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PeculiarChangeling

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  1. It's also nice to have it happen automatically and on a schedule - I know for me, it's easy to just forget to donate for a while. If I could just chip in 5$ a month consistently, I'd be happy to set that up.
  2. A baby girl, or a sissy boy will do Chapter 5 Jamie took slow, heavy breaths, his senses returning to him as the post-orgasmic high dissipated. Uncertainty faded, and after a long moment of recovery, he took stock and realized how much trouble he’d landed in. He’d been smart to wear his pull-up, sure, but now he’d found himself with a new problem: As he lay there, panting for air, he found a new warmth trickling into his pull-up. He was having another accident, and this one had come without warning. Jamie hadn’t intended to go–it had just happened, and he’d only realized after the fact. That meant he’d slipped further, that his curse had found some other ‘immature’ behavior to feed upon. Suckling his pacifier for comfort, Jamie fought the tears that threatened to well up in his eyes. (Michelle promised you’d be okay–you just need to figure out what went wrong, so you don’t do it again!) It worried him that he’d made another mistake without thinking. He’d been so vigilant, and he’d still failed. His best just wasn’t enough. Was it that he tried to make himself feel good? Did self-pleasure count as an immature behavior, and he should’ve waited and done that with Michelle? His eyes widened and he sat up straighter, surprised at himself–already, he was thinking about Michelle as someone he could be intimate with. They’d only known each other for one date, and he’d spent half that date panicking about wet pants and Little clothes. Yet, when he thought about having grown-up fun time, he couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone but Michelle. Squirming, he tried to think, but the heat in his diaper distracted him as it squelched against his parts. That would need to be taken care of–a grown up wouldn’t just sit around in a soggy pull-up. (Would they?) Pursing his lips, he took out his phone. The keyboard made him feel dizzy–the buttons were so small, and all right next to each other, but he managed to type out his search, hunting one key at a time until he found the letters he needed. Do adults change their diapers right away? The query brought up a few suggested articles, mostly directed at new caregivers for Littles. Is your Little one bigger than you expected? Here’s how to change those big accidents! Diaper Rash on your little’s bum? Five tips for preventing discomfort for your special one. This One Weird Trick Diaper Companies Don’t Want You To Know! Squinting at the words, Jamie found no direct answers, but one thing seemed obvious: Nobody was talking about how to change your diapers, it was all about how to change someone else’s. Put another way: Grown ups didn’t change their own diapers, they got another grown up to help. Proud of himself for making the deduction, he got to his feet. Now he just needed someone to help him, but he wasn’t sure who. His parents lived a few hours away–too far. Were any of his work friends close enough that he’d ask them to wipe his bottom? That seemed like too much of a favor, and besides, he didn’t want anyone to gossip around the curse. If HR found out he was regressing, he could be in hot water at work–better to keep things private. While he pondered who to ask, his phone chimed again. He lifted the screen, smiling behind his pacifier shield as he read ‘Michelle ❤️ ❤️ <3’ next to the text. ‘Did you get home alright?’ Blushing, he tried to peck away at the keyboard to respond, but he was having trouble with letters, and a few words took him almost a minute to type out. Grumbling to himself, he tapped the button to call her instead. “Jamie?” Michelle picked up almost immediately, concern in her tone. “Are you alright?” “Michewwe,” Jamie began, but realized he’d never taken the pacifier out. He spat it into his hand and tried again. “Michelle, I…made it home, but the curse is getting worse.” “Oh no,” Michelle said, with a tone that said, I’m sympathizing with you, rather than, I’m worried. “Tell me what happened.” “I got off the bus, and…” he began, blushing as he tried to explain without going into detail. “Um…when I got back to my apartment…it doesn’t matter, I just need to make sure to behave.” “Jamie.” Michelle’s tone wasn’t upset, but it sounded a degree more firm than it had before. “Did you have another accident?” Her words were so direct, he answered without thinking. “Yes. I…how’d you know?” “I can always tell, sweetie,” she said. “That’s nothing to be ashamed about. You couldn’t help it–but aren’t you glad you were wearing your diaper?” “They’re just pull-ups,” he fussed, pacing across the floor. “Not real diapers.” “Okay,” she said, with a giggle that suggested she didn’t really agree. “Do you have a grown up to help you clean up?” (She’s so smart,) Jamie thought, shaking his head as he held the phone. “No…I don’t know who to ask.” Another stifled giggle, barely audible over the line. “Do you want me to come help you, Jamie?” He flushed. “I…are you sure?” “I promise I don’t mind.” He nodded a few times, remembering a second later that he had to speak to be heard. “Yes, please.” “I’ll be there soon,” she promised. “Just wait for me, okay baby?” “Thank you.” Jamie sighed in relief, glad to have that problem taken care of. “You’re so nice, Michelle.” “Awww,” she said. “You’re the sweetest. Goodbye, Jamie!” “Bye bye, Michelle!” He hung up, satisfied with how that’d gone. Michelle really didn’t seem to be phased by anything–she was sweet, and nice, and smart, and managed to be ready for everything. He wasn’t sure what to do while he waited, so he put his pacifier back in and just stood there, uncertain what to do. It wouldn’t be long before– His phone chirped again, another message from Michelle. ‘I’m outside!’ He blinked–that was fast! Texting her back, he spent twenty seconds finding the letters for ‘Omw’, then waddled out his apartment door, hurrying to let her in. ... This story was brought to you by one of my awesome readers! My ability to create fiction like this is supported entirely by fans like you, without whom I wouldn't have enough time to write because I'd have to be working a second job. If you'd like to join these awesome people, (and get early access, commission discounts, and exclusive stories,) you can do so here: https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling
  3. Have you considered setting up something like a Subscribestar page to help keep the income and donations consistent? Anyway - it looks like we needed 23 dollars, so I tossed in 23 dollars
  4. Well, you're in luck! ... Chapter 4 Jamie felt a little foolish, sitting on a low stool in the middle of Michelle’s living room while she walked a tight circle around him, waving a garland of lavender over his head, mumbling words that sounded like gibberish. When Michelle had explained her theory–that he’d fallen afoul of a curse–he’d almost thought she was joking. Jamie had never learned much about witchy stuff–he knew about people falling afoul of curses and regression spells, but it hadn’t seemed worthwhile to learn the ins and outs of how they worked. Jamie made sure to always show kindness and respect to antique shop owners and avoided fortune tellers, and that had served him well…until now. In a stroke of luck, though, Michelle seemed to be an expert. She’d known what to look for, and in only a few minutes, she had prepared a simple test to check him over for traces of magic. “Bad news first,” Michelle announced, as she completed whatever bit of witchcraft she’d done to check him out. “You’re cursed.” Throat going dry, Jamie tried not to let his feelings get the better of him, though he felt like a doctor had just given him a terminal prognosis. “I’m going to regress?” “Not necessarily,” Michelle replied, shaking her head. “It looks like this is a sort of self-fulfilling hex. It draws strength from your behavior–if you act mature, it’ll slowly fade. You’ll only regress if you act in childish ways.” He frowned, thinking back. “Well…what did I do that was childish at the coffee shop?” “Peeing your pants is rather juvenile, isn’t it?” Michelle asked, tilting her head. “That’s probably what regressed you to the point of sucking your thumb.” Her answer felt wrong to him, but anxiety had clouded his thoughts and he couldn’t pinpoint the issue. “Alright.” He nodded a couple times, reassuring himself. “Alright. So…I just have to remain mature, right?” “Right,” Michelle assured him, patting his shoulder in a comforting way. Her fingers gripped him just a little, almost like she expected him to fall over without her support, but then she relaxed and pulled her hand away. “Just…make sure you don’t wet your pants anymore, and don’t suck your thumb. You should be fine.” Nodding, he got to his feet. The shortalls felt a bit snug as he moved. He typically preferred baggier clothes, not form-fitting denim that pulled the pull-ups against him, reminding him of the extra padding whenever he moved around, but he could change once he got home. “I…I should get going. Thank you, Michelle, for your help today.” “Of course,” she said, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay? We could still put on that show?” A part of him wanted to agree–in part simply because Michelle seemed sad to see him go, and he really did want to get to know her better–but he needed to take some time to process the news about the curse, and didn’t feel like he’d be able to relax around Michelle. “Rain check? I do want to spend more time with you, this is just a lot to take in.” Her face flashed for a fraction of a second with disappointment, but she recovered so quickly that Jamie realized he must have misread her emotions. “Of course,” she said, opening her arms and pulling him into a hug. “Good luck, Jamie.” Hugging her back, he felt her soft body press against his–warm, comforting, reassuring. He wanted to stay, even more, but stuck to his original decision. It seemed too juvenile to stay just because it’d be more fun, the responsible choice would be to head home. He regretted his decision to leave almost immediately, but not because he wanted Michelle’s company–just moments after getting onto the bus, he felt pressure in his bladder, an unexpected need that struck him with an urgent need. The bus started to move before he could get off, and though the next stop was only a half dozen blocks away, he didn’t know of the nearest public restroom he could access. Shifting his weight from side to side, he bit his lip, anxiously wondering if he could make it. He wanted to put his thumb into his mouth, but fought the urge, pushing his hand back down every time it tried to rise up to his lips, fighting for maturity. (Should I be doing a potty dance?) he thought, fretting as he shuffled, leaning on a handrail. The bus was mostly empty, but was he getting strange looks? Did they know he was acting like a child? (Is it that immature? What did Michelle say?) ‘Don’t wet your pants, don’t suck your thumb’. That had been her warning. He tried to think what to do, but it felt as though his thoughts were steeped in thick fog. Should he go find a bathroom? Would a Little really make all the other people on the bus stop so he could run off to use a toilet? Could he hold it, if he tried? (Think,) he told himself, bumping his head against the metal pole to try and shake loose a thought. (Just…do what Michelle told you.) ‘Don’t wet your pants.’ ‘Don’t wet your pants.’ (Oh! Right!) The idea struck him like a static shock. He had on a pull-up. He could use that, and he wouldn’t wet his pants at all. It’s what he had it on for, after all, and rather than stand there hopping from foot to foot like a little kid, he could take the simple, mature choice and use his princess pull-up. Relaxing, he stood straight, bladder giving in to the need. Like the accident at the coffee shop, he felt warmth spread over himself, but unlike before, it stayed contained, wicked up by the padding. This didn’t feel like a mistake–it felt right, and the comforting, super-absorbent pulp swelling around his parts, warm, soft… (This was the right decision,) he assured himself, sighing in relief. He knew what Littles looked like when they had accidents–it was like at Sammy’s Little shower. They threw a tantrum and cried, complaining to their caregivers, pretending that it hadn’t been their fault. He wasn’t like that at all–he’d used his pull-up like a grown up, and it didn’t bother him at all. Now that he was confident in his maturity, he really wanted to suck his thumb in congratulations, to self-soothe as a reward for his smart decision making, but he knew better than that. To keep his hands busy, so that his thumb wouldn’t find its way into his lips by accident, he stuck them both in the shortall pockets. To his surprise, he found something–a plastic object with a soft, rubber bulb on one side and a ring on the other. (Oooh. Michelle thought of everything, didn’t she?) Taking out the pacifier, he turned it over in his hands. She was so smart–he didn’t need to suck his thumb at all! Plopping it in between his lips, he tasted the rubber bulb, eyes crossing in pleasure as he sucked down. Between the relaxation offered by the bulb, and the warm saturation pressed between his legs, held snug against his skin by the shortalls, he felt a deep sense of desire, lulling him in, coaxing him to suckle harder. He shut his eyes, feeling very nearly high, the rest of the world fading around him, minutes rolling by as he enjoyed the soothing. This felt good. It felt right. It didn’t matter what some stranger on the bus might think, and he didn’t need to search their face for a clue as to whether he was behaving in a mature way–Jamie knew he had to be making the right choices, because he was starting to have some very grown up thoughts. He couldn’t wait to be home, where he’d have more privacy. The bus finally came to a stop by his building, and he waddled out, suckling harder in anticipation. He hadn’t known a pacifier could feel so good, but as he rushed to get home, he felt his erection build within his soggy pull-up, growing a little warmer as a fresh trickle of pee soaked into it. He barely noticed his neighbor as he passed her to get into his apartment, slamming the door behind himself, slumping against the wall and sinking down. (Yes,) he thought, imagining Michelle’s body close to him, her hands wrapped around him. Sucking harder, he throbbed inside his pull-up, and fantasies played out in his thoughts. Jamie had done the mature things–he’d used his pull-up, he’d suckled his pacifier, he’d made sure to get home and find privacy before enjoying grown-up fun. He deserved this. Drooling over the pacifier’s tip, heat and need and passion growing inside him, he finally felt the climax build, edging towards orgasm without even needing to touch himself. He moaned loud and uncaring into the pacifier, and lost control, breaking through another threshold. Pleasure exploded within his pull-up, and he continued to suck passionately, spurting into soggy padding. It seemed to last forever, harder and more intense than any sex he could remember, buckling his knees, pleasure that overrode everything else. When it ended, he sank down, laying on the floor, sweaty, delirious, and happy he’d been smart enough to use his pull-up. ... 👀 Things are getting spicy for Jamie! Also! The audiobook kickstarter for The Baby Bet is over halfway! If you're interested in an AB/DL romcom audiobook, we're getting very close to hitting our funding goal - and it's just 15$ to back the project and reserve your copy, the same cost as an audiobook on most major platforms! https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/peculiarchangeling/the-baby-bet-coming-to-audio
  5. Chapter Three Michelle had come prepared for the accident–she just tried to act as though she hadn’t. Her regression curse, cast upon Jamie with a simple incantation and a lock of his hair on the same day she’d met him, was a bit of home-brewed magic, and she hadn’t been certain how quickly it would work, but she’d been optimistic about its success and her hope had been rewarded. He’d had plenty of time for the magic to brew before their date, and a few carefully planted nudges–the whipped cream, the discussion of baby books, her efforts to ensure he wouldn’t have time to step into the bathroom–had all done their job perfectly. The bag full of beach supplies provided a good explanation for why she had a large towel ready to lay down, spreading it over her passenger seat before Jamie got in. “See?” she declared, patting the seat. “No problem.” Jamie held his arms over his chest, glancing around uncertainly. His pants were thoroughly soaked, and nothing he could do would hide that fact to passing strangers–he just felt thankful that nobody seemed to recognize him. “I’ve got some clothes that should fit you, or we could go to a store somewhere and get you new pants,” Michelle added, prompting him a bit as she walked around the car. If he asked to be taken home, she wouldn’t have a good reason to say no, but if she prompted him with a binary choice, chances were good he would impulsively answer with an option she gave–and no matter what he picked, she would be happy. Just as she’d predicted, Jamie nodded meekly, buckling himself in, eyes drifting to the wet stain over the crotch of his jeans. “Can we do your place? I don’t want to go out in…thanks.” She smiled, patting him on the knee before she got the car moving. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Accidents happen, right?” “I guess,” Jamie began. “But…” He trailed off, and Michelle pushed a bit further–she didn’t want him to clam up. If things went her way, she’d eventually wear down any barriers between herself and his inner thoughts, she didn’t want him to close her off. “But what? Don’t worry, Jamie, I really don’t mind.” “It just came out of nowhere,” Jamie admitted. “I don’t know. I’ve never lost control like that.” “Well, there’s no sense in worrying about a fluke,” Michelle assured him. “Bodies are weird, okay? Don’t beat yourself up over one accident.” They arrived at her apartment a little later. She half hoped that there would be someone else waiting for the elevator, so she could parade her soon-to-be Little in front of them, but she didn’t have that luck today. They got to her floor without interruption, and just like that, she had Jamie in her house, wearing–she hoped–his last ever pair of grown up underwear. “Just wait here, I’ll get those clothes,” she promised, leaving him to blush and stand in place, fidgeting with his hands, unable to sit without staining her furniture. Her living room was neat and decorated with an overthorough sense of order–she’d recently gone through spring cleaning, purging clutter. Michelle was no minimalist, but she wanted to make room for the inevitable play pen and stuffies that’d be littering the floor before long. Retreating to her bedroom, she pulled a few tags off the new clothes and tucked a pacifier into the front pocket. Hastily looking them over for any obvious tells that they were new, she returned, a smooth lie at the ready as she justified the clothing choice. “My cousin came to visit with her Little recently, and he’s the same size as you–they left a couple things behind. Don’t worry, though, these should be totally discreet.” That last part was even true, or at least true enough. She’d bought the clothes from a Little store, but specifically selected the outfit for this lie. The shortalls only seemed juvenile in that they were shortalls–no cute designs, no flowers, no crotch snaps–and if you couldn’t see the bottom, the onesie would just look like a normal shirt. Holding up the clothes, she added, “Sorry I don’t have any boxers in your size–it’s these or panties, I’m afraid. Nobody will see–it’s just so you’ve got something on down there.” Michelle would have been just as happy if he asked her to go get the panties. Again, she’d jumped ahead of his decision making, forcing a false binary on him so he wouldn’t suggest anything else. She’d learned the trick from a book on dealing with fussy toddlers, and it seemed to work on soon-to-be-Littles just as well. He was hesitant, a blush spreading up his face, but she’d already primed him for this. ‘Nobody will see’. He reached out, accepting the pull-up, turning it over in his hand. She’d sized it right, and the princesses on the front were as cutesy and feminine as she could find. “I guess…” he began, hand moving to his mouth. Michelle’s heart leapt, hoping he might start sucking his thumb right in front of her, but he just chewed on his nail instead. “I’ll just do the pull-ups.” “Of course,” she said, handing him the stack of clothes. She wanted nothing more than to dress him up herself, rendering him cutesy and adorable and claiming him as hers, but for that, she could wait. “And just so you know–as far as I’m concerned, our date hasn’t ended yet. Since we had to leave the cafe early, how’d you feel about maybe turning on a movie?” “Oh!” Jamie’s eyes widened in pleasant surprise. “Yeah, that’d be really nice. Did you have something you wanted to watch?” Michelle walked the verbal tightrope, aiming for suggestive without being too overt. “I don’t really care what’s on the TV,” she explained, leaving it to Jamie to guess what she did care about. “If you want some privacy, you can use my bathroom, okay?” He nodded, face still full of blush, and followed her simple directions. When he locked himself in the bathroom to get changed, Michelle nearly squealed in glee. She’d chosen perfectly–Jamie wasn’t just adorable, his attitude would be perfect once he’d regressed a little more. It had taken a heroic amount of effort not to ask him about adoption paperwork right at the coffee shop, when he’d started talking about childhood books. Michelle hadn’t even done that much to plant the subject, just a well placed question! She imagined him on the floor, asking for uppies or a diaper change, and her heart surged with excitement along with other parts of her body. She could be patient a little longer, but she wanted this boy. The object of her desire returned, waddling out of the bathroom. Even in the unassuming Little clothes, Jamie was darling–bottom ever so slightly puffing from the ‘discreet’ pull-up, shortalls making him look round and juvenile in tiny ways. But, above all that, he had his thumb between his lips, suckling away with a distant look. Seeing that, Michelle nearly lost control of her facade. She raised a hand to her mouth, eyes widening, and Jamie stared back at her. Only then did he look down and seem to notice, removing his thumb in a hurry. “I–” he began, anxiety and fear building in his face. Not just embarrassment, but true worry. “Oh, Jamie,” Michelle began. She wanted to give him a hug and whisper reassurances, but that would be too far. He shook his head, eyes watering. “Michelle, I…I think there’s something wrong with me. Something really wrong.” (Oh, to hell with it,) Michelle thought, stepping up to him and wrapping her arms around his body. He tensed, then melted into the hug, embracing her back. “Don’t worry,” Michelle promised. “Whatever’s wrong, I’ll help, okay?” “Okay,” he sniffled, squeezing a little tighter. “Everything is going to be okay. I promise.” Michelle knew then, there was no turning back. This boy was hers. ... I've got some pretty good news! Between Ream and SubscribeStar income, I'm up to over 60% of the income I'd been making on P*treon before they purged all of the ABDL accounts on their site. It's still a blow, but it's a big step up, and I've been able to make up the difference with extra work on the side. Any and all support is always appreciated. Stories like these are possible thanks to the generosity of my readers, and it only takes a couple bucks a month to get early access and discounts on commissions! ❤️ https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling
  6. I saw a guy once who could grab tapes from both sides and stick them down simultaneously and with perfect alignment. He was incredible. Truly a step above all of us.
