AWetterWorld

[So, to get this story back on track, and back to its ABDL-fueled roots...] The Wild North CHAPTER FIFTEEN (MACADAMIA) It was strange, Macadamia thought, how quickly life had changed her. In less than a month of being away from home she had gone from the soft farm girl of a small village, to someone who could plow stubbornly through the lifeless, barren slopes of the northern wastes on the fading edge of winter and shrug it off. Of course, the first thing every farmer knew about their profession was that it was far from easy, let alone one who farmed on the base of the northern slopes. There was no such thing as a ‘soft’ farmer. Yet something inside of her had definitely changed. Without knowing how, exactly when, or exactly what, she knew that it had. She spun about quickly and was rewarded with a glance of another robed figure following not far behind. The other woman ducked behind a boulder, but not quickly enough. It was at least the third time she had felt as though she were being followed. “You might as well come out,” she called. A couple of breaths later the figure did so, and it was Skilla, who trudged down the slope to stand next to Macadamia as casually as if they had both gone out for an evening’s stroll. “Do you even know where you’re going, Pretender?” Macadamia felt her back stiffen. Still as abrasive as ever. “Don’t call me that. I made no claim to be ‘huntress’, nor anything else. Why are you here?” The dark-haired woman scoffed, looking about them with a stiff, somehow haughty posture, just as she always had. Being tortured and humiliated, it seemed, had not altered her a bit. “Someone needs to watch over you, before you get yourself killed. The north is not a place for soft barbarian women.” There was that word again… ‘soft’. Not long ago she might have become angry, or defensive. Now, she found herself looking at the woman with a sense of something that was almost… pity. “‘Looking out for me?’ We’re not friends, Skilla. You’re a murderer. Why are you here? Exiled by your own people after you put a knife in your last supporter?” Skilla averted her gaze to the far distance. “Having been labeled a traitor after helping a barbarian killer escape…” The subtle blame in the statement was not lost on Macadamia. “...you are not far off. I have no place among my people anymore. I will never be a huntress.” There was a bitter tone beneath that last sentence, Macadamia decided: the lingering sadness of something by which Skilla had once defined herself being forever lost, and the uncertainty of self that came along with it. “‘Barbarian’?” “That’s what they’re calling you now. Seems appropriate.” Macadamia had already turned her back and resumed walking. “Does it? Well, no need to lower yourself with my company; feel free to go back the way you came.” “You’re not listening! There is no place for me there. I am on my own, and even your company is better than none at all. Where do you go now? Do you still hope to find that broken fawn of yours out here somewhere?” “Something like that.” Despite her calm words and purposeful step, Macadamia was hiding pain. Not from an injury or from the cold. No, her body had adapted to the frigid environment. It was the fact that she had not used her diaper since escaping the hunters’ camp. Her memory of the beasts trouncing over the hunters, popping their bodies open like stepping on a grape, was one she knew she would never leave behind. Any strong smell of humans might attract them, and so she had been holding it all in, hoping to reach her home village -or someplace further away still- before taking care of business. She tried to avoid the act of sweating as well, but exertion took the choice from her. Despite now being less than an afternoon’s hike from home, she knew it was a losing battle, and her hand rested on her abdomen without conscious direction as she lurched in response to a sharp pain of protest from her body. When she caught Skilla giving her a curious stare, she quickly straightened up. Her own act of pride confused her; the two of them had seen each other mess themselves more than once over their time in captivity. Even so, she said nothing on the matter. Despite their cold words, the two women continued their trek down the mountainside together. They said little the rest of the way. The light was fading when they finally reached the ruined wreck of the village, and to Macadamia’s surprise her diaper was still dry. That was only a secondary concern however, and her gaze bored into every shadow, every human-sized lump in the snow, looking for Elm. She was so relieved when she found him that she broke into tears as she ran the final distance, collapsing on her knees beside his huddling form and wrapping him into a tight hug. “I knew it. I knew you were alive,” she declared. It might have been a stretch, but it seemed true to her at that moment. He looked at her with the eyes of a stranger. There was something behind them now which was not there before. His movements were lethargic, but he hugged her back. He livened up a little as the moment stretched on, soon burying his head against her chest and closing his eyes. “I thought… I thought I would never see you again.” “I said I would come for you.” “You did,” he agreed with an empty voice. “What happened here?” Skilla’s sharp voice cut in. As if snapping out of a dream, the other two looked around at the carnage. Bodies were everywhere amongst the ruined buildings. Vultures feasted, their cries a constant cacophony. “I…” Elm cringed as if physically struck, and swallowed whatever he was about to say. “It was them beasts! The beasts of winter!” called a new voice, its owner a middle-aged man in a dirty torn soldier’s uniform. The man approached with a limp rabbit he had slain with an arrow. “You shoulda seen the monsters! He called ‘em – the master of winter! The one who-” “No one calls them,” Elm blurted, cutting the man off with a stare that held… something. If only she could say what, Macadamia wished silently, but whatever passed between the two men was gone in a flash. “...Right, well, them creatures… You shoulda seen em! Massive as a barn, and-” “Huge horn, thicker than a spear? A mouth of sharp teeth that could swallow a horse, and no eyes?” The soldier gave Macadamia a dumbfounded stare. “You seen ‘em too then? And lived?” “As I notice you did, Buck,” Skilla cut in again. “How is it that everyone here is dead but you and this broken fawn -who I admit I did not expect to see again- are still alive?” She took a threatening step towards the soldier. “Explain yourself! What act of cowardice has led to this?” Instead of backing down, the soldier scowled at her. “Much as you know! I fought, brave as any other man! That is before I was knocked clean out! Next thing I knew, I woke up to… this.” His weak gesturing communicated hopelessness alongside the death that surrounded them. “And my name’s not ‘Buck’, Miss. It’s ‘Hand’… Least that’s what everyone always calls me, on account