Trading Post

Right now! Made a delightful mess and enjoying sitting in it!

Chapter 18 The academic year began to fray at the edges, the intensity of the final seminars giving way to a strange, suspended animation. For Leo, May arrived not as a bridge to the future, but as a deepening of his current state. In his mind, June existed as a distant, shimmering mirage: the promise of a summer internship at his uncle’s office. He could almost feel the starch of a professional shirt and the weight of a leather briefcase, symbols of a world where he was viewed as a capable adult with a burgeoning career in law and policy. That looming deadline—the first of June—was the only thing keeping his spirit from total collapse, a reminder that there was a version of him that still existed outside of Mrs. Gable’s clinical care. But May was a month of absolute ownership. With the pressure of exams receding, the vacuum left behind was quickly filled by Mrs. Gable’s expanding directives. As the weather warmed, so did the rigor of his "treatment." The transition from the sterile Airbnb back to the main house was framed not as a return, but as a homecoming to a sanctuary. Mrs. Gable had spent the previous weeks orchestrating the renovations with a meticulous eye, ensuring that the structural changes to the home mirrored the changes she had wrought upon Leo. The heavy oak door clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the street and replacing it with the familiar, suffocating scent of beeswax and lilies. Leo barely had time to exhale a sigh of relief before Mrs. Gable’s hand was on his shoulder, guiding him toward the center of the hallway with a purposeful urgency. "Pants off, Leo. Now," she commanded. The transition was instantaneous; the polite facade she maintained for the public vanished, replaced by the clinical authority of a head nurse. Leo paused, his face heating up as he looked down at the loose, forgiving fabric of the maternity trousers she had insisted he wear during their final days at the rental. "I... I have to already?" he complained, his voice sounding thin and boyish even to his own ears. "But you said it was all healed. You told me the inflammation was gone." "It is healed, you silly boy," she murmured, her voice dipping into that honey-thick maternal tone that always preceded a new set of rules. "But 'healed' does not mean 'exempt.' We are back in our sanctuary, and in this house, we maintain a standard of transparency. I cannot be expected to wonder about the state of your skin through layers of polyester. Now, be a good lad and cooperate." He sighed, a sound of total defeat, and stepped out of the trousers. The sudden rush of cool air against his legs felt like a surrender. He stood there in the hallway, reduced to the white elastic and mesh of the jockstrap, feeling the vast, mahogany silence of the house swallow him whole. Mrs. Gable didn't immediately move to clean or treat him; instead, she circled him slowly, her eyes scanning his form with the detached curiosity of a biologist examining a specimen that had finally stopped struggling. As she stepped back, Leo looked around the foyer, and a strange, prickling sensation washed over him. The house looked exactly as it had before the Airbnb—the same heavy velvet curtains, the same same antique mirrors reflecting his vulnerability, the same oppressive scent of beeswax. Yet, something felt fundamentally *off*. He blinked, trying to pin down the discrepancy. The spatial logic of the hallway seemed slightly shifted, as if the walls had breathed out, expanding by a fraction of an inch. There was a subtle change in the acoustics; the way his breath echoed against the wainscoting felt different, more contained. He couldn't put his finger on what had changed, but the familiarity of the house now felt like a costume that didn't quite fit. It was as if he had returned to a replica of his prison, one designed with a precision that made the original feel crude. “What changed?” Leo asked, his voice barely a whisper in the cavernous hallway. He felt the draft on his bare thighs, a stark contrast to the stifling own-ness of the house. “Something is… different. The air feels heavier. The walls look closer.” Mrs. Gable stopped her circling, her expression one of serene amusement. She leaned in, the scent of lilies suddenly overpowering, as if a thousand blooms had been crushed into the fabric of her dress. “Several things, Leo. You’ll have to observe to notice. The house has evolved to better suit your needs, though your eyes are still adjusting to the new geometry of your life.” Leo began to pace the hallway, his bare heels clicking against the polished mahogany. He looked for the seams, the subtle betrayals of a renovation. He scanned the ornate crown molding, the heavy velvet drapes, and the familiar arrangement of the antique console table, but everything appeared stubbornly identical. He leaned in close to the wallpaper, searching for a fresh joint or a misplaced pattern, but his eyes found nothing but the same oppressive floral damask. He spun around, searching the ceiling for a new fixture or a shifted beam, but the house remained a mirror of its former self. He looked everywhere—under the heavy rugs, behind the gilded mirrors, into the shadows of the corners—and he couldn't see a single thing that had actually changed. "I don't see it," he admitted, his voice sounding small and fragile in the expanded silence. "It looks exactly the same. You're just... playing with me." “Sit down for dinner,” she commanded, the words slicing through the heavy silence of the hallway. It wasn’t a request; it was a reclamation. The command didn't just target his legs; it targeted his entire sense of orientation, pulling him out of his frantic search for structural changes and snapping him back into the role of the managed object. Leo moved toward the dining room, the loose fabric of the maternity pants swirling around his ankles. He took his usual place at the mahogany table, sliding into the heavy, upholstered chair with a sigh of relief. But as he settled his weight, the sensation was wrong. There was no resistance from the seat; instead, he felt a sudden, precise drop. He didn't land on a cushion, but rather slid perfectly into a void. He shifted, confused, trying to find the center of the seat, only to realize that the upholstery had been surgically altered. A circular section of the foam and fabric had been excised, creating a custom-fitted aperture that matched the exact dimensions of his backside. He was not sitting *on* the chair; he was sitting *in* it. The hole had been carved out with such anatomical precision that his rear was now completely suspended, hanging through the bottom of the chair and into the open air beneath the table. *Click. Click.