“Today’s trial is simple,” Mistress purred, her voice spilling across the arena with a silkiness laced in malice, every syllable plucked like a string on a harp wound too tight. The crowd leaned forward, hanging on her every word, some already chuckling with anticipation. From the rafters, from the shadows, a thousand unseen eyes watched, not just entertained, but invested. Ivy blinked furiously, the harsh lights still ringing in her skull, her vision blotted with afterimages. Her legs dangled helplessly, her swollen, fouled diapers sagging beneath her, the plastic cover creaking slightly as she shifted in the bouncer’s grip.

And then, with a soft mechanical click, something appeared before her.

A button.

It wasn’t large—only the size of her palm—but it was unmistakable. Glossy and red. It hovered in front of her, just within reach of her fingers, its presence loud in its silence. All around the circle, the same button descended before the others—nine red temptations. Nine tiny mercies.

“The first to press the button… are eliminated,” Mistress said sweetly, and the crowd erupted. Roars of laughterm applause and gasps. The sound of delight at others' pain. “The last, of course, shall be named Caregivers.”

Ivy’s breath caught in her throat, heart pounding like a drumbeat she couldn’t silence. Her eyes darted around the circle—Finn. Sarah. Maria. Eric. They were all staring at their buttons too, wide-eyed, trembling. Some were already squirming harder in their harnesses, as if trying to put distance between themselves and the offer floating inches from their faces.

“These buttons,” Mistress continued, “will offer the contestants much-needed relief—a fresh change, a clean diaper. I’m sure my babies would like that… wouldn’t you?” She cooed the last part in a baby voice, high and condescending, and the crowd howled with laughter, stomping feet and clapping hands echoing like thunder.

Ivy flinched.

Her stomach churned.

Because it hurt. The bloating from the constant feedings. The stale, soupy mess mashed against her skin. Her nose had long since adapted, but now, in this spotlight, it was unbearable again. The button hovered like salvation. A simple press and she’d be free.

“But don’t worry,” Mistress went on, giddy now. “The feeding tubes will keep my babies well hydrated and their little tummies full! We wouldn’t want anyone getting cranky from hunger, now would we?”

Ivy moaned behind her pacifier. A fresh surge of formula dribbled into her mouth, thick and sweet, and she had no choice but to swallow. Her belly groaned again, cramps tightening around her abdomen like a vice.

And then the lights pulsed—red, blue, pink—twisting across the space like a spinning carnival. The sound of trumpets, artificial and theatrical, blared through the arena. Confetti launched high into the air, raining glitter down upon the helpless, dangling contestants.

“I am thrilled to announce the start of Trial Seven!” Mistress declared.

A horn sounded, and the games officially began.

“Oh… did I mention,” Mistress drawled, her voice now taking on a singsong tone laced with cruelty, “that the audience can take part in the fun too?”

The crowd erupted—not with surprise, but with glee. Cheers became howls; laughter turned into full-throated roars of approval. Ivy’s breath caught as the lights overhead adjusted, spotlighting not just the dangling, helpless contestants, but now the space around the arena. One by one, people—guests, patrons, customers—began to form lines along the perimeter of the stage. The sight was surreal: a series of velvet ropes and glowing podiums, each set directly behind a contestant’s bouncer. Ivy could see Sarah’s line first, then Finn’s growing steadily, guests chatting with amusement as they queued like they were waiting to order coffee.

Then Ivy realized—lines were forming behind them all.

She couldn’t turn, couldn’t crane her neck far enough to see her own. But she didn’t need to. The truth settled into her gut like ice. She had a line too. Strangers were lining up to interact with her. To play with her. The feeding tube twitched in her mouth, still dripping its syrupy, bloated formula. And then the screens lit up. Each podium flared to life with a slick user interface—buttons, dials, sliders—each labeled with elegant text and pastel-colored graphics.

“Who do you think will last the longest?” Mistress teased, her voice sliding down from above like oil through a vent. “Who do you think is going to quit first? Who do you like the least? Who’s your favorite baby?” Her laugh was light, melodic. “Every dollar spent goes toward… encouraging our babies.”

The crowd cheered again, and now Ivy noticed something else—every person who stepped up to the podium paid. Credits flashed. Transactions blinked across the screens. The show wasn’t just a spectacle. It was commerce. And the audience had become both spectator and tormentor.

Ivy’s stomach flipped.

She caught Finn’s gaze across the circle. His eyes widened slightly, lips sealed behind his gag, but the subtle lift of his brows told her he was looking past her. Behind her. At her line. His expression twisted—part pity, part alarm, and something else.

Something like dread.

Before Ivy could brace herself, a voice rang out—too close, too clear, amplified just enough to carry over the din.

“Come on, Tinker-Tot! Show us the true baby you are!”

The crowd laughed. Some jeered. A few clapped as the first effect landed.