of I’m always so helpful. They’d say ‘give me a hand’, see, and there I’d be! So they just started callin’ me-” “We do comprehend,” Skilla said with a dismissive sniff. “Honestly! Your bucks are all so worthless that it is amazing you people are alive at all. Each and every one of them seem wild as a hog, a dithering idiot, or… still in diapers.” Hand scowled at her again, then turned his gaze to Elm at the last bit. “Yes, he always was a bit strange, since the day we found ‘im. Those crazy wild men with them big spears and no clothes had ‘im. Spirit Of The Mountain only knows what they did to ‘im!” He whipped his head back around towards Skilla. “As for you, you’ve got a sharp tongue there, Miss! What are ya thinkin’? Always talkin’ down about everyone like you’re the queen of some foreign nation?” Macadamia tuned out the two of them as they continued to bicker. At the mention of his diaper, she had turned her attention to it and noticed that Elm was in dire need of a change. She rummaged through the two packs she had carried down the mountains, until she saw that the woman who had freed her had indeed thought to pack a couple of spare diapers. They looked to be ones that Macadamia had originally brought with her, cleaned but permanently stained yellow and brown from their abuse, yet still perfectly usable. Finding a towel as well, she wasted no time in laying Elm down on the ground and opening his filthy diaper, noting that it was not one of her own. Someone else has been taking care of him. Good. She had not gotten far along when her own body began to revolt as well. A dribble began to escape her, dampening the cloth against her groin. “How dare you address my people in such a manner!” Skilla was complaining. “You just called me a ‘barbarian’, Wench!” Hand shot back. It was quickly halted, but soon returned. She doubled over mid-wipe with a gasp. She could do nothing to stop herself as the dam burst. The sound of her deluge was audible even with the arguing, and she noted that both parties in the dispute drew to an abrupt halt. Even as urine streamed out of her and into her increasingly heavy diaper, she resumed taking care of Elm. She pulled away his dirty diaper and tenderly began cleaning his bottom as he looked at her with an unflinching gaze. Strange, she reflected, how unreadable his gazes had become. She had to wonder what he had been through, how he had survived all this death. His cheeks were a bit red, she noted, but that could have just been from the cold. Either way she did not stop. She had changed him in front of strangers before, after all, and it did not seem to bother him now. Far from being concerned with his own half-naked state, he said “Umm, Macadamia, are you okay?” Her body was still unburdening itself into her diaper with a loud hiss. Rather than regaining control, she found that her bowels were soon involved as well. “No! Oh no, no, no…” She could not resist the urge to help the process along, and she let out a quiet gasp as she pushed a heavy load out and into the back of her increasingly soaking diaper. Her right hand flew to her backside as if its mere presence might change the course of events. It did not. “This was a mistake!” she scolded herself. She had hoped that as far down the mountain as they were, they would be away from danger, and the evil noses of those hideous beasts, but as she glanced around once more at the carnage that surrounded them that danger felt all too close. “We should have kept moving, but I- ah!” She felt herself pushing again, and the warm squishy load against her bottom began steadily increasing in size. Skilla had her arms crossed as she stood beside Hand, shaking her head slowly as they both watched. “Honestly! It is like having children, is it not?” The soldier seemed too baffled to form a reply. Finally Macadamia surrendered completely, collapsing onto her side beside Elm and letting the process complete while she exhaled heavily with relief. Warmth spread out against her, everywhere it could go, as the thirsty cloth struggled to absorb her overwhelming stream. The bulge in her backside formed a very noticeable shape now, even beneath her draping robes. By the time she was done she was uncertain if the garment had leaked or not, but suspected so. “Shouldn’t we… do somethin’?” Hand asked as he looked down at her. The exhaustion of her torture, escape, and long hike down the mountain caught up with her all at once, and she found that her body was unwilling to move. She breathed deeply, and stared at the sky. I found him, and alive. That is all that matters. I will take him away from this madness to someplace safe. Skilla sighed heavily. “I suppose we must.” She reached down and picked up Elm’s soiled diaper, then handed it over with one hand, while pinching her nose with the other. “Go see if the well is still intact, and wash this out. Dry it as best you can. And for the love of the Holy Mother, bury the filth and be quick about the whole thing! We don’t want the smell to bring back the beasts!” “I… but… this is womens’ work!” Skilla glared at him. “If you mean changing this woman’s diaper, then for once you are correct. A buck should not even be here, witnessing a woman in such an… undignified state. I am glad your backwards culture has similar expectations.” She sighed again – a frivolous sound, as if she were explaining something obvious to a child. “But cleaning this fawn’s filthy diaper is surely not above your station. Go now!” He looked like he might object again, but Macadamia saw the calculation behind his eyes as he considered that remaining meant helping to actually change diapers. Wiping poop from someone’s bottom was apparently judged the worse of his two options, and he withdrew. Then Skilla smiled. Her smiles, Macadamia reflected, were never the innocent expressions of joy that others so often used. With her, there was always a dagger behind the curve of her lips. “Well, Little Fawn. I have you alone again.” She picked up the cloth Macadamia had been using to wipe him, and yanked the man’s legs up and out of the way as she finished wiping his backside. Wipes quickly turned to light slaps, and then outright spanking. Slap. “You remember how much fun we had the last time you were naughty?” Slap. Elm did not object; he did not so much as flinch. His manhood, notably, had grown in size. Macadamia felt certain she should look away or put a stop to it, but did neither. Once more she was struck by the conundrum of the young man she continually treated like a small boy. Which did he want to be? Which did she want him to be? A small heat built in her body as she watched, alongside a swelling of bitterness towards Skilla. Skilla set his legs down and started using the soiled towel to massage his manhood, and her lips once more quirked at the edges when his organ continued to swell. “Oh, I think your body remembers.” She took a break long enough to slide one of Macadamia’s clean diapers up his legs, stopping before hitting his