2011

It will continue, I have an idea of where I want things to go. I just need to write ot all down. 

Well, this is late (and I know I should be posting it on Saturday, but my computer charger broke, and I want to get something out), but here's the next chapter of PMC! (Content warnings for scenes of torture and violence and PTSD. Viewer discretion is advised):   -   Chapter Five: Non-stop Chatter   -   I was about ready to have a panic attack. Even with Bunny swearing in a humorous way at the traffic, I was ready to freak out, because apparently, I had gone insane and was thinking that a stuffed animal was talking to me.   “You’re not crazy, Breezee,” the squeaky voice said in a tone that was obviously trying to reassure me. Not that I wanted or needed to be reassured. “You’re just as sane as your mother was, as Beryl is.”   I didn’t reply. Instead, I opened the window and threw the thing out, watching to make sure that it had disappeared underneath the tires of the vehicles, until it was out of sight. I didn’t give a shit about my mother wanting me to have it; I wanted it gone. I didn’t even care how this must’ve looked to Bunny, Bunny, who was staring at me with shock at my action…before her face looked back at the road and continued her light-hearted swearing at the drivers, as if nothing had ever happened, which confused the hell out of me.   I looked down…seeing the fucking bat stuffed animal back in my arms.   “WHAT THE FUCK?!” I screamed, no longer caring if I sounded insane or not. “I THREW YOU OUT THE WINDOW!”   “Huh?” Bunny sounded confused, stopping her swearing at the traffic to look at me. “Miri, are you all right?”   “Um…you can’t…really throw me out of the window,” the squeaky voice of Blizzard said timidly. “If I’m in your possession and get lost or thrown out, I automatically return to you, no matter the place. If you or someone else throws me out or attempts to destroy me, reality bends, and I end up with you again, whole and happy. It’s been like that with your entire family, ever since I was created.”   I looked at the plush bat in rage. This thing was going to go straight in the trash, and it was going to stay there. Magic?! Bullshit to that!   “But it is magic,” the plush bat piped up. I was hating that squeaky voice already, hating that what could’ve been somewhat, no, maybe - if that - therapeutic but had turned into a fucking nightmare. “That’s how I can converse with you with just your thoughts, can never get destroyed, lost, or thrown away. Could it be anything other than magic?”   Yeah, me being fucking crazy, I thought. I’m throwing you in the trash, or, failing that, the fucking fireplace!   “But that won’t hurt me, and I’ll just come back as I was before. Please let me explain, Breezee: I can’t be hurt, aside from you being hurt; that causes me physical pain, and I feel so much inner pain of yours…I just don’t want you to hurt again…”   Magic doesn’t exist, I thought to Blizzard. I guess I really was crazy, speaking to a fucking stuffed animal in my head. If magic existed - which it doesn’t - why didn’t it help me earlier?! It would’ve fucking helped me when I was…when I was…   I was hyperventilating, seeing myself in the Belarusian prison again, the brand on my back reading “WHORE”, feeling every beating given by the guards, bruises and blood everywhere, the snapping of my left tibia as I screamed-   “Ow, ow, owww…”   The plush bat sounded like it was sobbing with pain, and I suddenly felt something I never expected to feel towards that thing: sadness. No, not just sadness: it was pure sorrow that I had caused it to feel pain of any kind. Maybe it was a child’s sorrow at seeing her favorite toy ripped, torn, or destroyed, maybe, but absolutely crushing sorrow, nonetheless.   “I’m sorry, Blizzard,” I said as my breath hitched (but not crying; I swore I’d never cry again), using the bat’s name for the first time.   Bunny wrapped a steady, yet gentle arm across my shoulder as the highway cleared and she got to an exit. “Miri, I’m here. I’m not leaving you,” she said, her voice still gentle and almost…nurturing? “I’ll never leave you.”   I almost leaned into her, felt the endorphins racing through my mind at her touch, along with thoughts of anger at how my body and mind were betraying me. Why the fuck was I thinking like that? I fucking HATED her! Why was her touch bringing these giddy feelings to the forefront? Why was her voice a calming presence to my mind? Why did her caring make me feel happy? Why, why, WHY?!   “Well, I’d like to be left alone,” I said, biting my lip. “At least…just…don’t talk to me right now.”   “Understood, Miri,” Bunny said, her voice still kind, as she focused on driving to the therapist’s office.   “You like the name ‘Miri’ more than ‘Breezee’?” Blizzard’s voice asked. “If you wish, I can gladly call you ‘Miri’.”   I sighed at the bat joining in the conversation when I wanted to be left well enough alone before thinking, It’s the name I prefer, at least, the callsign my squad, no…ex-squad gave me. Miri stands for “Al-Miraj”. You know, for the horned rabbit creature. Cute, yet vicious and psycho; that was me.   “You are very cute and adorable! What should I use? Adoracute? Cutorable? Cutadorbsable?”   Just…stop. Can I just get a moment of silence from you, PLEASE?   “Okay, I mean, if you really want me to be quiet, and not annoy you or hurt your feelings, or-”   The fucking stuffed bat did not, in fact, give me a moment of silence. In fact, it continued talking until Bunny parked the car at the therapist’s office, for thirty more minutes, and I was about ready to hurl it out of the car - again, this time, hopefully, for good - halfway through its random chatty spiel, make-believe magic be damned.   But something stopped me. I didn’t know what the hell stopped me, but something did. Maybe it was magic of some kind? No, it wasn’t, couldn’t be! Magic didn’t fucking exist except in the imagination of children, and despite what the stupid age-regression therapy probably wanted, I wasn’t a fucking child anymore.   “We’re here, Miri…and I think you need to be changed,” Bunny said, her voice gentle.   “I don-” I caught a whiff of my new accident, all over the car. “Fuck, I’m sorry…”   “No need to be sorry, Miri, it’s only a car. Do you need me to help again?”   “Sure, whatever,” I grumbled, allowing her to quickly and discreetly change my diaper in the backseat before we entered the twenty-story building.   Neither of us knew the office or floor, but I knew the doctor’s name from Beryl’s text: Dr. Dahlia Slocum. Bunny snorted a bit at the last name, and I was tempted to laugh as well; it was only my refusal to show my emotions to Bunny that prevented me from laughing. We looked up the floor and office.   “Fifth floor, office 501,” I said bluntly. “Well, let’s go there, see what the fuck the shrink wants. We’ll take the stairs. Could use the exercise.”   “Of course, Miri,” my ex-squadmate said kindly.   The stairs weren’t a problem for me; I was very much physically fit, even though I was incontinent.   That might change, I thought in despair. I’ll probably be reduced to a little baby by that fucking shrink…   “Well, I hope that it isn’t the case,” Blizzard said in its squeaky tone. “It’s not what you want, and I want to see you happy and whole.”   Yeah, happy and whole. Haven’t been happy or whole since before I went to that fucking country!   I saw the door for the fifth floor and opened it for Bunny and myself to go through. My thoughts were caustic and enraged, but I didn’t care. I didn’t ask for any of this shit!   Blizzard continued talking like the chatterbox it was, annoying the absolute fuck out of me. For the millionth time, it seemed, I was tempted to throw it away, maybe even into a woodchipper. Or I was delusional and just thinking that a stuffed animal was talking to me in my padded cell. Nothing would’ve surprised me at this point.   The door to 501 came into view, and I opened it, as I walked in along with Bunny. The waiting room was normal, just a few chairs and such. Nobody was in there, except for the two of us. There was a secretary in a window whom we talked to, confirming my name and the appointment. I quickly signed the electronic signature, did the stupid medical survey as quickly as I could, and gave the clipboard back to the secretary.   I leaned back in the uncomfortable chair for a bit, until the doctor opened the door.   Dr. Dahlia Slocum was a tall heavyset Caucasian woman (if I had to hazard a guess, 6’1”, 220 lbs.) with long brown hair tucked in a professional ponytail. Her breasts were absolutely enormous, probably EE-cup, and I felt a twinge of jealousy and wished mine were even a little bit bigger. She wore a white lab coat covering a white blouse, with wide-leg khakis and white pumps to make her three inches taller than her normal height.   It was her eyes that got me, though. Hazel, beautiful, flashing between gold and green as well as the light brown…but they were cold, calculating, and gave me bad vibes.   “Hello,” she said, her tone honeyed and warm. “May I ask who you two are?”   “Breezee Bjornsen,” I said. “This is my friend, um…?”   “Berenice Smith,” my ex-squadmate lied.   I wasn’t surprised at the false name she gave. I didn’t know her true name or surname; I didn’t know the true names or surnames of any of my ex-squadmates: just their callsigns. Easier to be detached when it came to caring about them, easier to move on if they died in combat. Except…I wasn’t detached, and I hadn’t moved on. I remembered some of the others aside from Bunny, but I reminded myself that none of them were here. They probably moved on with their lives…or they were dead.   Unlike me.   I wished I could be either one of them.   “Well, I do have an appointment for Breezee; we get few clients nowadays,” Dr. Slocum said, her voice warm, her eyes still cold as ice. “Say…an hour and a half? Just to get to know her well.”   Bunny was obviously hesitant, but I made the decision. “Sure, let’s just get it over with,” I muttered.   “Wonderful!” the doctor exclaimed, as if I was a child who had done something well. “Ms. Smith, if I could have you wait in the room?”   “Sure,” Bunny said, obviously mistrustful…but not to the point where it was a giant red flag.   At this point? I didn’t care. Life was already shit. What was the worst that could happen here?   I walked into the doctor’s room, noting that there was a small hallway to a closed door, as Dr. Slocum closed the waiting room door behind her.   “Breezee, I hope to get to know you well,” the doctor said warmly. “Now, feel free to step into the room, if you would?”   I sighed and opened the door…and my eyes went wide with shock, barely hearing the doctor close and lock the door behind us.   This wasn’t a typical doctor’s room.   This was a fucking infantile play area. It even had nursery rhymes echoing from somewhere. I realized that my day had just gotten worse.   What the fuck did I get myself into?   -   Hope y'all enjoyed~