  7. Chapter Two Jamie waited until he’d fully exited the bus before he took out his phone to check his notifications. He didn’t like people who tried to text and walk at the same time, thus ended up clogging the door just when people were in a hurry to change over and get moving. Though it was likely that nobody ever noticed, he still took pride in his tiny courtesy. The notification showed a message from ‘Michelle ❤️ ❤️ <3’. It was, perhaps, a bit early in the relationship to put three hearts next to her name, but he’d been hit with the infatuation bug, and the extra flair in her contact info seemed harmless. ‘I’m at Drip and Foam, waiting on you to order!’ He smiled, typing out a reply, ‘Just a couple blocks away, see you soon!’ Walking down the bustling city street, he had to skirt around a Little girl throwing a tantrum, stamping her feet right there on the sidewalk and screaming about a doll. He shared a sympathetic look with the girl’s caregiver, who smiled and rolled her eyes just outside the Little’s field of view–there was no use getting mad at her for the display, if she knew how to regulate her emotions, she wouldn’t be Little. Passing her, the slight whiff of baby powder wafting off the Little reminded Jamie to put a little pep in his step. He needed to pee, and while he could hold it for a while, he’d rather deal with the discomfort immediately. A few steps away from the coffee shop’s entrance, he stopped, puzzled. Something about his train of thought bothered him, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. Frowning, he ran the thoughts back, and started to get an idea. Why did I think about the bathroom after smelling baby powder, of all things? Before he could think about it any longer, Michelle caught his eye, waving through the window. He dismissed the question and beamed, getting out of the wind and into the cozy, crowded cafe. “Jamie!” Michelle said, getting up to greet him with a warm hug. “It’s always nice to see you,” he replied, returning the embrace, feeling her body press against his. Glancing over her shoulder at the restrooms, he began to think of a way to excuse himself for a moment, but Michelle spoke before he could. “Come on, let’s order–it’s an Espresso sort of day for me, I need the pick me up.” She chuckled and took his hand, pulling him towards the line in a way that left little room for protest. “Do you come here often?” he asked, making conversation as they stood in line. With the odors of fresh coffee and baked goods hanging in the air, he felt he could have lived off the smell alone–she’d picked a good cafe. “It’s my favorite,” Michelle confirmed. “My happy place is here, right between a latte and one of their scones. They heat them up in a toaster before serving, it’s magical.” Her enthusiasm was infectious, and he looked up at the menu, skimming options. “Any recommendations?” They stepped up to the cashier, and her eyes widened with delight. “Oh, you have to try–” Turning to the cashier, she just took the initiative, placing their order. “I’ll do a quad latte with extra foam, and he’ll have your ‘Original Cocoa’.” Facing Jamie again, she added, “They make it by melting real chocolate, it’s fabulous.” Smirking, the cashier asked, “Do you want whipped cream on that cocoa?” Jamie weighed the options, considering whether the extra topping would be worth it. He didn’t want to look too juvenile in front of Michelle, not when she was still getting to know him. “If you have to think about it that much, you want it,” Michelle snickered. “Live a little!” “Alright.” Smiling in a good-natured way, Jamie nodded, pleased to have the excuse. “I’ll try it with whipped cream.” “Alright,” the cashier said. “You won’t regret it.” Michelle paid, then took his hand, knitting their fingers together and pulling him towards a table. Jamie’s eyes drifted again to the bathroom, but he didn’t want to be rude or awkward on their first proper date–he’d wait. “So,” he began, hands fidgeting in his lap as she smiled at him. Her smile had something to it that made him swell with feelings–warmth, but also something deeper. Desire, anticipation, emotions he didn’t really expect to be directed his way in general, let alone on a first date. “You–tell me about yourself?” She raised a hand to her mouth, hiding a light giggle. “Sorry. It’s not a silly question, just…” He shook his head. “I know, it’s just so generic–I’m bad at ‘first date talk’. I feel like…I don’t know, we’re supposed to ask about all the basic stuff, your favorite book, your job, whatever, but then I never even know what I’m supposed to say when I get asked questions like that.” Michelle nodded. “Alright. How’s this for a question: Don’t tell me your favorite book right now. What’s the first book that you fell in love with?” Jamie’s eyebrows raised, and he had to think about it for a moment. “Oh, wow, that’s…I would have been just barely learning to read, I’ve loved books since forever. Honestly, it’s probably like…The Pup in the Cup?” “That’s a baby book, isn’t it?” Michelle asked. “By ‘Professor Pleasant’?” “You asked the first book I fell in love with,” Jamie pointed out. “My mom says I asked for her to read it to me every night–I think that qualifies. Besides, it’s really well written–the author worked hard to get them perfect. ‘You can’t kid a kid, and you can’t befuddle a Little’, I think is what he said. He was a Little’s rights advocate, too–donated a ton of money to support services and adoption charities, especially after he and his wife found out they couldn’t have kids of their own.” Michelle’s smile broadened. “You don’t need to justify your pick, Jamie–though I’m half expecting you’re going to tell me it’s still your favorite book.” “I admire his work, is all,” Jamie explained, not mentioning that he still had a copy of The Pup in the Cup on his bookshelf at home. “What about you, what was your first favorite book?” Before Michelle could answer, their orders were called out at the counter. She smiled, getting to her feet. “Just a moment, let me get that.” Jamie considered using the opportunity to dart to the bathroom, but Michelle returned only a moment later with two mugs–one with a snowflake poured into the espresso foam, the other stacked high with a veritable monument of whipped cream, towering several inches up over the brim of the mug. “Oh jeez, they weren’t kidding about the whipped cream,” Jamie began, staring. “Come on, give it a sip,” she encouraged. Picking up his mug, he did as she suggested, raising the lip of the mug to his lips. As he’d been promised, the cocoa was rich and sweet, warming his soul as it rushed down his tongue. “Wow,” he said, lowering the mug. “That’s…wow.” “What do you think?” Michelle asked. “So…when I was a kid, I read The Arctic Express,” Jamie said, staring at the mug. “There’s a line in there about cocoa ‘as thick and rich as melted chocolate bars’. I always thought that was just a bit of magical imagination, it couldn’t exist in real life, but…well, I think I found it.” Michelle tilted her head. “You like picture books, don’t you?” Jamie hesitated. “I don’t know, I guess they were just on my mind.” The corner of her mouth curling up in a smirk, she added, “By the way, you’ve got a bit of–on your nose, the whipped cream.” “Oh?” Jamie crossed his eyes, and saw the speck of whipped cream she’d mentioned. The pile on his mug had of course left a bit behind, but he stuck out his tongue, trying to lick it up. Giggling, Michelle asked, “Do you need a napkin?” “Wha’?” Jamie asked, “And waste whipped cream? No wa–” He froze, suddenly, tongue still waggling beneath his nose. The pressure on his bladder had vanished, and Jamie realized with horror that he’d lost control, warmth suddenly spreading down his jeans. All attempts to clamp down on his bladder failed–the flood gates had opened, and they refused to close. For a second, he was the only one who knew, though Michelle saw his reaction and tilted her head in concern. “Are you okay, Jamie?” Before he could formulate an answer, the puddle building on his chair overflowed, and splashing water echoed up from the floor as thin trickles ran down. Michelle heard, and her face softened. “Oh, Jamie–don’t worry, I’ll go get some towels.” He was too mortified to do much more than stammer, especially as others in the cafe began to take note. The next table over, he heard a muttered comment, low, but projected so that others would hear. “I can’t believe people are still letting Littles go out without a diaper.” “I’m not–” he started, but he wasn’t even sure who’d made the comment, who he could argue with. “I just–” At least, finally, his bladder ran dry, but the puddle beneath his chair was plenty big by then. A cafe employee was already next to their table, a pair of towels and a mop in hand, wearing a professional expression. “Don’t worry,” Michelle promised him, standing up by his side. “They deal with this all the time when Littles leak. You’ve got nothing to be worried about.” (Nothing to be worried about,) Jamie thought. (But…why couldn’t I hold it?) ... I'm adapting one of my novels into an audiobook! "The Baby Bet" is being crowdfunded, and it's gonna be given the full-on audio treatment! How cool is that? Backers get the audiobook early - we need about 50 people to pledge to get our minimum funding, and if we go over we'll be doing some extra projects too! https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/peculiarchangeling/the-baby-bet-coming-to-audio