waste. Then she buried his legs beneath the folds of her robes as she straddled them, holding him down, and resumed her stroking – now with both hands. “Will you make some more juices for me, like you did before in that tent? Shall I pull up your diaper and see how long you can keep it dry beneath my hands?” She went tumbling to the side as Macadamia, having rolled to her feet, shoved her. “Enough!” Skilla rose in a huff, glaring with clenched fists. “What is your problem?” “After everything we went through… Being the playthings of that vile huntress of yours not two days past… You would treat this boy as… as your… toy? Have you learned nothing from the cruelty of others, that you would repeat it?” Skilla’s face contorted in an ugly sneer. “What of it? He’s only a fawn! He should be grateful when we give him attention! You can plainly see that he likes it.” She took a step closer, her breath hot in Macadamia’s face. “You don’t care anyway – you’re only upset because I was playing with your toy!” Macadamia felt like striking her, but held herself back. She wasn’t certain why Skilla had prompted such a sudden rage in her. Certainly it was not because the words held some buried truth, she decided. It was Skilla’s insufferable arrogance, she decided, and her infatuation with Elm. “That’s… that’s not true!” “Foolish barbarian girl! Lie to yourself, but you know I am right!” She stormed away with another huff. “I shall leave you with your precious fawn!” Once she was gone, Macadamia kneeled beside Elm and looked at him, trying to get a read on him. She pulled his diaper the rest of the way up, stealing a glance at his enlarged manhood as she did so before yanking her eyes away. “Elm? Did you, umm, did you… like what Skilla was doing?” He shrugged. She frowned at the unhelpful reply, but could not think of what she wanted to say next. Hand cleared his throat behind her. “Well I did my best, Miss.” He handed her the rinsed diaper when she turned to accept it. “Still damp, but seein’ as how there’s no clothes lines about…” “You did fine,” she said absently. Then, more urgently: “you buried the mess didn’t-” “Yes! Yes! I buried it! Don’t know how you ladies got the whole idea about the smell bringing the monsters – they come when they’re called, I seen it happen with my own eyes! It’s the heart of the mountain, see? He commands it!” Macadamia was too tired to puzzle out what the man was talking about. She turned the diaper inside out, rung it out herself one more time for good measure, then sniffed it. It most likely still had an odor, but she could smell very little over the horrible stench of death that surrounded them, which was getting thicker by the hour. All the more reason to be moving on. To that end she stowed the cleaned diaper, turned her back to Hand, and managed to grip the waist of the one she was wearing through her thick robes. She pushed it down as she wiggled (it slid to the ground with a heavy, wet thunk) and stepped out of it. “Do you…” Hand cleared his throat. “...want some privacy there, Miss?” “Just hand me a clean towel,” she instructed, squatting. He did so. She pulled the front of her robes up and out of the way, and began unceremoniously wiping herself, keeping her back to him. “You know, what I really need is a wet towel actually, and-” She stopped mid-sentence as she swiveled her head, seeing that he was gone. Elm moved into view, and his gaze drifted towards her womanhood. Her hand moved the towel to cover herself without conscious direction. He volunteered to get her a damp towel and moved away. When he returned she finished cleaning herself but thankfully he did not try to steal another glance. Then she moved away herself, soiled diaper and towel in hand, to find the well. Someone, most likely Hand, had already placed a broken shovel there. She used it to dig a new hole, filled a bucket of water, and went to work. Once she had taken care of the diapers she set them aside and went back to the farm where she had grown up. Her heart froze into an icy ball, refusing to pump another ounce of blood, each time she saw a body. Several of them turned out to be neighbors, or unrecognizable. Finally, hidden in the remains of the half-collapsed cellar, she found what was left of her family. She froze, huddling over their bodies, and cried cold, silent tears. The night stretched on, uncaring of her sorrow. Then, though nothing had changed, the moment came when she knew she was done. She retrieved the shovel and buried them, then walked away. She had said a million words in her head, but none aloud. Somehow none of them seemed… enough. It was fully dark by the time she returned. Hand and Skilla were there again, sharing glances that seemed less hostile than she had expected. She did not ask why. Any blessing was one she would take. “We should leave, tonight… now in fact. I will only rest easy once we are far away from this place… and those creatures. I suggest the south road. With good speed, we could be to the next village in two days time-” “No,” Elm stated flatly. “I… can’t go back.” “Go back? You’ve never been there.” “No, I mean… I can’t go back… to that world. My family is dead.” “Mine too,” she admitted sadly, “but that doesn’t mean-” “...As I am dead,” Elm finished. “The me that belonged there, with those people… is dead. I don’t care which village, I have no place in that world.” Strangely, Macadamia felt that she understood. Not in a way that she could put into words, but it was an understanding all the same. “Where then? We can’t stay here.” Elm looked towards the mountains. “The same place we were going before. That portal is still out there. I believe it now, more than ever. Legends can hold more truth than anyone cares to admit. I… I have to find it. It’s… it’s just where I have to go, okay?” Macadamia saw it now: what was different about him. Gone was the shy boy, uncertain of himself while naive and hopeful of the world. He had become this new Elm, with an unknowable darkness hiding behind his eyes. This was what he had meant about dying. She nodded her agreement. Not just to appease him, but because she had to admit it felt right. “Are you two fools mad? More so than you were already?” Skilla turned her glare to Macadamia in particular. “We just about killed ourselves climbing down those cursed slopes, and now you want to climb back up?” Macadamia only shrugged. “You don’t have to come.” Then she helped Elm into the straps of his pack and the two moved away. She had gone no more than twenty steps before she heard the sloppy, sliding crunch of Hand’s boots in the snow behind her, and the deliberate, sharper crunch of Skilla’s behind his. She concluded -quite gratefully- that the smell of decomposing bodies had served to hide them from the ‘sight’ of the beasts. It seemed the only explanation as to why the things had not returned to finish off the last of the humans. She was less grateful that, just like the sight of said dead bodies, she would never forget that awful smell again.

