You point to B.

Derek's face lights up like Christmas morning. "Oh Marcus. Marcus, Marcus, Marcus." He shakes his head with exaggerated disappointment. "The correct answer was A: Adult Baby Diaper Lover. You just pointed to corporate nonsense."

A klaxon blares—harsh, unforgiving red light floods the studio.

"Rita," Derek announces, his voice thick with satisfaction, "deploy sequence four. Full age play protocol. Let's give our audience what they've been asking for."

The booth above the studio floods with pink light, casting everything in a cotton-candy glow that makes your skin look alien and unfamiliar.

"Starting sequence four!" Rita's voice bubbles through the speakers with genuine enthusiasm. "This is gonna be so adorable!"

The mechanical arms descend from the ceiling with their now-familiar hydraulic hiss. One extends toward your face, and before you can process what's happening, there's a click at the back of your head. The ball gag releases, pulling free with a wet sound. Saliva pours down your chin in a humiliating stream. You gasp for breath, jaw aching from being **** open for so long.

"Don't get too comfortable with that freedom," Derek says, stepping closer with his hands in his pockets. "Rita's just swapping out the hardware."

Two arms grip your hips while a third produces what looks like an oversized diaper—thick, crinkly white plastic with pink trim and cartoon teddy bears printed across the surface. The leather shorts unlock and slide down your feminized legs, pooling at your ankles above the spreader bar.

"Wait—" you manage to croak out, voice hoarse.

"Too late for objections, sport," Derek interrupts. "You signed the waiver. Rita, proceed."

The mechanical arms lift you slightly, just enough to slide the diaper beneath you. The material is absurdly thick, forcing your thighs even further apart than the spreader bar already mandated. Rita's hands appear in the booth window, making adjustment gestures as the arms work. They pull the diaper up between your legs, the bulk pressing against your groin with humiliating intimacy, then fasten the tapes snugly at your hips.

"Perfect fit!" Rita announces. "Now for the dress!"

A confection of pink satin emerges from another compartment—layers upon layers of petticoats attached to a dress that looks like it belongs on a grotesque life-sized doll. The arms unlock your elbow restraints temporarily, just long enough to thread your arms through puffy sleeves, then pull the dress down over your head and torso. The bodice is tight, crushing your breasts uncomfortably, while the skirt balloons outward in ridiculous volume. You hear a zipper close at your back, then the distinctive click of a lock.

"There's like, forty yards of tulle in those petticoats," Rita says proudly. "Custom order!"

White tights appear next, rolled up your legs by patient mechanical hands. Then shoes—pink patent leather Mary Janes with silver buckles and four-inch heels that lock around your ankles with audible clicks. A bonnet forces itself onto your head, tied beneath your chin in a large bow.

The final arm approaches your face holding an enormous pink pacifier—easily twice the size of a normal one. "Open wide, baby," Derek says mockingly.

You clench your jaw shut.

Derek sighs theatrically and nods to Rita. One of the arms pinches your nose closed. You hold out for perhaps fifteen seconds before gasping for air. The pacifier shoves into your mouth immediately, its shield pressing against your enhanced lips, a strap buckling behind your head with another lock.

The mechanical arms withdraw. You stand there—barely able to stand with the heels and spreader bar—looking like a nightmarish adult baby in pink satin and rustling petticoats.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Derek announces to thunderous applause, "I give you Baby Marcus. Current bank balance: eighty thousand dollars. Freedom cost: now five hundred thousand dollars." He circles you, drinking in every humiliating detail. "Still want to continue, or shall we move to the exit interview?"