* The sound was sharp, mechanical, and absolute. As Leo’s feet settled into the recessed footrests beneath the table, two steel brackets snapped shut around his ankles with the precision of a trap. There was no struggle, no jarring movement; it felt as if the chair had been waiting for him, designed with a mathematical certainty to cradle his specific frame. The lock was snug but not painful, a firm embrace that anchored him to the spot, rendering any thought of standing up a distant, theoretical possibility. He sat there, suspended and secured, the cool air of the dining room circulating freely around his exposed rear. The vulnerability was no longer just a psychological weight; it was a physical reality, carved into the very furniture of the house. He felt less like a guest or a tenant and more like a component of the room, a piece of living sculpture fitted into a custom socket. Mrs. Gable glided toward him, carrying a tray of steaming tea and a small bowl of sliced apples. She didn't look at his face; her gaze was fixed on the seamless integration of his body into the chair. A look of profound satisfaction crossed her features, the kind of expression a master clockmaker might wear upon seeing a gear finally slot into place. “It fits perfectly,” she murmured, setting the tray down with a soft clink. She didn’t offer him the tea immediately; instead, she circled the chair, her eyes tracing the line where his flesh met the carved edge of the upholstery. “The ergonomics of your submission are truly fascinating, Leo. You look so much more... settled.” Leo tried to shift his weight, but the brackets at his ankles held him in a state of absolute stillness. The sensation of the open air beneath him was dizzying. He felt as though he were floating on a void, his dignity having leaked out through the hole in the chair. He looked up at her, his expression a mixture of bewilderment and a growing, subconscious reliance. “Why? Why go to all this trouble for a chair?” “Why go to all this trouble?” Leo repeated, his voice sounding hollow in the vastness of the room. He felt the draft of the dining room chilling his skin, a constant reminder that he was now physically integrated into the furniture. Mrs. Gable paused, her hand hovering over the teapot. A slow, melodic laugh escaped her, a sound that started in her chest and radiated outward, filling the space with a terrifying sense of triumph. She leaned over him, not to offer comfort, but to claim the space. "Because, my dear, guessing is such an inefficient way to manage a household," she whispered, her eyes gleaming. "Until now, I had to rely on your reports, the transmitter's alerts, or the evidence left in your laundry. I had to wonder if you were slipping, if you were leaking, or if you were simply failing to tell me the truth. But now?" She gestured vaguely toward the aperture in the chair. "Now, I have full access to you at all times. No more guessing, Leo. Full transparency." She laughed again, a soft, rhythmic sound of absolute victory. To Mrs. Gable, the hole in the chair wasn't just a modification of furniture; it was a window. The "transparency" she spoke of was the total elimination of the boundary between Leo’s private bodily functions and her clinical observation. He was no longer a person with a secret; he was a transparent subject whose every lapse in control would be immediately visible, audible, and accessible to her. "And your rear end is a troubling thing, Leo," Mrs. Gable sighed, her voice trailing off into a clinical meditation. She didn't look at him as a man, but as a logistical challenge to be solved. "The amount of cream I'll be applying—the sheer volume of barrier salve required to keep that inflammation from returning—would leave far too much of a mess for a normal chair. Imagine the stains, the greasy residue seeping into the velvet. It would be an olfactory disaster for the rest of the house." She stepped back, crossing her arms as she admired the void in the upholstery. "This is the only hygienic solution. By removing the seat, we remove the contact. Your skin can breathe, and more importantly, the excess cream can simply... migrate. Gravity will do the work that a cloth seat would only hinder. You aren't just sitting in a chair, Leo; you are sitting in a ventilation system." Leo felt a cold shiver travel down his spine, contrasting with the heat of his blush. The logic was airtight, which made it even more terrifying. By framing the hole in the chair as a necessity for the "mess" of his medication, Mrs. Gable had turned his own medical needs into the justification for his exposure. He wasn't being humiliated for the sake of a game; he was being managed for the sake of the furniture. “Dinner time, Leo,” Mrs. Gable announced, her voice cutting through the oppressive silence of the dining room. She didn’t bring a plate; instead, she carried a heavy-duty blender, plugging it into the wall with a definitive *thwack* of the cord. With a clinical precision, she began pouring the sliced apples into the glass jar, adding a splash of thick, lukewarm water and a generous scoop of a greyish, powdery supplement that smelled vaguely of chalk. Leo watched the fruit disappear into the vortex, his heart sinking. “I hate smoothies,” he protested, his voice sounding small and strained as he remained locked into the custom void of his chair. He missed the tactile sensation of chewing, the simple dignity of a fork and a plate. To be fed a slurry was the final step in a long line of regressions, a culinary echo of the baby food he’d forgotten decades ago. Mrs. Gable didn't flinch at his protest; she simply increased the speed of the blender, the roar of the motor drowning out any further objections. As the mixture thickened into a dense, beige paste, she leaned in close, her voice a sharp contrast to the mechanical scream of the appliance. "You'll learn to appreciate this, Leo," she murmured, her eyes scanning the slurry with professional approval. "A proper boy must have a proper butthole, which requires a high fiber diet that is easy to digest. Your current digestive instability is a symptom of laziness, a failure to provide your body with the structured fuel it requires. This blend is calibrated for efficiency—maximum fiber, minimum effort. It ensures that the 'cleaning' process remains a controlled event, rather than a chaotic accident." She poured the thick mixture into a wide plastic cup, the liquid sluggishly clinging to the sides. As she handed it to him, the cold air of the dining room continued to circulate around his exposed rear, a constant, chilling reminder that he was being monitored from below. The contrast was absolute: his upper body was being fed a clinical supplement for "efficiency," while his lower body remained a raw, open exhibit for her inspection. Leo took a sip, the chalky taste of the supplement masking the sweetness of the apples. It was heavy, coating his throat and making him feel sluggish. He looked at Mrs. Gable, who was now standing behind him, her hands resting lightly on the mahogany backrest of the chair. From her vantage point, she could see everything—the way he trembled, the way his skin reacted to the draft, and the precise moment his internal organs shifted in response to the high-fiber slurry. "I suppose you'll be eager to use your new toilet," she cooed, her voice vibrating with a peculiar kind of anticipation. She didn't move toward the door, but instead gestured for Leo to follow her, the steel brackets of the chair releasing him with a synchronized *snap* that sounded like a gavel hitting a bench.  

