The minutes ticked by, each one dragging like an eternity as Jeff braced himself for the inevitable. He felt the little girl wriggle, her small body shifting on the changing mat. A prickling sensation started in his "face", a faint warmth spreading through his synthetic form. Then came the unmistakable gush – a warm, wet wave of liquid pooling against his inner surface.
Jeff's transformed senses exploded with revulsion. The pungent aroma of urine assaulted him, a chemical cocktail of ammonia and childhood innocence turned sour. He could taste it, a salty, metallic tang that coated his nonexistent tongue, filling his "mouth" with a sickening sweetness laced with an undercurrent of fecal decay. His "skin", the plastic film he was now trapped within, stretched uncomfortably as the liquid seeped deeper, soaking through the absorbent layers and clinging to him like a second, fetid skin.
Panic surged through his transformed being. This wasn't just a change of form; it was an invasion, a violation on a visceral level. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak, he could only endure as wave after wave of warm, rank liquid cascaded over him. Every fiber of his transformed being screamed in protest.
He felt the little girl giggle and wriggle again, oblivious to the internal agony she was inflicting. This wasn't a simple bodily function for her; it was a symphony of discomfort for Jeff. He yearned for the cold sterility of his pre-transformation state, for the freedom of movement, even the mundane act of breathing.
With each passing second, the diaper he had become grew heavier, more saturated with the child's waste. The once pristine white padding turned a mottled yellow, stained with her bodily fluids. A creeping dread settled in as Jeff realised this was merely the beginning – he was now a repository for everything she couldn't hold back. He would be subjected to this indignity again and again, a living testament to childhood indiscretion.
He was no longer Jeff. He was a vessel, a prisoner of his own transformed fate. And as he felt the last vestiges of dignity seep away with each drop that soiled him, all he could muster was a silent, scream of pure, unadulterated loathing. This wasn't transformation; it was torture.