Well, Astra is intended to be a new character, and to not have called anyone anything before. As opposed to, well, pretty much all of the other huntresses. However it is possible I slipped up and used the wrong name somewhere or referenced this character before and then forget I did that, in which case I will have to fix. I will look back and see what I did. Thank you for mentioning that! EDIT: Got my @#$#@ names messed up again! Among whatever else I did, I used 'Astra' and 'Estar' for the same character. Fixing now... But, yeah, as soon as someone found out about her little secret (outside of the trusted few that know) she would NOT be huntress anymore, to say the least. Which I imagine as part of what she meant when she talked about "...only to know the end of my reign". Before reading that, I went ahead and wrote the next chapter, so I'll go ahead and post that now. WARNING: I didn't really do anything ABDL-related in this next chapter, as I got kind of carried away with the story for its own sake, so I apologize for the dry reading. The Wild North CHAPTER FOURTEEN (ELM) Like the trumpets of the army of death, the creatures’ roars echoed across the mountain slopes from all directions. They shook the earth beneath the small humans below. Inside the very breasts of those terrified souls, the ear-splitting sounds echoed. Weapons shook in trembling hands, and heads swiveled about in futile searches, no one willing to admit what each of them already knew in their hearts: it was pointless to look for death while standing within its closing maw. When the beasts charged, five in total, each one defying the men’s dismissal of them as children’s tales and superstition, it was already over. Only one young man was calm amidst the terror and chaos: Elm. He walked slowly down the mountain as the men formed a desperate circle around the camp, spears and swords at the ready. He continued his purposeful stroll past sentries that looked at him first with minor confusion, then with quick dismissal. Let them, he decided. Let them dismiss him one more time, as they breathed in their last breaths. Let them deny all the evil they had witnessed, or performed. Let the brave ones shout their horse battle cries while the fearful positioned themselves behind and tried to pretend they were not wetting their clothes. Let them mock him now. Let them call him stupid and treat him as a circus attraction. He would listen. He would grant them that one last favor… and he would smile. They did not. For as soon as the creatures, each as large as a building, descended upon the camp and began trampling right over its defenders at will, no one paid him any mind. He looked for Mother where he had left her, by the women doing laundry, and had a few moments of panic when she was not there. With all the screaming around him he grew frantic, calling out for her, and only when he found her did his sight stop turning red and his breath begin to even out. “Mother!” he cried, wrapping his arms around her. “I told you to stay.” Men were screaming and yelling all around them, and the ground trembled with thundering footfalls. Mother had gone to help the wounded – or at least some of them. Most were left to bleed out in the dirt, but some few were helped by a comrade or loved one to one of the larger tents, which was already too full to accept more despite being only a few minutes into the battle. Mother scolded him for running off, but it was a brief reprimand. Soon she was back to moving slowly from one to the next, towing Elm along with one hand, and offered them gentle words of comfort as she did her best to clean and wrap what wounds were treatable. “Mother, please, we need to leave.” He had expected her to need little persuasion, but found that she ignored him. “Mother, Mother please! Let’s go!” A mountain of a man came into view carrying another over his shoulder, and deposited the second on the ground. “Take what injured can be moved, put them on carts, and leave at best speed down the south road!” he barked. Elm was confused, though the man had not been talking to him. “Why don’t you do it?” he asked out of genuine curiosity. The man turned to him with an unreadable expression and shook his head. “You have much to learn of courage, Boy. I did not become a soldier to run when I am needed. Go with the women, get out of here!” Elm looked in the direction of the south road, and saw that a significant portion of women and soldiers were already fleeing, orders or no. Among them, he recognized the monster who had raped women in front of him, and his heart grew cold. “What of them?” The soldier before him spared his fleeing peers only a glance, but it was a dark one. “The spirits of winter will judge their cowardice accordingly, and take them to a cold grave. I must return to the fight. Help the women, Boy. Save as many women, children, and wounded as you can!” He looked at Elm’s diaper, still on full display as Mother always left it, and worry lines creased his face. He looked around for another, clearly questioning who he was talking to, but a deep roar thundered from behind him as one of the creatures charged directly at them. He turned to meet the threat without hesitation, drawing a sword already red with blood. “But… you will die!” Elm complained. The man did not even look back at the remark as he charged to meet the danger, so Elm turned to Mother. “You heard him, Mother, please – we need to leave!” She patted him on the head. “Be good, Little Gordon! Quiet now.” The creature’s charge had continued right over the top of the men who tried to intercept it, and it grew closer by the moment. “Mother, please! We need to leave. You can’t stay! You won’t die here! I… I did this for you!” Still she refused to leave, and so he placed himself in front of the charging creature, closed his eyes, recalled the taste of the cold heart of the dead monster on the mountain slope, and tried to feel what he did then. The cold of unforgiving stone began to move across his skin and penetrate his body, but it did not chill him. From the depths of that icy calm, he opened his eyes and let loose a roar of his own. It should have been a pitiful sound, drowned out by the cacophony around him, but instead it resounded with some unnatural force and stopped the creature dead in its tracks. For the space of a few moments Monster and Man looked at each other with a sight that transcended the creature’s lack of eyes, and then the beast turned aside and charged in a different direction. He stood frozen for a few moments, watching the chaos unfold around him. He watched the men brave enough to try and hold the line die there, and he watched many more flee in terror. The furthest away were the men who had fled at the first sign of the beasts, and they looked to be far enough away that they might make it. Somehow, under the weight of all that was happening, something awoke in him. That analytical boy who buried his head in books poked his head up. Except now his mind was not on lore and legend, but on the inescapable dread of consequences. It’s happening again, he thought angrily. The wrong people are dying. I wanted them to pay. I wanted the bad people to die, but it was never going to happen that way, was it? One cannot look at a people and say that because some do bad, all will be punished. In doing so, I have turned from fearing the monster, to becoming it. As irony would have it, he could turn aside the beasts of winter, but had no sway over his fellow humans. A large group of fleeing people, redirected from their initial trajectory by the flippant stampeding of the monsters, came at Elm and company next, and no amount of shouting even registered on their blank, panicked faces. He was shoved to the ground almost immediately, and before he could right himself, heavy feet were pounding down upon him – arms and legs erupted in pain, and he felt something in his chest snap as a heavy man trampled across his back. Eventually, after the crushing footsteps stopped, he was able to force air into his lungs once more, and slowly pushed himself to his feet. Some of the women had been doing as instructed and loading the wounded onto a cart, but he saw now that the horse had panicked. Animal and cart had run over the very people they were meant to save. “Mother?” he called weakly. His panic grew when she did not answer. “Mother!” He found her a few moments later on the ground, trampled by horse and cart. He turned her over, but she would not breathe, let alone answer. “Mother!!” he cried, pain shooting through his chest and lungs at the effort. “No! I… But, I did this for you, Mother. I did this for you!” She would not answer. For a time -he did not know how long- he only sat on the ground next to her. The screams of death around him became muffled… distant. Somehow they did not affect him. He looked up. Somehow, through a distance his eyes had no right to penetrate, he saw the fleeing, violent rapist who had instilled such fear and hatred in him a short time before. The one who had spawned his rash, desperate quest into the mountain. The single individual who had come, in but a few hasty moments, to represent all the darkness of man that was supposed to lie trampled on the battlefield. He saw him, a distant shape somehow recognizable, as he tried to steal a horse from an old woman to quicken his escape. He mentally shed the warmth of sun, and once more remembered the cold, un-beating heart of the beast. He let it wash over his mind. Then, without knowing how, he commanded. No one escapes, he ordered without words. None escape this day. Not even me. He was disobeyed. A couple of the creatures moved to cut off any escape to the south. Moving as one, they surrounded the fleeing humans in a half-circle that left them only one direction in which to escape: deeper into the mountains to their certain doom. That much the creatures did. Elm, however, was left untouched. Soon the battlefield quieted, but for the constant moan of those dying or so badly wounded that they cried out for death. Those who could run had done so, with the creatures on their heels and crushing them a few at a time. It seemed that he was now one of them – too much a monster that day to be recognized as man. The beasts would not take their own. Still he did not move. Eventually another man came up to Elm. His approach was cautious, coming slowly from the front with arms raised, as if approaching a crazed horse. “You… you alright, Lad?” Elm did not answer. “I… I saw it. Never would have believed it had I not! You can… command them… somehow. You can command the beasts. Are you the one?” he continued after getting a blank stare in return. “You know… like the legend? The man who entered the heart of the mountain, claimed it as his prize, and henceforth winter itself obeyed his command? I never believed, but… I saw you… heard that voice you used… You are… aren’t you? You’re him?” Still Elm would not answer. He felt empty; he had no words to offer. Instead, he only looked to the mountain. The towering peaks shrouded themselves in dark, ominous clouds. Even they would not look at him, but the stranger was right: he knew their heart. It came back to him then: the reason he had left camp the night before. He too had recalled that legend, and he had set off to steal the heart of the mountain, somehow certain of his own ability to use its power to banish the wicked. Somehow certain of its reality. How had he known? Only a week ago he would have laughed at the ‘silly superstition’. Had it even truly been his idea? It had come to him, fully formed, out of the dark fog in his mind. The one that had made it so very hard to think save for a crazy notion so clear and complete. Yet he had taken this power and made everything even more wrong than it had been before. He looked away from the mountain peaks and their dark, stormy clouds. He no longer wanted to look at them and see… or be seen. He wanted to forget. To forget all that had happened, and be forgotten in turn.

