wiped her pussy clean. I grinned, noticing that even though she was still massively embarrassed, she was getting aroused. With her pants still around her ankles, I helped her to her feet. “Time to wipe your bum, sweetheart,” I said, helping her to her hands and knees on the stage. She looked back at me dubiously, but remained still as I tore off a few fresh sheets. “Arch your back please sweetheart. That’s a good girl,” I praised her as she rolled her hips up, presenting her backside for inspection. “Phew! What a messy girl,” I told her, making her blush as I began wiping her butt. She let out a shaky, embarrassed groan. “Oh hush!” I scolded, giving one of her rounded cheeks a smack, making Candy squeal. Outraged and humiliated, she flushed bright red at the guffaws and applause of the audience.

Tossing the first of the used paper into the potty, I tore off another couple of squares and resumed cleaning her messy backside. “Such a messy girl!” I chided. “How did such a little girl get so messy?”

Candy sputtered in impotent fury and outrage. She thought about ordering me to stop, but she couldn’t think of a convincing argument with her pants down around her ankles, having her messy bottom wiped in front of a very appreciative audience; so she simply bit her tongue and tried not to think about how ridiculous she must look on her hands and knees with her rump stuck up behind her as an attractive man wiped her derrière like a baby.

I had to change paper twice more before I had Candy’s heiny clean. She rocked up onto her knees and sat back on her heels, still bare from waist to ankles. In a daze, she sat passively, taking in the audience’s standing ovation for her performance.

---

“Candy…”

Moaning around her soother, Candy squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the sheets around her tightly.

“Candy? Sweetheart?”

She groaned and shifted, still half asleep.

“Candy? Are you thirsty, honey?”

Her eyes fluttered open and she gave me a dazed look. Gently, I tugged the pacifier out. “Here you go, baby,” I said softly, popping the teat of the bottle into her mouth. Taking it with both hands, she rolled onto her back and began sucking.

“Do you need a change, sweetie?” I ask, not waiting for an answer as I pulled back the covers to reveal her massive bulky diaper. I pulled out the leg-band of her plastic pants and peeked inside her diaper. “Whew!” I cried, “do you ever! Not only are you very wet, but you’ve got a yucky mess in there as well, baby!”

Slurping on her bottle, Candy’s face went bright red. She shifted on her back, stomach rolling as she felt the mucky mess in her diaper squish against her backside. Her thoughts drifted back to her dream as I peeled off her plastic pants and opened her diaper. “P-U!” I said, lifting her ankles to expose her dirty bottom to the room. “Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetie.”

I went to work as Candy continued sucking her bottle, mortified to be in such a situation but powerless to do anything but lay there and passively accept her diaper change. Taking my time, I cleaned her thoroughly before slipping another diaper under her tushy. By the time I had her powdered and taped up in another thick pamper, she had almost finished her bottle. I smiled, watching the last of the liquid disappear into her mouth. I took the nipple from her mouth and dabbed at her lips with a cloth. She gazed up at me, dazed and embarrassed, not entirely sure whether or not she was still dreaming. Smiling, I slipped the pacifier back into her mouth and stroked her hair gently. “Now: back to sleep my little angel.”

She turned over once more. I pulled the covers back over her and watched as she burrowed back in for warmth, curling up like a baby before yawning and dozing off once more. I couldn’t help smiling— lifting the covers, I gave her crinkly backside a pat as I settled in beside her once more. I watched Candy, already asleep again, and wondered idly what she’d dream of next. I couldn’t wait to find out.

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