When I was in third grade we had a substitute teacher while our teacher was taking maternity leave. She was unreasonably strict about using the bathroom and we ended up with a new substitute after about a month, after four different students (including myself) had accidents. Middle school was a nightmare for me, and I dealt with the worst bullying and emotional issues during sixth grade. I hated one class that was in a part of the school with mostly empty classrooms, so the bathroom at the end of the wing was mostly used as a spot for the eighth-graders to smoke in. More than once, I had to use that bathroom, only for the older kids to prevent it from happening. I peed my pants four times in the space of two weeks. High school wasn't particularly bad, but we still had that unwritten rule that most public schools have: don't get caught pooping in the school bathrooms. Our options to avoid social ridicule were either to hold it until after the bell and go somewhere else, or ask the nurse to use her single-use bathroom. 11th grade, I chose to wait until I got home and pooped my pants on the bus ride home. By then I'd already discovered adult diapers so for the next couple days I wore one to school.

It does. It's in the google play store. In chrome, click on the 3 horizontal lines, then manage extensions. Search the play store for youtube ad block. It will pop right up, and you can install it right there from the play store. I also run Adblock plus. It works fairly good on the rest of the internet. It blocks a lot of annoying popups and intrusive ads. This app also lets you manually block various windows or sections of a website, permanently. It's really nice for getting rid of repeated animations and flashy ads.

Celebrity deaths don't really hit me, but this one did. The same way George Carlin, Fred Rogers and Bray Wyatt's deaths hit me. I grew up watching TNG, even dressed up as Picard for Halloween when I was 7.