[Well, long time coming, but I managed to get one more chapter written. I've been traveling, which I thought would allow more time for writing than it did.] The Wild North CHAPTER THIRTEEN (ESTAR) Estar limped her way confidently out of her tent and surveyed the controlled chaos around her with brows arched in concern and a slight frown. Such open emotion was a liability should it be seen. She was, after all, a Huntress. But first she was a person, one with feelings… like the sorrow that weighed heavily on her heart right now. The mountain air buffeted her with the harsh pinpricks of blown snow, but the sky was clear – even if the sun’s rays held little warmth in this cold land of towering rock. Around them the camp was a bustle of activity. Even those who had no current obligations busied themselves in circles of gossip. In the near distance she saw that the other camps seemed to be consumed by a similar -or even greater- commotion. “Huntress,” her first pole-bearer reported demurely beside her, “I have accepted everyone’s accounts of what transpired… the news is not good.” Her second pole-bearer, Giltra, was never far behind Estar and always looking after her needs. Even now the robed woman had grabbed a wide stool from the tent and placed it behind her huntress, who sat in it gratefully. Unlike her sisters, Estar did not sit on cushions at ground level. They were too far down, and publicly accepting assistance to stand up would be humiliation too great for her station to bear. It had a plump pillow on top though. Not the most comfortable, but it gave the appearance of a normal cushion, but elevated. In addition to its utility it was the perfect prop for playing the role of a self-important Huntress. Estar’s left leg had been smaller than her right since birth, and it tired quickly when it bore her weight, and her left arm ended in a stump just past her elbow. So far as she was aware, Estar was the only cripple to ever reach the rank of Huntress. The more ruthless among her peers had been known to kill deformed women at birth – as if they were mere bucks! Her mother had done the opposite. She had kept her alive, sheltered her as best as she could, and taught her to be patient and prudent. Estar’s every action since reaching adulthood had been calculated, weighed according to enemies made vs friends forged. Never could she afford to show emotions openly, let alone the kind of naked compassion that would be derided as a ‘weak heart’. Every moment had been spent in performance, playing the role of a strong, cold, independent, fearless woman destined to become the beloved Huntress her mother had been. It was only when the eyes of the community were not upon her that she could be herself. In the privacy of her closest council -composed of hand picked pole bearers and friends she could trust- she could speak plainly. So it was that she learned how to move pieces around the board of life behind the scenes. In the shadows they could do what she could not. This was how she could do the most good. Her enemies could dismiss her as a figurehead while she made her moves out of sight. Her friends could accept the part she must play, and be there when she needed them to play theirs. “That much I surmised,” she replied. “It is never the good news that wakes us up at night, is it? Out with it, please.” “The damage was extensive. It is not just us, but the other huntresses’ camps as well. The supply tents were all burnt. Necessary guards were killed, but silently so as to alert no one.” “How many?” She saw her pole-bearer smile, and scolded herself for her second mistake that night. It would not be normal for a Huntress to ask that question first. “Counting, as I was about to get to, the death of the other Huntresses, the murderer of whom is still among us, we lost sixteen of our sisters this night. There were also several bucks guarding the supply tents and patrolling the perimeter. Eight in total are dead.” “Do the others still believe it was the work of the two escaped prisoners, or is the depth of our predicament setting in?” “There is much confusion. Velina’s camp is in chaos; it seems there is an active dispute as to who is now their huntress. The others have a clear successor, but I am not certain there is a common narrative as to what happened. Someone needs to assume leadership, Huntress, if I may be so bold as to say so.” “What do you mean? Has no one done so?” “I beg forgiveness, Huntress, for my lack of clarity. When I said the death of the other Huntresses… I meant… all of them. Nor have any of their successors assumed the role now empty with the death of Velina. You are now the senior Huntress. Thus far they appear to be waiting for you to take the lead, however if you do not step up soon I fear one of them surely will.” Estar was suddenly very glad to be supported by her chair. The others had to be truly unsettled and off-balance, if they were willing to turn to her for leadership. Estar, the lowest ranking Huntress. The cripple, though no one would dare utter the word in her presence. No, she realized immediately. Not desperate… deliberate. Her voice became quiet, thoughtful. “That I should live to take the mantle of leadership, only to know the end of my reign.” “Huntress?” Another unfortunate downside of Estar’s physical abnormalities was her lack of bladder control, and she shifted on her stool uncomfortably as warmth began to spread outward from her groin. Her body was relieving itself. As always she ordered it to stop. As always, she felt her stream continue unabated. Fortunately she had long ago adapted. Beneath the elegant, layered, draping clothing of her station was a thick, comfortable diaper. It was perhaps her deepest secret, known only to her closest family. Her mother had taken steps to isolate Estar growing up, which everyone had been quick to assume was on account of her crippled body. They were not wrong, it was just a matter of being ignorant of certain details. So far, she had managed to keep it that way into adulthood. Some rumors might have traveled, but so long as there remained no reliable witnesses, they would remain trapped in the domain of the whispered gossiping of servants. All women made allowances for their regular flows after all. Her own need for padded undergarments was just a bit more… frequent. “Can you see the real reason that they wish me to assume leadership?” she replied, showing no outward sign that she was peeing herself. She spoke louder than was necessary. The wind would likely hide the quiet hissing of her spray against the fabric of her undergarment, but it never hurt to try and direct her observers’ focus to where she wanted it. Long practice at hiding any facial tics that might otherwise give her away also helped. She recalled an incident in her younger years where she had uttered a conspicuous sigh as she relieved herself, drawing the curiosity of everyone present and stern reprimand from her mother in private. “With our supplies destroyed, we cannot remain here, nor can we engage the barbarians – or even hope to hold them back for long. Velina called for reinforcements before her death, but even if they arrive soon, which is unlikely, they will not have anticipated our having depleted our existing supplies already. We will still be well short of the provisions we need for an extended campaign. “To put it simply, we have only one option: retreat.” Gravisha, as her first pole-bearer was named, was obviously beginning to realize where this was going. “We will look like cowards! We will return home in shame!” “Correction, I will return home in shame, and quickly be stripped of my position – or at the very least kept away from any future hunts. My role will be reduced to watching over the child-bearers and children back home. The others will be happy to blame the decision entirely on me, even though they will go along with it today as they understand its necessity. Perhaps it will even be suggested that I freed the prisoners, and