The dripping formula thickened, and the taste turned vile. Ivy gagged as a surge of sludge coated her tongue, a puree of overcooked vegetables, warm and bitter, laced with the same heavy sweetness of the formula. It clung to her palate like wet paper. Her throat recoiled instinctively, but the tube forced it down, drop by drop. Her eyes watered. Her body twitched in revulsion, every muscle flexing uselessly in the tight harness.

More laughter.

More credits flashing.

The lights swirled above Ivy like the glow of a carnival from hell, spinning colors that danced across the suspended forms of the nine contestants bobbing in their padded prisons. The bouncers creaked gently as each body moved—helpless, thickly diapered, gagged by feeding tubes and pacifiers, dangled like oversized dolls. The lines behind each contestant grew longer, the guests taking turns with glee, their voices a blend of mockery and mock affection.

Across from Ivy, one of the boys—Jamie—let out a strangled grunt, eyes going wide as his bouncer suddenly jerked upward. His body flailed uselessly as he was hoisted several feet into the air, the tension in the cords above him increasing with a mechanical whine. And then, without warning, he dropped. The elastic straps snapped taut, catching him hard with a bounce that drove his bloated diapers down between his legs. The squelch that followed was unmistakable, the sagging mass rebounding against him. The audience erupted with laughter, pointing and clapping as Jamie flailed in shock and mortification, his mouth working uselessly around the pacifier as another spurt of formula dripped into his throat.

Ivy shivered.

Another contestant—a boy further down the circle, Eric—jerked violently, gagging as his feeding tube thickened with a sludge so vile it made Ivy retch just watching him. His eyes rolled back for a second, the taste hitting hard, and even from across the arena, Ivy could see his diaper expand. He was being force-fed something horrible, and the audience was loving it.

To Ivy’s right, Sarah whimpered softly as her mittened hands were guided down by a descending arm, a garishly colored toy locked into her grip. It lit up. Sang. Clattered with noise. A baby rattle designed for actual infants. The audience cooed mockingly as she was forced to shake it, her face flushing crimson with every motion. The screen behind her lit up with reactions, some cheering, some rating her “playfulness.” One patron shouted, “Give the baby a gold star!” and the machine obliged, a glowing sticker flashing across Sarah’s display.

Then it hit Ivy.

A new wave of formula surged down her tube, this one different. It was warm, syrupy—sweet. The taste was unnervingly pleasant, like blended pancakes soaked in syrup, with a hint of cinnamon. Her mouth moved automatically, suckling at the tube as if it were something she wanted. Her tongue lapped at the taste. Her cheeks flushed with shame. It was so wrong—so wrong—to feel relief. But it slid down her throat easily, pooling in her belly atop the last dozen feedings, the weight inside her pressing downward, tighter and tighter, coiling with heat and pressure and something far worse.

Her breath caught.

It was too much.

Her body twitched. Fought. Failed.

And then—she lost control.

There was no warning this time. No final resistance. Just the sudden release as her bladder emptied, flooding the already saturated padding between her legs. A heartbeat later, her bowels gave way, the pressure releasing in a warm, shapeless wave that filled the space between her and the bouncer’s seat with thick, unrelenting shame. The plastic cover sealed it in tight. Her body went limp in the straps, eyes wide in horror, tears already welling.

The screen behind her flashed, and the crowd laughed.

It was only a matter of time before one of them broke. The tension wasn’t just physical—it was psychological, saturating the air like electricity before a storm. Ivy felt it humming in her bones, tightening with every bounce, every drip of formula, every humiliating cheer from the crowd. The stage was a circle of suffering, and each contestant dangled in it like some grotesque carousel, slowly spinning toward defeat.

A robotic arm descended beside Eli, elegant and cold, with all the grace of a pianist preparing to play. Then, with a sudden snap, it delivered a sharp smack to Eli’s diapered rear. He jerked, a muffled grunt escaping him behind the pacifier as his legs kicked instinctively, the bouncer swinging slightly with the motion. The crowd roared with delight, laughter and applause erupting like a wave. Another smack followed, louder this time, and Eli bucked in his straps, face flushed crimson, eyes wide with panic.

Then another.

And another.

Each blow made the overstuffed diaper compress against him with a wet, humiliating squelch, the mess inside squishing across his skin. Ivy watched in horror as he twisted in the harness, mittens flailing, body heaving—desperation pouring from him. His eyes darted wildly around the circle, searching for mercy, for help, for escape. Then, suddenly, they locked onto hers.

For just a heartbeat.

Ivy saw everything in them—fear, regret, shame. And defeat.

Eli slammed his hand onto the button.

The effect was immediate.

The robotic arm froze mid-swing and retracted. A soft ding rang out like the end of a level in a game. Then came the sound of metal sliding. A hatch opened beneath him—smooth, silent, precise. The bouncer gave a mechanical click, releasing him without ceremony. His body dropped through the trapdoor like a puppet with its strings cut, disappearing in a blink.