  8. The Baby Bet - Audiobook Kickstarter is now live! Aaah I'm extremely excited! We just launched our kickstarter to get The Baby Bet adapted into an audiobook. Our minimum funding goal is 700$, which is juuust enough to cover the cost of production, and only needs about fifty people to back us! Details and whatnot in the kickstarter link: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/peculiarchangeling/the-baby-bet-coming-to-audio
  9. Cover Art by Flashy Flesh Chapter One “Congratulations–I couldn’t be happier for you.” Michelle’s promise was true, even as she hid a wash of emotions behind a smile, hoping that the cheer of the party would hide her jealousy. Candice deserved this as much as anyone, and Michelle wouldn’t spoil things for her friend even if the whole situation made her burn with envy. Candice didn’t seem to notice any of the mixed feelings. The gifts in Michelle’s hands distracted her; while they were the same size, one box was wrapped in bright, colored paper, decorated with teddies and balloons, while the other was plain, tasteful, and held shut with only a black ribbon. It was the custom for Little Showers: One gift for the caregiver, the other for the newly Little. “Thank you,” Candice replied, tucking her Little’s gift under one shoulder while she pulled at the ribbon on her own parcel. “I just can’t believe it–I’d just started looking for my own Little, and the perfect boy just about fell in my lap!” “I’m so happy for you.” Michelle’s words came through tight lips–she’d wanted one for years, but nothing had worked. Personal ads got nothing, Mommy & Daddy sites only got her messages from people assuming she was Little, and good luck spells seemed only to impact those around her, never her. Three of her friends had ended up as caregivers–two of them were even at the party, sipping wine next to the refreshment table while their Littles played patty-cake in the corner. Opening the gift, Candice’s smile grew–it was a digital display encased in purple plastic, speaker and microphone built into the base. “A baby monitor!” “The camera is in your Little’s box,” Michelle explained, nodding to the other gift. “Just because he used to be grown up doesn’t mean he won’t need supervision, after all.” “Oh, don’t I know it! It seems like I can hardly turn my back without my little Sammy getting into trouble–you’d think all he knows how to do is rub his diapers,” Candice laughed, and a few others within earshot joined in the good-natured chuckling. “Or, well–rub them and fill them, of course.” As though on cue, the star of the party waddled into the room–slim and almost a foot taller than his new Mommy, Sam Franklin–that is, ‘Sammy’, now that he’d been adopted–looked positively adorable. A wet diaper sagged between his thighs, evidence of his recently-revoked potty train, and his T-shirt had a print of ‘Mommy’s Little Dump Truck’ on it, with a cartoon excavator below the letters. It was bad form to ask what’d regressed him, but given his slight glower, Michelle guessed it hadn’t been by choice. Then again, maybe he was just cranky because he needed a change. “Candice,” he mumbled. “Can I–” “Mommy,” Candice corrected. “You know that, silly boy.” “Mommy,” he said, nodding quickly. “Can I please just have a change?” The new mommy beamed, and Sammy realized his mistake too late when she said, “Of course, sweetie! Just lie down, okay?” “But–” Sammy began, eyes widening as he took in the number of guests. At least they weren’t friends of his, none of them had known Sammy when he’d been grown-up. “I–” “You wanted a change,” Candice repeated. “So lie down.” (Definitely not by choice,) Michelle thought, her jealousy tempered as she watched it. This wasn’t what she wanted–a brat who’d argue, an involuntary Little who’d ended up that way by manipulation or magic or legal mandate. She wanted someone who’d accept her care. Part of her struggles with acquiring her own Little had come from her pickiness, wanting someone who’d fit her just right. If she simply put together a hex jar to sap away some unfortunate guy’s potty training and autonomy, then swooped in to adopt him, he’d resent her forever. She wanted a boy who’d depend on her, and who’d thank her for the care she gave. A toy she could play with, certainly, someone she could show off to her friends, but if she had to argue with him, if he refused her instructions out of a misplaced sense of maturity, that’d spoil the fun. So, while Candice forced Sammy to lay down and made a show of changing his diaper in front of everyone, Michelle sank back, debating whether she could leave the Little Shower early without it being a faux pas. She wasn’t the only one standing back. The other Littles had turned to watch the show, giggling as Sammy fussed, but a young Daddy seemed almost as uncomfortable as Michelle felt. His own Little girl was clearly pleased with her lot–she didn’t cry or fuss except when she lost her favorite pacifier–and Michelle guessed he wasn’t thrilled about seeing a Little in distress. Aside from him, only one other person was standing back–a young man with a bit of stubble and a rounded-off build. Physical features aside, he caught her attention for one reason: He had a thumb in his mouth. It was only for a moment. He wasn’t sucking his thumb, Michelle realized, waving it off as a bit of wishful thinking that’d caused her to hallucinate what she’d wanted to see–he’d just had his thumb near his lips. A second later, though, her wishes were reignited as she caught him running the finger over his paper plate, picking up all the last remnants of frosting before sticking his thumb right back in his mouth, licking the sweet leftovers clean. That gave Michelle an idea. A wonderful idea. She didn’t need to find a Little, and she didn’t need to hex someone to be against his nature. All she needed was to find the right boy, and give him the right push. Walking up to the stranger, she opened her posture to him–not saying hello, waiting for him to greet her. The guy wiped his thumb off on a napkin, smiling at her. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he said, offering his dubiously-clean hand to shake. “I’m Jamie.” “It’s nice to meet you, Jamie,” Michelle replied, sizing him up. He had brown hair that fell in subtle curls around his shoulders–probably going for a subtle ‘punk’ or ‘alternative’ look to match his leather jacket, but she saw the seed of adorable pigtails, or perhaps braids. His eyes were brown puddles, full of emotion and curiosity, the kind she’d expect from a poet or perhaps an explorative baby. “How do you know Candice?” “Coworkers,” he explained, giving an obvious glance back at the snack table as he considered another slice of cake. “We’re both in sales.” “Sales, hmm?” Michelle asked, moving to cut a slice and slide it onto his plate, curious how he’d react to being served. “You must be pretty persuasive, hmm?” He didn’t even seem to notice, accepting her un-asked-for help with nothing except a smile at the sudden presence of cake. “You could say that.” He was perfect. “Well–oh, hold on,” Michelle started, reaching out, brushing the side of his jacket and pinching a hair between her fingers as she did. “You had frosting on your jacket, I didn’t want it to ruin the leather.” “Oh, it’s faux-leather,” Jamie replied with a shrug. “But…thanks.” “You’re welcome,” she replied, pretending to reach for her phone to check the time while actually tucking the long strain of brown hair away so she couldn’t lose it. Tilting his head, he asked, “What were you saying before? About being persuasive?” “Oh, yes.” Michelle gave him a sultry smile. She had the plan, now she just needed the man. “Do you think you could persuade a girl to give you her phone number?” ... Hey there! I'm trying out a new name - I'm keeping around 'Peculiar Changeling' as my screen name most places, but I want to run with 'Penn Canon' as the thing I put on my books and sign my work with and stuff! It just feels nicer as a Name, y'know? Anyway, I hope you like this story - it's ten chapters, and it's completely written, so I'll be releasing it publicly over the next couple weeks. Expect a chapter every day or two. If you want to support my writing, a couple bucks a month can really go a long way - and I offer a bunch of stories in early and exclusive access, plus discounts on commissions (like this one)! -Penn https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling Written as a commission
  10. To be honest, I'd look at this less from a copyright angle and more from a personal respect angle. It's extremely unlikely that you'd face copyright problems for posting a story, especially for free to this forum. However, if it's a rewrite - even with significant additions - I would strongly suggest you just reach out to the original author and ask them for permission to share your story, with a link back to theirs. If they're no longer active or can't be reached, just post in good faith, explain the context, link back to the original work, and clarify that if the original author gets in touch you'll respect their wishes!