used them to assassinate Velina. No one will speak out in defense of the outcast… the cripple, Huntress in title only.” Several of her other pole-bearers and aides had gathered by this point, as well as the two bucks Gravisha had insisted guard her at all times. It had been a wise decision, as it turned out, seeing as how Huntresses had been dying near the rate of flies recently. She glanced around at them, knowing that even among this gathering there were those who could never know what was going on beneath her robes, as her warm wetness continued to expand within the confines of her diaper. I’m always so wet in the mornings, she thought, but normally there is time to change before the affairs of the day are upon me. “My Huntress!” exclaimed one of her minor aides, a young woman by the name of Frisham, “what is going on? Who could have done all this?” Estar frowned slightly at the young, naive woman – a reprimand, but a mild one. Normally, the low-ranking aide would never have spoken out of turn, but emotions were running high and Estar understood this as the reason for the outburst. Unlike Frisham, she did not have the luxury of emotional outbursts. Her response needed to be measured. “I will not insult your intelligence by implying that two escaped prisoners could have done all of this. Clearly, someone with influence meant to force our retreat, and we can assume, as a matter of logic, that it was someone opposed to Huntress Velina’s decision.” “Her… decision?” Frisham blurted once more. The woman was letting her fear get out of hand. This one would likely never rise through the ranks to reach pole-bearer; she lacked the proper control. “To take us to war with the barbarians,” Estar clarified patiently. She had finally stopped peeing, much to her relief. Even her thick diaper could hold only so much, and a public incident would destroy her. “However, since several Huntresses opposed the idea, this still leaves us without the ability to point the finger at any individual. I suspect more than one of them was involved.” This time it was Gravisha who spoke up. “Yet they were all found dead. Killing Velina might strengthen the conspirators’ hand, but this… could their assassin have gone rogue? But why? Perhaps it is the barbarians? Trying to weaken us before an attack. Could they be more intelligent than credited?” Estar nodded graciously. Her pole-bearers knew they were free to speak in her presence without invitation. “I agree. There is still a missing piece. There is no one among my sister huntresses whose interests would be served by killing all of the others save me, never mind having the ability, unless our hypothetical conspirators have found a way to fake their own deaths. Yet the entirety of our intelligence on the barbarians suggests them to be a blunt and obvious people. “Either way, we have but one choice now. If it was the barbarians, they have won. I must assume leadership, even knowing it is a trap. We must retreat.” Gravisha kneeled before her, bowing her head in shame at what she was about to say. It was well out of line to question the orders of a huntress. “My Huntress! I do not understand. Would it not be better to avoid the trap? Refuse to claim leadership and call their bluff? One of the others would be forced to do so lest they all appear cowardly or incompetent, would they not?” Estar allowed herself a heavy sigh. “You are wise, Sister, and have all the skills to make a great Huntress, but let us not forget: whoever accepts leadership and calls the retreat will forever bear the stigma of it. If I do not act, someone more hasty might do so in my place. The retreat might not be ordered at all, and if the reinforcements do not come in time we will face starvation – or worse, we might go into battle with the barbarians, but woefully underprepared. All of those deaths will be on my hands, precisely because I did not act to prevent them.” The wind grew quiet, as if equally anxious about her next words as the gathered hunters. “Call a council. I will do what must be done.” She dismissed everyone present save the most trustworthy – even sending away her bodyguards. Then she turned to Gravisha, a weight behind her words and an intensity behind her stare that meant refusal would not be acceptable. “You, my dear First Pole-bearer. My friend and confidant. I must ask you to do something for me, though you will not like it. You will oppose me at the gathering. Openly, in front of everyone.” The woman was so shocked her mouth hung open and she forgot, for a moment, all decorum. “No! Never! You must not ask this of me!” “I do not ask. I instruct. I demand this of you, Sister, and this you will do. For while my fate is sealed, yours need not be. When we are back safely, on the other side of the mountains, there will be a reckoning. You will accuse me of cowardice, and seek my position as Huntress. The others will support your claim, as they never wanted me among their peers in the first place, not to mention the shame I will bear. My future is forfeit. I refuse to see all of you to share my fate.” “No… please…” Estar cupped her pole-bearer’s cheek in her hand, ever so gently, as she had only ever done in private. “If you truly love me, you will do this for me. I meant what I said; you will make a great huntress.” “Not…” Gravisha looked around sharply, as if suddenly remembering others were present, but then continued anyway. “Without you… I could never. I do not want it. Choose Giltra if you must do this. My place will always be with you.” “Giltra is very dear to me, but she does not have your mind for politics.” She glanced at the woman in question and bowed her head deeply. Coming from a Huntress to one of a lower station, it was every bit the novel offering of respect she intended it to be. Unnecessary, she knew, for Giltra had never shown a desire to rise above pole-bearer, and the woman’s loyalty was absolute. Even so. Gravisha looked up, still kneeling, and Estar saw something in her eyes she had never seen before: tears. The wind toyed gently with loose strands of her wiry hair, as if trying to console her. “No one who speaks your name will fully know the incredible woman you are, or the bravery and selflessness in your heart. History is a faithless swindler.” “Perhaps. But I would rather be denounced by history than live as a legend with my legacy built upon a foundation of corpses. This choice is the ultimate price of leadership, though I never imagined that I -of all people- would find myself the one to make it. “Had more of my kin made the right choice in times gone by, perhaps the world of today would be a brighter one. I must think of generations to come. The barbarians are here to stay. We know of them now, and they of us. We live at the beginning of a new era. Let us do all we can to make it one of peace, where reason triumphs over ambition. Estar shifted in the moist cloth of her diaper. “In the meantime, let us retire to someplace warm and dry.” Gravisha shared a glance with Giltra, the two of them knowing well what the phrase meant. Estar led them into the tent, making certain to hide her limp until the flaps were closed behind her. Appearances must be kept, especially in times such as this, when her sisters would need her to be strong for all of them. That was outside the tent walls. Inside, with only her closest advisors and trusted aides (one of which hustled in and stood dutifully by the door, no doubt summoned by Giltra) she could be herself for a precious but short time. A bench was brought in, long enough for Estar to lay upon, but too narrow for sleep. Giltra helped her disrobe, as the long flowing garments customary to her people made changing difficult, until she was dressed only in light cotton chemise and diaper. Then she lay down and let the women get to work. Giltra unfastened the diaper as usual, but Estar was forced to interrupt the woman and hold the diaper against her groin for a few moments as her body shivered from the morning’s