A Letter From A Friend (Note: I did not write this letter, it was sent to me by a writer named Joe) Dear Alec, Although my wife has her Masters degree in electrical engineering the recent slowdown in the job market has made it difficult for her to find work.  Since I was going to be stationed overseas for the next few months we decided that my wife should save money by getting rid of our apartment and living with my mother. My wife wasn't too keen on the idea since she has never gotten along well with my mother.  But when my wealthy mother sweetened the pot by offering to help us out with the down payment on the house we've been saving for, the offer was too good to refuse. I should take a moment to explain that my wife is a very pretty blonde who stands a petite 4 foot 11, while my mother stands nearly six foot and is stoutly build.  My wife has always found my mother overbearing and bossy, but since my wealthy mother is an expert money manager my wife reluctantly agreed that my paychecks should be sent directly to my mother to help us save for the house. The friction started almost immediately.  My mother declared that my wife's stylish and fashionable clothes were way too dressy for my wife's "summer vacation" in her rural neighborhood.  She immediately had all of my wife's clothing and jewelry put into storage and marched my wife to the local Wall Mart for more "appropriate" clothing.  My petite wife was horrified when my mother marched her past the adult clothes and into the "Junior Miss" section of the store. My wife hated the cheap midriff baring T-shirts and "day of the week" underpants my mother bought her, but my mother insisted that the clothes were a bargain and buying more expensive clothes for my "an unemployed underachiever" like my wife was simply wasteful. My mother insisted my wife model each and every purchase for her, and soon my mother began "saving time" by leaving the dressing room curtain open and even pulling my wife's clothing off in the public store areas.  The chirpy 18-year-old store clerk who was helping them offered no assistance and was clearly amused by wife's transformation from well-dressed executive to tarty teen! My mother rolled over my wife's objections.  "I'm paying the bills and I'll make the decisions!" my mother said as she handed my blushing wife a pair of cotton underpants emblazoned with colorful balloons and clowns, propelling her into the changing booth with a sharp slap across her posterior.  My wife's face turned crimson as she scurried into the dressing room while the bratty sales clerk tittered in amusement. My wife's wonder bras were seized that day, and now she is forced to wear undershirts that totally flattened out her tiny chest.  When my wife complained my mother's response was devastatingly brutal.  "You simply don't have the figure for a bra, dear" she patronized.  "Maybe we'll get you a training bra in a few years!" My mother forced my educated and highly intelligent wife into a job as a burger flipper at the mall.  Since my wife works double shifts she has no free time to look for another job.  My mother has also cancelled my wife's Internet access and she is not allowed to use the telephone without permission.  All of my wife's technical and business journals have been cancelled, and out of sheer intellectual desperation she now finds herself reading "Seventeen" and the other teenybopper magazines my mother purchases for her. My wife finds her burger-flipping job humiliating and demeaning, and she detests her boss, a pimply faced 19-year-old geek who calls her "shortcakes".  Her boss blames her whenever anything goes wrong, and takes malicious delight in belittling her intellectual abilities and mocking her "airhead blondeness" in front of the smirking customers. My mother has arranged for my wife to take a class in shorthand at a private school that is run by a friend of my mothers.  Unfortunately for my wife the school is a reformatory with a rather strict dress code, which means that my wife is forced to cycle across town every day in a short plaid skirt, blue blazer, white blouse, white knee high socks, and tie. When I saw the picture my mother sent me of my wife in her new uniform I understood why my wife hated it.  My wife looks like a teenager again, especially since school regulations require her to keep her hair in pigtails. To make matters worse, the school practices corporal punishment, and my wife has received several bare bottom paddling from her lecherous shorthand teacher.   