  11. Chapter 10 After tossing and turning through his first night, trying to find a good way to lie down when there was unexpected and unwanted bulk rustling between his legs, Daniel had woken up crabby and late, with his bladder painfully full. With little time to get breakfast, he’d taken a shower–and peed in the shower, too, so he wouldn’t have to actually wet himself again–then changed into a fresh diaper as quick as he could and hurried to get to his first class. He wasn’t the last one in the room, but it was close. The Covenry Hall was one of the largest in the school, and with good reason. Covens required space to operate, necessitated large groups, and–of course–the class was fundamental to their education. Or, well, it was fundamental to the witches’ educations. Daniel, a warlock, could have gone a couple years without ever needing to bother interacting with this field of magic. Still…it was on the syllabus of every student at Alphabeta, so he couldn’t exactly blow it off. Arranged in many tiered sections that arced up so that every coven would have a good view of the teacher at the front, dozens of ten foot sections were separated by curved walls, so that the huge lecture hall reminded Daniel of the interior of a seashell. Each bubble contained five or six girls, sitting on beanbags that were arranged in a semicircle so that they could face each other while still seeing the front of the room. Narrow staircases ran up the sides to reach each coven’s personal bubble. Looking around, Daniel tried to guess which one was his–he knew his covenmates’ names, but not their faces. “Daniel Aster,” a voice to his right said, and Daniel almost jumped–he hadn’t noticed Professor Blackburn. She stood off to the side like an assassin ready to pounce; her black robes and black hat helped her blend into the blackboard that dominated the wall behind her. He looked at her, trying to gauge if she was happy to see him. Surely she didn’t like him–the general vibe he’d gotten from faculty was vague disdain and outright hostility–but Blackburn’s expression seemed neutral and polite. “Hello, Professor,” Daniel said, testing the waters of diplomacy. “I’m looking forward to learning under you.” “A moment of your time,” she replied, cutting to the chase. “I know the comments some of my colleagues have made, but I want to be clear–once this conversation is over, I will expect you to behave just as any of my other students, and I will treat you no differently.” “Thanks,” Daniel said, hesitating for a moment. “I think.” “This means I expect you to perform as well as any other student,” Blackburn continued. “You call yourself a warlock, but I’m not teaching warlocks.” “Warlocks can be in covens,” Daniel pointed out. “Typically only Covens of Eight, but still–covens.” “That’s true.” Professor Blackburn’s eyes seemed to sparkle for a moment, flaring with amusement. “As the coven’s Focus, the fulcrum they pour their power into. A warlock leading a Coven of Eight can be a truly terrifying thing–one mage with that much power and the skill to use it is a rare thing. All the power of a coven, all the speed of an individual caster with scarcely seen mastery.” “So,” Daniel said. “There shouldn’t be a problem.” “Mmm. Daniel, don’t forget–there are five other witches in your coven, and you’ll be getting no special treatment,” Velma pointed out. “So?” Daniel asked. “So, why do you assume you’ll be chosen as your coven’s Focus?” Velma asked. “Or, I should say–a coven of six has no explicit Focus, so why do you assume you’ll be given such control?” Before the conversation could move further, a light french accent sounding off at waist level caught Daniel’s attention. “You’re Daniel, right? We’re in the same coven.” Daniel turned to look at the speaker–a girl with long, blonde hair sat in a subtly rune-marked wheelchair. He nodded. “I’m guessing you’re…I’m going to say Mathilde?” “That’s right,” she said. “How’d you know?” “Honestly, relying on stereotypes,” Daniel admitted. “You just sound like a Mathilde to me.” “Well, I guessed on generalities too,” she conceded, smirking up at him. “Not many boys in class,” Daniel agreed. Glancing off away from him, Mathilde’s cheeks turned slightly pink. “That…wasn’t the first thing I noticed. Your skirt isn’t hiding much from my vantage.” Daniel’s own face turned fully red, and he glanced between her and Blackburn. “Thanks for the talk, Professor–I promise I won’t be a problem.” “I expect as much,” she replied. “Go join your coven, class will be beginning in a moment.” Daniel almost asked, ‘Where are we seated,’ but Mathilde waved a hand forward. “We’re over here.” Her chair moved on its own, wheels spinning with neither manual effort or an electric motor. Daniel watched the chair move for a moment, curious. “Can I ask you something?” he asked, as the two of them moved across the front of the lecture hall, passing covens in their own little scooped-out bubbles. She looked at him with uncertainty, and maybe a touch of suspicion. “That depends on the ‘something’.” “How are you controlling the chair?” he asked. “I mean, it seems like psychic control, but even with constructs designed for the purpose, that’s…well, either you can control a construct without focusing on it, which is a wild level of precision, or you’ve got a trick I haven’t thought of.” Her suspicion faded, replaced with a confident smirk. “How do you know I’m not focusing hard on it?” “I mean…I guess I don’t, but it’d be pretty dumb on the part of the designers if it took your constant attention. At that point, you’d be better off with like…a remote control or a joystick or something.” Daniel shrugged. “So, I assumed there’s a trick I’m just not seeing to make it easier, since, well–it’s nice to be able to move and cast spells at the same time.” “I’m controlling it directly, and there’s no trick to make it easier,” Mathilde explained, but she quickly added, “Though it’s not as impressive as you might think. You know how it takes babies months to go from ‘Awkwardly standing’ to ‘Walking without thinking about it’? This isn’t much different. And besides, can you?” “Can I what?” Daniel frowned at her. “Cast spells and walk at the same time,” Mathilde asked. “I mean…I wasn’t here for testing, but I heard you…struggled, a bit.” Daniel blushed. “I can, just–never mind. Your control is impressive, is all I’m saying.” Together, they made it to the bubble at the far end, where three girls waited. Mathilde nodded with a smile at the nearest girl, rolling her chair between a couple of the available beanbags. She exchanged a couple more greetings with the other two, pleasant and familiar; They all knew each other, Daniel was the only stranger. So, taking off his pointy hat, he held it in front of himself for a moment and waved anxiously. “Hi. I’m Daniel.” The girls eyed him, and every one save for Mathilde wore an expression that was tempered with uncertainty. The first, whose smile said, ‘I’m trying to be polite’ while her eyes said, ‘What did we do to get stuck with him?’, introduced herself. “Soga Asami. I’m a Second year, same as Mathilde.” Asami wore her uniform skirt long, cut so that it was almost a mirror opposite of Daniel’s immodest miniskirt, with an earthy complexion and a faint Japanese accent. “They try to put a couple of us in every group, so there’s some more experienced women–eh, experienced witches, at any rate.” “Historically, ‘Women’ and ‘Witches’ would be synonyms,” another girl added. She had red hair that curled up around her neck in a very particular, just-so sort of way, and wore a sneer that looked just as carefully cultivated as the hair. “I’m just going on the record here, I did not come to the most prestigious Witches school in the world to get stuck with…y’know. You. If you shit yourself, I don’t care what Blackburn said about ‘working with each other’, you’re either going to leave or I’ll make you leave.” “That’s Hazel, she’s always like that, it’s not you,” the third girl added. The only one so far to actually get up and offer a handshake, she wore her hair long, nearly down to the small of her back. “I’m Radha, and–I mean, if you do need to go, I’d appreciate giving the rest of us some space.” Daniel started to respond, shaking her hand. “Thanks, but–like, I don’t actually need–” “Take your seats,” Blackburn called from the front of the room. “Things are about to begin.” Glancing around, Daniel asked, “Where’s… Cassandra, right? Our sixth?” Radha shrugged. “Late.” Daniel sat down on one of the two available beanbags, sinking slightly into it. He wanted the firm reassurance of a desk, but apparently this was how they did things–he’d have to put up with it for now. Turning his attention to their teacher, he waited. Walking to the center of the room, Velma Blackburn raised out both her hands in a dramatic flourish. “Magic–” “Sorry!” The voice cut in from across the classroom, and the entirety of the lecture hall turned to look at the last girl approaching–a couple books clutched to her chest and a piece of toast held in her mouth. She had dark skin and frizzy hair pulled into a pair of hastily-thrown-together messy buns. “Sorry!” she repeated, scrambling across the room and hopping into the last beanbag in Daniel’s coven, sliding over next to him. Loud enough that Blackburn could hear, she added, “I had to get some books for this, and then I missed breakfast, and–yeah. Um. Sorry.” Blackburn stared at her for a long moment. “Cassandra Clay,” she said. “Your tardiness is not our concern. Delaying class by explaining tardiness, however, is.” “Sorry,” Cassandra repeated, sinking into the bag a little deeper as though she might shrink from the professor’s gaze. “Now,” Blackburn repeated. “Magic…” She began a monologue about the importance of covens, the history of witchcraft, a whole spiel, but Daniel’s attention was focused on the latecomer. Leaning in, Cassandra whispered to Daniel, “I’m Cassie, I don’t think we’ve met.” “Daniel,” he replied. “Are you a second year?” She shook her head. “You?” “First, and I hope only,” he explained. “Shut up,” Hazel snapped. They shut up. “The construction of the coven is one as old as magic,” Blackburn was explaining, turning, moving her wand through the air and twirling a piece of chalk on the huge blackboard behind her. A tiny motion of her wand made the chalk fly, inscribing a perfect circle. “It takes fundamental concepts, sharing the power that we all depend on. These are the fundamental forms of magic–the Wheel, or the Circle, being the most basic. The symbol that contains power so that it can be shaped and released into the world.” Moving her hand again, she marked a five pointed star, the kind kids learned to draw by marking five lines without picking up their crayons–though hers was, again, smooth and perfect, each angle exact, with the points of the star touching the inside rim of the circle. “The pentagram,” Blackburn continued. “A channel, moving magic how you desire, and together these two form a pentacle–contained, controlled magic. Each point represents power–From the leftmost point, clockwise, Earth, Aether, and Aqueus, the physical elements, then the two legs, Spirit and Mind, for the mortal elements. But for all the power these carry, that alone is no coven, for that, you need a sixth.” Finally, drawing back in preparation, she waited, letting the anticipation build. Once certain her audience was rapt, she flicked the wand forward, and the chalk broke into five pieces, marking five lines from the perfect center of the chalkboard out to each point of the pentagram. “The Familiar.” Blackburn’s voice was quiet for a moment. “Some of you may shy away from this role, because the Familiar wields none of her own power, but without her, you cannot cast a single spell. The Familiar carries magic she cannot wield. She is the wellspring that your might is drawn from, she is the conduit that your thoughts are carried through, she is the vessel in which you must place your confidence, because in you she will demand utter trust, because in you she will rely on your skill, because while she’s acting as your Familiar she will not be able to cast a spell. Never forget the burden placed upon your Coven’s Familiar, and never take her for granted.” She let that hang for a moment–apparently, that was the end of her speech, too. “Your first lesson will be simple,” she explained. “You will each take turns acting as each point of your pentagram, and as your Familiar. Form a circle, orient yourselves, and open your minds to share your power. By the end of our lesson, I will expect each of you to have experienced every place in your coven, from the raging Aether to the helpless Familiar.” A moment of further silence passed, and she frowned as though surprised by their reactions. “Well?” Blackburn demanded. “What are you all waiting for? Begin.” ... And here we meet the coven - And, very much, *not* the 'study group'. Of all the changes from V1 of the story, this group got the most work, going from basically just an idea I had one day to the crux of the plot. I hope you like them ^^ If you want to support me, a comment is always awesome to get! You can also contribute a couple dollars to help keep the lights on over here, which is also awesome https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling
  12. Author Commentary: (Gonna try doing some author commentary/lite-blog posts like this! Let me know what you think and if you want to see more of these!) Sometimes a concept just comes together with just a little push, and this was one of those cases! Little Kokiri Girl reached out to me to talk about some commission ideas, and when she pitched me the idea of a classic noir mystery with an ABDL twist, I was on board. Youthlock as a concept is something she came up with, a world where some people stop aging and have to deal with a few additional ABDL-styled problems, like incontinence and needing a crib so they don't fall out of bed. I think it fits really well with these sorts of genre blending stories. I enjoy playing around with different elements in my fiction, and in this case, I got to mix in some really fun genre tropes and 30's slang and language, adapting them all to the youthlock twist. Once I had the general premise, ('A youthlocked hollywood star hires Nick for a case',) a lot of elements just fell into place - I knew immediately who I wanted to base the star on. I think everyone will probably guess who "Shelly Chapel" is an allusion to, even without all the historical parallels in her backstory. The real child star had a history of dealing with contract issues and underpayment from studios, which played nicely into the mystery angle of the story. Using that as inspiration gave me all sorts of ideas for a fictionalized backstory for Shelly which plays into the intrigue - some of which you'll have to wait and see in future chapters. On the other hand, I'm not sure if anyone will guess all the name references I buried into the studio and director - even if you figure out who I'm drawing a parallel to, guessing why I chose the substitute names is probably going to be tricky. Sometimes I write little in-jokes just for myself, and this is definitely one of those cases.) Really, writing AB/DL with Noir just ended up being a peanut butter & chocolate style marriage of ideas. Kokiri Girl had the idea for Nick to use candy cigarettes, which just perfectly blends the gritty noir with the juvenile elements, and I think the relationship between him and his assistant/nanny just kind of hit its stride right out of the gate. I'm really excited to continue this one, and I'm excited to see what y'all think, too. ^^ https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling
  13. Written for @cute little kokiri girl, using the Youthlock ideas and setting explained in this post! Our plan is to release about a chapter a month, so strap in! Chapter 1 I can tell a lot about a broad by what troubles she decides are worth my time to solve. To put it in terms any Joe could understand, my services don’t come cheap, and I’m not in the business of looking glamorous. Sometimes a dame will wander in telling me how her cat’s gone missing, and it’s not because she’s mistaken me for a newsie looking to make cash on the side, it’s because she’s got too much dough and not enough sense. On the other hand, if I have a dame come in telling me her husband’s gone missing, that tells me something else–if she were rich, she’d be hiring some glitzy gumshoe who’s got his name in the papers, assuming she didn’t just place a donation or two to get the coppers on the job. You don’t come to the only youthlocked detective in Los Angeles because you’re just stirring up trouble. And that’s me–Nick Juliet, Private Eye. Don’t let my looks fool you, I might need to sit on a phonebook to use my desk and I’ve still not finished potty training, but I’ve been old enough to drink since prohibition ended, and if you take me for a kid, I’ll take you for a ride. It was just about closing time when the latest doll waddled into my office, looking cute as a button. She had it all–golden hair that curled up like a coiled spring around her shoulders, eyes like blue puddles, wearing a little pink number with lace that just wouldn’t quit. She stood maybe three feet tall even in her patent leather heels, but even though I could hear her diaper crinkle as she crossed my office, I knew this wasn’t any little child who’d wandered in off the street. Youthlocks aren’t common, but we aren’t all that rare either. The lucky ones get all the way to nine or ten before they stop aging, when they’re tall enough to reach the middle shelves at the grocery store without jumping. At a glance, we look like kids, but you can tell us apart if you know what to look for. The diaper bulge is one thing; I can’t say why, but our potty training goes to squat when the youthlock sets in. There’s the walk, too. You spend thirty years practicing, you’ll have a swagger to your step that few tots will match. In this case, though, I didn’t need any of my observation skills, just a pair of eyes. This wasn’t just any dame who’d walked in off the street, it was Shelly Chapel. The Shelly Chapel, the starlet with more than thirty hit films to her name. “You must be Nick Juliet,” she said, stopping in front of my desk. She had to stand on tip-toe to see over it, giving me a view that only showed her precocious eyes and a stare that’d stolen the hearts of audiences across the world. “And you’re Shelly Chapel,” I replied, glancing past her. My secretary had stepped out. Hopping down off my desk chair, I walked around, pulling out the seat for her. Prepared for a Youthlock, I had a spare book I kept on the edge of my desk at all times, but sizing up the actress, I quickly realized I’d need more height than just one book offered. Stacking a couple newspapers beneath it, I offered her a hand, pretending that I couldn’t spot her diaper beneath her dress as she got onto the boosted-up seat. “I thought you’d be shorter,” she commented, looking down at me from her perch. I had a good six inches on her at least, the result of my youthlock setting in a couple years past hers. Walking back to my own seat, I clambered into my own chair, feeling the need for a pick-me-up. “How can I help you?” I asked, reaching into the pocket of my vest and producing a package of candy cigarettes. Extending one, I offered her first pick of the pack, but she shook her head. “They say you’re good at finding things,” Miss Chapel said, her golden hair flopping adorably over her shoulder as she tilted her head to eye me. It felt odd, seeing decades of suspicion in eyes that belonged to a preschooler’s face. “They say you’re discreet, too, but I don’t know much else about you.” Setting the candy stick between my lips, I sat back, letting the slight sugar rush give me the energy I needed. “Funny thing about keeping secrets,” I said as chalky sugar dissolved down my tongue. “If you never share them, nobody ever knows how good you are at keeping them.” “Well.” Shelly nodded thoughtfully at my comment. “Thanks to the paparazzi, my life’s an open book. I can’t take a nap without a camera finding its way between the crib bars. For once, I’d like to be ahead of the tabloids.” I nodded, taking the notepad from my desk. “Ahead of the tabloids on what?” “My manager, William Waters. He’s a chisel, and a bastard, and he’s trying to kill my career.” She sat back, eyeing me, as though waiting for me to call her crazy or question her story. I knew this part all too well. Dames who came in my door weren’t always looking for the truth, they just wanted to know that someone believed them. I’d learned a lesson or two from the girls on fourth street: So long as they paid, it never hurt me to play the pal. Nodding, I clicked my pen a couple times, jotting down names. “Give it to me,” I prompted. “From the beginning.” “You know who I am,” she began, stating it as an observation, not a question. I nodded anyway, and she continued, “I’ve been in the business for a long time–hell, I started playing six year olds when I was actually six. I’ve had the same manager for a decade and a half, and I’ve been at the same studio for the past eleven years. And let me tell you–I’m just about sick of it.” Her gaze drifted out the window looking wistful. I raised an eyebrow. “You’re done with acting?” “I’m done with Shelly Chapel,” she replied. “Little girl, sings and dances, cute as a button–it’s so goddamned sweet it makes me want to choke. I’ve been acting for my whole life, Mr. Juliet, but it seems like I’ve only ever been cast in one role.” Nodding, I chewed on my thoughts, and on the tip of the candy cigarette. “Alright. So what’s the problem?” “I’ve been auditioning for new roles,” Shelly explained, reaching down to dig into her purse. “And my manager–he’s worthless. He’s not able to do a damned thing for me. With my resume, I should be able to walk onto any set I please and get a part, but no, it’s like a kid wandered into a factory, they just want to coo over how cute I am and then usher me away. I was beginning to suspect something, and then this happened.” Producing a letter, she tossed it onto the desk. I leaned forward, unfolding the wrinkled paper and skimming the note. It was written in a tight cursive script, jotted down by someone with good penmanship. Phone call from Candor Taurus of Erikson Productions, asked to pass along: He’s confused why you didn’t accept the part, but they’ve decided to go with someone else. He asked why you never responded, after you were so enthusiastic at the audition, but he had to make another choice to get production moving and couldn’t wait any longer. I frowned. “Candor Taurus? The director of It Occurred One Evening?” Raising an eyebrow, I asked, “Why didn’t you respond?” “Because, I never got told I’d been accepted!” she snapped bitterly. “Calls don’t come for me directly, I’m too busy to answer the phone on set. Typically, William will accept them for me and let me know if anything’s important, but my manager claims he never got this one.” “Who wrote the note?” I asked, holding up the paper she’d given me. “One of the receptionists.” Shelly reached over, taking the message back. “If nobody’s around to take the call, they’ll pass along messages and have them delivered.” “Could several messages have been missed?” I asked. “A few phone calls in a row?” She shook her head, golden curls bouncing around her shoulders. “Impossible. If nobody picked up, his studio would call back. Someone got the message, and just didn’t pass it along to me.” “Or several messages, by the sounds of it,” I said, frowning as I thought it