Gone.

The audience gasped, then cheered louder than ever.

“Contestant Seventy-Three has forfeited the game…” Mistress crooned, feigning disappointment. “What a shame…” She tsk-tsked, the sound echoing like a mother scolding a child who’d spilled their juice. “Only two more contestants to be eliminated!”

Ivy’s body trembled, her harness creaking with each shallow breath. Her bowels cramped again, and as if Mistress had been waiting for the moment, another wave of formula pulsed through her feeding tube. This one was warm, thick, syrupy, and somehow heavier than the last. It filled her mouth with the taste of artificial banana and sickly sweet milk. She groaned, swallowing reflexively, unable to resist the flow.

Then it happened.

Her body gave out again.

This time, it wasn’t just her bladder. Her bowels clenched, then released, another hot wave flooding into her already saturated diaper, the plastic cover pressing it back against her with unrelenting finality. Her cheeks burned as the mess spread, her legs trembling in the harness. The bouncer creaked, the straps squeaking faintly under her squirming weight.

Around her, the others suffered their torments.

Jamie was being rotated in slow circles, his bouncer spinning with disorienting consistency as strobe lights flashed in his face, a lullaby playing backwards on loop. Sarah’s mittens were strapped to a whirling rattle that buzzed and shook like a carnival game, her arms flapping uselessly as the crowd rated her “enthusiasm.” Mason bounced repeatedly, every drop sending a wet squish echoing through his mic’d harness. Maria sobbed openly, her eyes pleading with anyone in the audience as another pacifier with a new flavor was inserted mid-feed.

The stage was a symphony of degradation, each note struck by those willing to pay.

“Yeah! Tinker Tot loves that!” a voice shouted gleefully from somewhere behind Ivy, loud enough to pierce through the din of the crowd. The nickname hit her like a slap—mocking, infantile, targeted. Laughter erupted in its wake, high-pitched and cruel, like playground bullies giddy at finding the perfect insult. Ivy whimpered behind her pacifier, cheeks burning, heart slamming against her ribs as her mind scrambled to brace for whatever came next. But there was no bracing for this.

With a soft whir, a screen descended before her—sleek, polished, pastel-trimmed. It blinked to life, filling her field of vision. And then he appeared.

Oliver.

His cherubic face filled the frame, big sparkling eyes and golden curls bouncing as he waved enthusiastically. “Hiiiii, Ivy!” he said, his voice soaked in sugar, each syllable chirped with unbearable cheer. “Or should I say… Tinker Tot! Golly, aren’t you doing such a good job? Just look at those stinky diapees! Someone’s been filling up like a big girl, huh?” He giggled. Giggled like it was all some innocent game. Like her agony, her humiliation, and her dehumanization were something to celebrate.

Ivy shook her head, tears already stinging at the corners of her eyes. She tried to shut it out, tried to twist away, but the bouncer kept her firmly in place. She couldn’t turn. Couldn’t hide. And the voice kept going.

“Let’s talk about being a good little baby, okay?” Oliver said brightly, folding his hands and tilting his head with cartoonish sincerity. “Good babies drink their ba-ba. Good babies fill their diapers without complaining. Good babies don’t push buttons. They just bounce, and suckle, and giggle, and mess, and bounce again!”

Another surge of formula invaded Ivy’s mouth—thick and chalky, flavored like syrup and spinach, the taste clinging to her teeth. Her gag reflex flared, but the tube fed her regardless. She had to swallow. She had to. Her stomach was bloated beyond reason, a taut, groaning drum of discomfort. And then, with horrifying predictability, her bowels gave way again. A hot, uncontrollable flood filled the already overstrained diapers, the mass squishing outward with a sickening spread that made her body shudder. The bouncer sagged beneath her, creaking with the added weight, the plastic outer shell sealing everything in like a cruel joke.

The screen before her pulsed in time with her pacifier, and Oliver’s voice dropped slightly, softer, more intimate. “Aww… I know it’s hard, Ivy. But you don’t have to think anymore. Just let go. You’re not a big girl, remember? You’re just our baby now.”

Something inside her cracked.

She couldn’t stop it.

The tears came freely, hot and silent at first, then building into full sobs that rattled her chest and twisted her face into a mess of shame. Her vision blurred. The lights were too bright. The crowd was too loud. She could hear them chanting her name—Tinker Tot—laughing and hollering, rating her on screens she couldn’t see. Someone in the line behind her shouted, “Thousand dollars says she’s next!” and the crowd cheered.

Ivy tried to curl in on herself, but the straps held her open, vulnerable, on display. Her body twitched. Her nose ran. Her mouth suckled. Her diapers squelched beneath her, soaked and overfilled, every movement a reminder of what she’d become.

And still Oliver spoke.

Still, the formula came.

Still, the trial raged on.

And Ivy… Ivy was breaking.