When my wife complained my mother told her that she needed "consistent discipline, both at home and school".  The next day my mother purchased a large razor strap engraved with my wife's name and the words, "For her BARE fanny". My mother straps my wife's bare backside for the tiniest infraction, and she has hung the strap in the entrance hallway of the house.  My mother discusses my wife's shameful bare bottom discipline with everyone who visits the house, much to my wife's chagrin.  Every time the milkman sees her, he rubs his bottom and winces before giving her knowing smile and a wink. No one finds her situation unusual.  Since my wife is always dressed in either her school uniform, her burger flipping uniform, or the teasing tarty clothes my mother picked out for her, no one suspects that she isn't a teenager. My wife's pimply boss realizes how old she is, since my mother showed him my wife's social security card when she got the job.  He has taken advantage of my wife's predicament by demanding sexual favors, and my wife is fondled when cornered. When my wife complained to my mother she was strapped her for "making up childish stories" and "being disrespectful to her boss"! My mother now discusses my wife's "behavior problems" with her boss on a weekly basis.  Since an unsatisfactory progress report means a spanking, my wife has been forced to submit to the lustful teenager's demands. My beautiful 28-year-old wife had tears in her eyes the first time she was forced to drop to her knees and service the leering 19-year-old High School drop out.  The manager openly taunts her about her "overtime" in front of the other employees, and now everyone at the burger stand calls her "BJ". My wife finds her reduction in status and the loss in her adulthood deeply humiliating.  She recently was tossed out of a 7-11 because "there were too many kids in the store", and one night the police even picked her up for violating curfew!  Since my mother seized her purse shortly after her arrival, my wife had no way of proving that she was an adult.  My mother decided to teach my wife a lesson by forcing her to spend the night in Juvenile Hall, and has even threatened to send her back to Juvenile Hall or to enroll her in the reformatory full time if she continues to question my mother's authority. I keep telling my wife that we've already saved enough for the house and I'll be home soon to rescue her.  But I recently found out that I am going to be stationed overseas for another year. What should I tell my wife to do?                                                                                                                                   The End

Videl flew deeper into the facility and then landed in front of this invention and basically let the baby rocker have it's way with her?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO    Peter emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later with the pack of wipes and the wet pull up in hand. He tossed the wet pull up under his bed with the other pull up and threw the pack of wipes in his closet. He felt a huge weight lifted off his shoulders now that Alex knew about the pull ups. It was nice that Alex was supportive about the pull ups too, most younger brothers wouldn’t be. “Why did you throw that pull up under your bed?” Alex asked as Peter sat back down on the beanbag chair. Peter shrugged. “I don’t know. I need a place to put the wet pull ups and I can’t put too many in my trashcans or mom and dad would notice.” “Ah, yeah. That makes sense.” “I need to get rid of them later.” Alex nodded. “Right.” “Yep.” “What do the pull ups like look?” “They’re blue with Mickey Mouse designs on them. The girls ones are kinda purple with Minnie Mouse designs on them.” “Can I see one?” “Sure.” Peter got up and walked back to his closet again. He came back a minute later with a pull up and handed it to Alex so looked it over. “Mickey Mouse?” Alex said. “Yep.” Peter replied as he sat down. “Why Mickey Mouse?” Peter shrugged. “I don’t know.” “And the girls pull ups have Minnie Mouse designs on them?” “Yep.” “Do you have girls pull ups?” “Nope.” Alex nodded and looked over the pull up again. “They seem stretchy.” “They are. This size is really big.” “This size?” “Yeah pull ups come in sizes 2t-3t, 3t-4t, 4t-5t, 5t-6t and I heard size 6t-7t is coming soon.” “Ah and Mickey Mouse in the same design on all the sizes?” “Yep.” “Why?” “I don’t know.” “And all the girls pull ups have Minnie Mouse designs on them?” “Yep.” “Kinda boring.” “I guess.” Alex handed the pull up back to Peter. “Thanks.” “Sure.” “Have you thought about getting girls pull ups before?” “I don’t know.” Alex nodded. “Would you get girls pull ups?” “Yeah.” “You should toss those pull ups before we have dinner.” “Definitely.” Alex nodded again. “Alright.” “Yep.” “Uh, thanks for letting me look at a pull up.” “Of course and Alex?” “Yeah?” “Thanks for being supportive about the pull ups and me liking diapers.” “Of course.” Alex then stood up and walked out of Peter’s room and headed back to his own room. Closing Peter’s bedroom door behind him. Peter then stood up and walked into his closet and put the pull up he’d let Alex back into the pack of pull ups.