over. “So, you think your manager killed your chance at a new role? Why would he do that?” “You know what his job is?” Shelly asked. When I shook my head, she explained, “It’s to sit around and collect a paycheck while I do all the work. A manager’s supposed to find new jobs for me, but we’ve been working on the same lot for more than a decade. All he’s had to do was get a bonus whenever someone calls up asking for an endorsement or product sponsorship–if I start working for new companies, taking on serious work, he’ll actually have to get off his ass for once. Clearly, he’d rather keep the easy ride going.” “So fire him,” I suggested. “You’re the biggest youthlock name in town, I’m sure there’s managers out there who’d blow their wig to scoop you up.” “He’s got me in a bulletproof contract,” she glowered. “Locked me into it before I was old enough to know better: If I fire him without cause, there’s a do-not-compete saying I can’t bring on anyone else. I need proof he screwed me so I can take his ass to court and hire his replacement.” I nodded, mulling it over. Her story sounded plausible, but I didn’t just take every plausible case that wandered in off the street, no matter how cute she looked when she gave me a pleading look. “Miss Chapel,” I began. Her expression fell, then I saw the beginnings of an angry snarl. “You don’t believe me?” “I believe you,” I promised, quelling her anger, “But if you’re right, if your manager took the calls and then buried them, or he threw away notes from the telephone operators, that’s going to be almost impossible to prove. I’d need to get him to admit it, and it’s not often you’ll convince a man to incriminate himself. You’d be wasting your money if you hired me.” “But there’s a chance?” she asked, leaning forward. “Right?” “Not a good chance.” I shook my head, biting the end of the candy cigarette into pieces and chewing on it. “Even if he’s got loose lips, once a private eye shows up on set and starts asking questions, he’ll clam up like a wet diaper in winter.” She nodded, thoughtful. “I might be able to do something about that–I can get you onto set without it being too disruptive.” “I don’t want to take your money and leave you without answers.” I shook my head, leaning back in my chair. Persisting, she dug into her purse again. “I understand. Payment up front, then.” Taking out a stack of bills, she dropped it onto my desk, where the fresh green cash sat between us. I frowned. I had a hard time saying no to dames in desperate straits, but I had an even harder time saying no to cash up front. Leaning forward, I took the wad of bills, riffling through them like a deck of cards. “What’s your plan to get me on set?” I asked, nodding. “Call you an extra,” she explained. “We’re filming a scene at an orphanage in two days. Kid actors are cheap, but they’re hard to work with–Youthlocks are better if you can find ‘em willing to act.” Thinking on it, I pursed my lips. “I don’t care to have my picture taken.” “You’ll just be a kid in the room,” she promised. “Please, Mister Juliet. There’s nobody else I can trust with this.” I considered a little longer, but my heart was already made up long before I nodded my head. “I’ll take the job,” I said. “Call my secretary, Miss Brown, tomorrow, get her the details for when the filming starts.” Smiling, she pushed to her feet, falling down to the floor. I could only see her eyes over the edge of my desk, but I saw relief in them. “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me yet,” I replied, staying in my seat. “I still don’t think I’ll be able to get much out of him.” She waddled out of my office, skirt flouncing as she reached up to turn the handle on my frosted glass door. I mulled things over while she left, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. A film set–a whole studio full of people who lied for a living, and a case that it’d be impossible to prove before any judge. (Why do I even take these jobs?) I thought to myself, sitting back and putting my feet up on the desk. There was something foul in the air about this whole situation, but I couldn’t place my finger on what. As I pondered, my door swung open a second time, but now it was a familiar face who walked in, carrying a paper sack. Margaret Brown, the best damned secretary on the west coast. She was just a little younger than me, but stood a solid two feet taller, actually looking like a woman in her mid twenties. “You’ll never guess who I walked by on the street!” She exclaimed, excitement shining on her face as she set down the sack. “You’d be surprised,” I replied coolly, hopping off my office chair and walking over to her. “Go on,” she prompted, removing a package of diapers from the bag. “Guess.” “Shelly Chapel?” I suggested, eyeing the package. “No, it was–” she began, before pausing to look down at me. She sniffed, disappointed. “How’d you know?” “Because, we’ve got our next job,” I replied, reading the label. “‘Coddles’?” “It’s the new disposable diaper brand,” she explained smoothly, before guiding the conversation back on track. “We’re working for the Shelly Chapel?” “The one and only.” I frowned. “I don’t see what’s so bad about terry cloth and plastic–old fashioned diapers have never done me wrong in the past.” “You’re not the one who has to do your laundry,” she replied haughtily. “And, on that subject, I smell a soldier who needs a change–let’s get you freshened up, boss.” I rolled my eyes but took her hand, waddling behind her to the bathroom where she hefted me onto our changing table. Smiling as she undid my diaper, Margaret asked, “So, what did the little starlet want?” Crossing my arms and wrinkling my nose, I stared at the ceiling. I could have changed myself, but Margeret was faster and did a better job, so I took the opportunity to get her help whenever I could. “She wants to be taken seriously.” “Oh?” Margaret inquired, mostly making the sound as a prompt for me to keep going while she wiped my thighs clean. “Bottoms up.” Pushing to raise my hips off the table, I let her pull my diaper away and wipe to get everything else clean. “She says someone’s sabotaging her career, trying to keep her out of serious film.” Margeret nodded, dusting me down with fresh baby powder, filling the room with an overbearing cloud of perfumed talcum. “And do you think she’s right?” “I don’t know.” I pondered it quietly for a little while as Margeret folded up my new diaper, taping it down. I still didn’t see the issue with good, old-fashioned cloth diapers, but the sticky tapes did seem to be easier to apply. “I don’t trust her.” “Really?” Margaret seemed genuinely surprised as she sat me upright and moved to wash her hands. “Shelly Chapel? That girl seems like she’s a saint in her films.” “That’s the thing about actresses,” I replied. “She’s made a career out of trying to be someone she’s not–so, call me skeptical, but I’m not taking a bite ‘til I know that the sweet isn't just there to cover up something sour.” ... Support for this fiction is provided by readers like you! https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling
  14. Technically speaking, the data I posted counted all platforms, not just public platforms, so you are baaarely in the 6+ category. If you're looking for other places to post to that you aren't already using: Furaffinity is accepting of human stories I've heard Pixiv can be good for fiction, I just started recently and haven't seen many results yet but I'll stick it out for a while longer Tumblr is good for shorter stories and OK for mid-to-long stories (And I'm always keeping my eye out for new platforms) As for the exclusive content thing, I find that it doesn't necessarily increase subscriber count, but it can increase the price of subscription - By having a cheaper tier for just early access and a more expensive tier for those who want all access. The downside seems to be that you have less content to post publicly, reducing posts-per-month and the number of total subscribers. I'm going to toy around with how I do things, I've been doing exclusive-plus-early-access for years on the assumption that it increased income, but if it doesn't, I might need to reconfigure things. I might adopt something like the Cushypen model where 'Exclusive' content stays that way for a year or two then gets released publicly waaaaay after it's written.
  15. Chapter 9 After the acute humiliation of his first few hours at the school had faded, Daniel expected that the rest of his day would pass by with reasonable ease, and a minimum of giggles at his expense. Only one thing stood out, and that was a humiliation of a more private sort–changing his own diaper. That, at least, he could do in the privacy of his own room, but privacy didn’t totally bury the shame. Even alone, he still had two eyes judging him the whole time–his own. The whole thing just proved to be profoundly, acutely awkward. He didn’t know if there was a shower he could use, but even if there was, he didn’t know if it’d be private, or what access would be like. For the moment, he had to deal with this on his own with the supplies provided. Baby wipes and a pail did not feel up to the task, not after how thoroughly Rachel had forced him to fill his diaper, and certainly not after he’d been sitting in it for a couple hours. Even then, working through the awkward, slow process of wiping himself clean was not what hit Daniel the hardest. Going through dozens of wipes, trying to clean away muck that seemed to perpetually return, working at an angle that made it difficult to see? That was frustrating and humiliating, but the worst part was the implication. If he’d been half the mage Rachel was, he could do this with magic. If he’d been a warlock, he could have done this with magic. But, because he was no warlock, he had to spend twenty minutes cleaning up his poopy diaper. At least he didn’t have any other classes for the day–it was expected that they’d use this first day to get familiar with the campus, make friends, unpack, and generally get settled. He could have sought out his new coven members, tried to socialize, but Daniel had other goals. He wanted to figure out what he’d overheard. Plot, ploy, or whatever the hell–someone in the school wanted to accomplish some nefarious, secret end. Daniel’s first impulse was to pass the buck, but he’d long since come up with reasons not to. Reason the First: He didn’t know who was involved. He’d heard two voices, so even if his hunch about the Voxavin coach participating was correct, there was no certainty about who the other might be. If Penelope Madrigal was involved, and he went to her and explained everything he knew, she’d be perfectly situated to retaliate and stop him from sharing what he’d found out. Reason the Second: He lacked proof of any kind, and Madrigal hated him. She’d all but told the student body to bully Daniel, after all. His story would probably just sound like a weak excuse for being out of bounds, and lead to further reprisal, humiliation, and punishment. Reason the Third: If Daniel solved everything on his own, discovered the culprit, and unveiled the conspiracy all in one fell swoop, it’d look great on an application. He told himself that the first two reasons were the important motivators, and would never admit the third motive to anyone else, but he couldn’t deny it held a bit of allure. ‘I’m the warlock who saved Alphabeta’ would, in truth, be the best possible legacy of his time here. He wouldn’t just get an education, he’d get a positive reputation, saving the school that actively wanted him to fail. So, rather than seeking out the dean, or even Jen, he instead traced his steps right back to where it’d all started. He wasn’t stupid about it. He checked around corners and generally obeyed all the rules of stealth he’d learned from movies, spreading out his