cold and another stream briefly erupted from her. “Oh… bother.” She nodded when she had finished, and the process continued. “Too much wine before bed,” she thought aloud – as close to an apology as her station allowed her. Her second pole-bearer seldom smiled. Some said she never smiled, but Estar knew better. The woman expressed kindness through her eyes, not her lips. It was, in its own way, a smile as good as any other, and Estar treasured each one just as she valued the happiness of all of her sisters. Even now, a familiar light of fondness showed from the woman’s slanted eyes. The huntress’ diaper was gently removed, with a dignity that neared reverence – something which always tickled Estar. She understood the respect that came with her title, but everyone who tended to her insisted on extending that reverence to her soiled undergarments. She had not tried too hard to dissuade them; even a huntress needed some amusement in life. “Remove our huntress’ laundry and see that it is cleaned,” Giltra instructed in her quiet but authoritative voice. The aide standing by the door snapped to the task as if it were the most important one she would ever be given, just as she always did, and the diaper was soon hidden and whisked away. Giltra next turned to the task of wiping Estar and gently drying her. The cold mountain air and the damp cloth conspired to give the huntress goosebumps, but she endured it without complaint. “Stop,” Gravisha blurted. “I will finish, please.” Giltra bowed her head and left without a word, and Estar could hear her pointedly positioning herself just outside the tent door, as additional insurance against anyone intruding. A fresh diaper had been placed on the bench, and the first pole-bearer gently slid it up underneath Estar’s bottom as her subject lifted. Her movements were distracted. “My Huntress,” she said, kneeling down beside the bench. If there was a light behind Giltra’s eyes, Gravisha’s were two burning suns. Her narrow lips quivered, just slightly, making her soft face look fragile, like a precious vase that might shatter if handled too roughly. “I… I…” “I know,” Estar replied simply, cupping the woman’s face with her hand once more, drawing it closer. She relished the gentle touch of Gravisha’s lips, and returned the embrace with passion, grabbing Gravisha’s head with both hands and pulling her close, their mouths too entwined to permit the passage of air. Even so, it was a gentle act, a dance of their lips in a space all their own. She loved Gravisha’s tenderness, the slight hesitancy behind her every exploration. She loved returning it in kind, gingerly tasting the woman. Honey. How did she always manage to taste of honey? Once, before she had understood her own tastes, she had taken a buck to her bed. Many huntresses insisted on monopolizing the bucks, others relegated that task to their pole-bearers. No one asked questions; it was the business of no one but the huntress as to who would bear the next generation. For her part, the act had been educational, but not enjoyable. His movements had been aggressive; his tongue assaulted her mouth with the same down-to-business approach as his organ when he shoved himself against her. She would not fault the buck however, for they were bred from animals – they had been barbarians once too, after all. It was only in their nature. Not Gravisha. The woman’s movements were gentle and soft as she explored Estar’s body. She teased her way towards the more obvious targets, but slowly, starting by caressing the insides of her victim’s legs with a soft touch, smiling when Estar lurched involuntarily, then more boldly wetting a finger and circling Estar’s breasts in a spiral that drew ever closer to the center. She continued this way, bringing her tongue and mouth to bear, gently kissing and caressing Estar’s neck, that place just above the back of her knees, and all the private places only she knew. She finally brought Estar to her climax, her fingers stoking the bonfire between the huntress’ legs with calculated movements, but only after the huntress craved it, needed it, her body a furnace in the cold mountain air, her heart pumping out of her chest with desire. Those hands, that soft mouth, were like thieves in the night, their next target always unknown, until it wasn’t. Estar’s womanly spray, this one having nothing to do with her bladder, exploded all over the fresh diaper laid out before her and underneath her, as her breath caught in her throat and cut off a decidedly indignant moan. When at last she caught her breath, Estar pulled her lover on top of her, letting herself be straddled. She pulled off the woman’s robes hungrily, and Gravisha leaned forward. It was Estar’s turn now, and she tenderly began running her hands ever so gently, yet ever so forcefully, down the pole-bearer’s back. Gently, teasingly, slowly, downward, while at the same time she craned her neck forward to taste an earlobe. She felt moisture hitting her groin and looked down in sudden confusion, worried she was peeing herself again, but it was not her. “Forgive me, Huntress,” Gravisha said in a voice heavy with desire, her urine flowing into Estar’s open diaper in a thick stream until the woman finally got it under control. “You excite me, I… I can’t control myself…” She placed a finger vertically across the other woman’s mouth, and shook her head. “It’s Estar,” she said with futility and for the hundredth time, “and this… this is our place. Here we apologize for nothing.” She continued to probe for Gravisha’s weak spots, but the woman became unresponsive. “What is it?” “I… I cannot lose you, my Huntress. Promise you will not throw yourself on the spear. Promise me-” Again Estar stopped her. “Oh Gravisha, my sweet peach of summer. You know that I would promise you anything were it in my power. But I cannot control all that is to come. Know that whatever happens, I will always love you.” No words were offered in reply, but again the pole-bearer let slip a few reluctant tears, her fragile face looking shattered. Seeing her like this always broke Estar’s heart in two, just as it did in that moment. Loud talking could be heard outside, muffled by the thick canvas tent walls. A few moments later Giltra moved swiftly inside, even as Estar and Gravisha were rushing to get their clothes, fresh but wet diaper included, back on. She kept her head bowed, deliberately seeing nothing, though of course she had known perfectly well what was going on inside the tent. Very little escaped the woman. “I beg forgiveness, Huntress, but there has been a development that requires your attention.” “Yes?” “It is the barbarians… They are here.” Estar rose with a swiftness that belied the weakness of her leg. “What? They are attacking?” Giltra’s full lips pursed in an uncertain expression. “We’re… not sure. A sizeable group of them are charging our camp, and will be here in minutes, but…” “Yes??” Estar prodded, impatience slipping into her tone. “I am not experienced in barbarian battle tactics, of course, but they appear to our scouts less like an attacking army, and more like the fleeing remnants of one.” “Then I must claim leadership now – foolish of me to delay! Yet in my wildest dreams I had not expected them so soon. Perhaps they orchestrated these events after all, while I sat here thinking them witless… Deploy our bucks in a defensive line, hopefully my sister huntresses will do the same without needing to be told.” Giltra bowed and left while Gravisha fussed over every detail of both women’s appearance so nothing would look amiss. “Fleeing, she said?” Estar thought aloud. The notion of their enemy being decimated to the point of fleeing right into enemy lines should have brought her comfort, but she found that it worried her all the more. Nothing about this hunt so far had been what it had appeared, and doom seemed to follow every development like thunder to a bolt of lightning. What next does the storm front of life bring down upon us?