arms, crouching low, moving silently and listening for anyone who might be around. The prefects’ dormitories were only sparsely populated, and just like last time, the hallway itself was unlit and abandoned, barely remarkable except as an ill-used wing of the campus. Daniel had no issue slipping down it, and this time he made sure to check for closets and hiding spaces as he went, in case he encountered any other teachers or staff and had to evade future punishments. Daniel had to resist the temptation to hum the Mission Impossible theme as he went, though it ultimately didn’t matter. On his way to the room where he’d overheard the sinister conversation, he encountered not a single soul. Or…well, that wasn’t exactly true. He located the same room, identifying it by the faded numbers on the door. When he reached for the handle, though, he felt a slight chill and pulled his hand back. (Is this stupid? What if it’s warded, or trapped? I don’t know who I’m dealing with.) Even if his control was weak, he was a sort-of warlock, he had magic at his disposal. Precision might be beyond him, but he could identify magical power if he tried. Crouched in the hall, Daniel closed his eyes, extending his senses. Nothing stuck out to him right away. No big, obvious screw-you spells were woven into the door to blow up anyone who tried to open it, not even the sensation of magical static. The people behind the door had mentioned the hall being a dead zone, and what he could feel lined up with that. Still, that didn’t rule out subtler traps or wards. Tightening his face, Daniel searched a little harder. He could feel something. A whisper of power, something in motion, something he couldn’t identify. Maybe a spell, maybe the lingering results of an enchantment, maybe a mistake. Focusing a little harder, Daniel concentrated his senses, trying to follow every spark of magic, grunting slightly– “Are you pooping yourself?” The voice came from nowhere, and Daniel’s eyes shot open in alarm, stumbling back. He looked around, but nobody had snuck up on him–nobody he could see, anyways. “Who’s there?” he yelped. “Don’t let me interrupt you, sunshine.” The voice tittered. It was feminine–not a surprise–but the voice didn’t seem to come from anywhere. “If you gotta go, you gotta go.” “I–” Daniel started. “I wasn’t pooping myself, I was just crouching down.” “Really? Crouched down, face all screwed up, and let’s not even start on these.” With the last word, a puff of wind seemed to come from nowhere, flapping Daniel’s skirt up so that his diaper was flashed to the empty hall. Daniel felt an intense chill around the seat of his diaper, and hastily pushed the skirt down. “I don’t need these!” he snapped, spinning in the hall. “And–stop that! Where are you?” “You’re wearing diapers for fun? Are you just some kind of dork, or has fashion taken a really weird turn lately?” the voice asked. Daniel felt the coldness move between his legs around to the front. He crossed his hands over his crotch self consciously just as the voice said, “When did they start letting weird diaper dork boys into the school?” “Shut–hey!” Daniel shot again, stepping back. “Are you invisible? Where are you?” “I’m over here,” she replied. Daniel blinked, and she added, “No, a little to the left–a little more–there.” Daniel was staring at a bit of wall in a blank hallway. There definitely wasn’t anything to see, and reaching out, all he felt was a slight chill. “Yup, found me,” the voice said. “Though–move your hand, casanova, or we’re going to have a conversation about hypocrisy here in a second. “I don’t get it,” Daniel said, stepping back. “Can you just tell me what’s going on? Who are you?” He felt a chill breeze pass over him again, like someone’d just walked over his grave, and the voice whispered right in his ear. “I’ll give you a hint: Boo!” His eyes widened. “You’re–” “An incorporeal, post-life entity,” the voice said, her intonation slipping into a teacherly affectation. “Left behind as the result of a traumatic death surrounded by extreme magical energies. Also known, in some circles, as a ghost.” “Oh, uh…” he swallowed, uncertain how to handle that revelation. “I see.” “No you don’t, dummy.” Daniel frowned. “I beg your pardon?” “I said ‘incorporeal’. No body means nothing to refract light,” she explained. “So you couldn’t ‘see’ that I’m a ghost.” “Okay, well… I’m sorry to hear that,” Daniel said, quickly adding, “And I can hear that.” She giggled. “It’s okay, I don’t remember dying. My mom always said I’d sleep through my own funeral–and she was pretty darn close, I slept through my death!” Daniel hesitated. “So when I feel a chill, was that me touching you?” “Closest thing to it–I can’t really touch stuff, but I can kind of…move energy around, just a little. It’s like if touching was homeopathic.” Daniel frowned. “So when I felt cold between my legs a moment ago…” “You’re just dodging explaining why you’re wearing a diaper,” the voice continued. “It’s this stupid thing with my prefect,” Daniel explained, rolling his eyes. “I managed to get into this school by working around the rules, so she’s getting back at me by making me wear diapers. And before you ask, yes, I’m ‘potty trained’ or whatever, I don’t actually need them.” “I wasn’t going to ask if you needed them,” she replied. Daniel frowned a little, surprised at her lack of curiosity. “Oh, well–I don’t.” With a coy giggle, the voice asked, “I was going to ask if you used them.” Turning pink, Daniel said, “Look–this doesn’t matter. I’m here because I overheard a weird conversation earlier and I wanted to try and figure out what happened.” Finally opening the door, he walked into the room where he’d overheard it all a few hours prior. “Were you here?” “Well, yes, I was definitely here,” the ghost said. “It’s not like I have anywhere to go. Do you know the first thing about ghosts?” “...not really,” Daniel admitted, giving the room a once over. It was mostly barren–a desk was pushed up against one wall, but the rest was given over to storage, dusty cardboard boxes stacked against each other. “Like, I’ve heard of ghosts, but…okay, to be honest, most ghosts I’ve read about were the ‘Late night TV Movie’ kind, not the real ones.” “Well, we can’t leave our haunts,” the ghost explained. “Some of us stick with our bodies, but I didn’t really get that option, so I’m stuck here, where I died. And, uh, you may have noticed it’s a featureless, boring storage area.” “So you’re stuck here, and the only company you get is when the janitor comes through,” Daniel surmised. “That’s got to be lonely.” “Oh, no, I’ve got a friend. Do you know Jordan?” She asked. “I’m new here, it’s literally my first day,” Daniel said. “I don’t know her.” “She comes around to spend time with me,” She explained. “Sometimes I’ll help her study, or we’ll just play games, or talk. She’s sweet. What were you asking about, though?” “Oh, well, this should be easy. Can you tell me what happened here a few hours ago?” Turning to face where he thought she was, Daniel asked, “There would have been two people talking–one of them was a middle aged woman, not a teacher though. “Eh…” Pausing, she admitted, “I have no idea who you’re talking about.” Daniel frowned. “If you were here–” “I don’t remember,” the girl said. “I’m a ghost. Time doesn’t pass for me like it does for normal folks.” “You don’t remember things?” he asked. “I don’t remember when things happened. Once you walk out of here, I won’t know if this conversation happened yesterday or a year ago–though the boy in a diaper will probably be memorable enough to stick. There’s a reason we ghosts tend to live in the past–I remember stuff from my life the normal way, everything after that’s a jumble.” Daniel thought about that. “If I describe the situation, could you tell me if you’ve seen something like it before?” “I guess that’d work.” She sighed. “Sure, it’ll kill some time I guess.” Pausing, Daniel asked, “Wait, you mentioned your friend Jordan. How do you know if she still even goes here?” The girl didn’t respond for a long moment. “I…I don’t, admittedly, but I think she still does. She said she’d let me know when she graduated, and she’d still come back to visit when she could.” “When’s the last time–” Daniel started, before realizing the issue with his question. “You can’t remember the last time she visited, right.” “Not really,” the ghost confirmed. “But I can piece together the order, sort of, like–I know she broke up with her girlfriend at some point, so any time she comes here with Penny it has to be before that happened–and she started wearing her team scarf after she got into the Mothwicks, so those memories happened later, but…” Daniel heard a sniffle. He rubbed at the back of his neck uncomfortably. For all he knew, Jordan hadn’t been around here in years. “When did you die?” “It would have been…I don’t know how long,” She said. “But I was twenty two, the year was nineteen seventy one.” (It’s been almost thirty years,) Daniel thought. (Jeez. That has to be lonely.) “So…” “I know, this is boring to you,” she said. “Go ahead, tell me about the thing.” “So there were two people, I think one of them might have been a coach named Catherine Glinse, but I didn’t get a look at her,” Daniel explained. “The other one didn’t have a teacher’s uniform on, just plain professional clothes. She’s faculty or something, but I don’t know what she does, though she did have blond hair. They were arguing, and one of them had a voice that sounded all warbly and demonic.” “I don’t…I’m not sure. That’s not ringing any bells, but teachers are in and out here a lot. Like, a lot a lot. The warbly demon voice should stand out, but, well, I’ve got a lot of memories.” Daniel rubbed at his chin, trying to think. “The one who was maybe a teacher was yelling about explanations. Does that help?” “Not really…sorry. Let me think about it some, though, it might come to me,” she offered. Nodding, Daniel looked around and said, “That’s fine. Will you be able to remember it when it does come to you?” “Yeah, it’s kind of a repetition thing. Like, you’ve got old memories that are still pretty clear, because you think about them a lot, right? It’s like that. I can sort of…just keep it in mind, if that makes sense.” “Thanks,” Daniel said, walking back towards the door. “I shouldn’t stick around too much longer, I’m not supposed to even be in this hallway and if someone catches me, I’ll be in real trouble.” “Oh.” The ghost fell quiet for a moment, disappointment more clear from the silence than it would’ve been with words. Quickly, Daniel promised, “I do, but I’ll be back, as soon as I can. Also…here, let’s see if this helps.” Clearing his throat, he spoke loudly and clearly. “This is my first time ever visiting you.” “I know,” the ghost said. “I’d remember the diaper boy, I don’t forget that stuff happened, I just forget when.” “Yeah, sure,” Daniel confirmed, trying to clarify what he meant. “But you’re going to see me more than once. So let me clarify, and it’ll help you remember the order.” “Oh–oh! That’s… really thoughtful,” she said, hesitating for a moment as another thought struck her. “What’s your name, diaper boy?” “Daniel,” he said. “Daniel Aster.” “Nice to meet you, Danny,” the girl replied. “I’m Ismella.” ... Ugh, I love Ismella, and also hate that I wrote her into a corner - literally - where she can't move in and out of places, making it super hard to use her in any group scenes. At least, I used to hate that, in the previous version. Now I've got plans to fix that. Financial support is always appreciated to help keep me fed and diapered while I write, but if you can't do that for whatever reason (no judgement!), a comment is also lovely to receive! -Penn https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling
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