The Wild North CHAPTER TWELVE (ELM) Elm’s world shrunk. It became comfortable, safe. The fears existed outside of it. He could see them, hear them scratching on the walls of his space, but they could not get in. It seemed a fair trade: a huge, terrifying world he no longer wanted in exchange for a small, safe one. He was not crazy; it was everyone else who embraced madness, anyone and everyone who would trade safety for endless cold. He suckled from the warm breasts of Mother, knowing without doubt that there was nothing, nothing in that world he had left behind that was worth all of its pain. Mother, as he knew her now, shifted him in her arms, directing his mouth to her other breast. If the woman had a given name she never said it, and Elm felt no need to know. She said nothing else about herself either. That was also fine with him. The morning after they had been placed together, Mother had taken him out of his cell for the first time. She clothed him only in a ragged shirt, his diaper, and some warm blankets. Despite the fact she was not a large woman, she insisted on carrying him everywhere, only setting him down when she set upon her daily tasks, which consisted almost entirely of cleaning soldiers’ soiled laundry and cooking their meals. Each task was set upon with equanimity and the gentle humming of a quiet tune, always both familiar and foreign, as if Elm had heard them before but never quite remembered where. Safe within the bubble of her presence, the soldiers left him alone. Sometimes they would jeer at him and laugh, pointing at him like a circus attraction. Rarely, one would spit on the ground near him and walk on with an unforgiving glare. Others treated him as entertainment, openly watching as Mother cared for him. None got too close. Mother was a fountain of kindness, but the one time a soldier had kicked him (for no reason that Elm knew of) she had transformed into his guardian angel. She threw boiling stew on the soldier and whacked him with the metal pot for good measure. The other soldiers laughed. The one who had kicked him got a dark look after that. One that never quite left, one which promised to be waiting in every shadow. He would have struck Mother; Elm could tell. Fortunately the other soldiers intervened. Mother, it seemed, was not to be harmed. Nor was Elm to be left unattended. The one time he had tried to wander off she had chased him down, turned him over on her lap, and spanked him. He hadn’t even been trying to escape, only to explore. Several other women walked by as she smacked his diapered bottom, but no one tried to intervene. They watched the display out of the corner of their eyes. Some smiled sadly, others shook their heads as if the whole thing were ridiculous. He found himself crying as his punishment was completed, but not from pain or embarrassment but because Mother was angry with him. He hated himself for making her angry. “Bad, Little Gordon,” she shamed him. “Mother will keep you safe, but you have to be good.” He promised. He promised he would be good. If only she would not abandon him to that cold world again. Only when it was over, and she pulled him to her breasts once more, held him in her gentle curves, could he breathe deeply once again. “Mother won’t let another accident happen. Not to Little Gordon…” He sat, a short while later, on an old rotted bench beside her while she whiled away the day's chores, and he watched the other women work. They mostly ignored Mother, though all of the women occupied the same section of camp and often worked only a few feet away from one another. Nor did Mother seem to want anything from them. Elm was never quite sure how real the rest of the world was to Mother; though she interacted with it constantly, she never quite seemed to acknowledge it. He felt his need and let go as he watched the other women of the camp work, peeing his diaper as he looked from one to the other, trying to decide which one looked more like Macadamia. That woman there had her hair. Over there stood a woman with her eyes. He wondered if he would ever see her again. He needed to push himself off the bench, as it was hard to poop while sitting on a flat surface, and did so. A couple of the women looked his way just as he held his breath, pushed, and sighed with relief, soft warmth filling the back of his diaper. They snickered, and one of them might have said something. Some part of the man he had been before still lurked behind his eyes, telling his cheeks to blush, but he paid it no mind. He relished Mother’s attention whenever she took a break from her chores. Such as she did after sniffing the air a few moments later. The crusty old wood of the bench served as his changing table while all those who cared to look on did so. Mother slid away his diaper cover, unpinned his wet cloth, humming her most consoling tune the whole time, and cleaned him. The cool air against his crotch made him want to pee again for some reason, and he did so. Mother only murmured gentle scoldings and cleaned him again. “My Little Gordon!” her soft voice cooed. “Oh, you!” Then clean cloth was closed around him once more, making him feel safe. She lifted his shirt and blew on his stomach, and when that failed to garner a response she started tickling him, at which point he fled. Not too far away, of course. No, never again. “At least she’s found someone… like her,” a woman said a short distance away. Another responded. “Yes, poor dears, quite right! At least they have each other.” A heavy sigh. “She was so very broken. It’s good to see her… whole again.” “Oh, to be sure! But what of the boy? How many has there been now? What if this one runs off too? I don’t want to say it, but I fear it may simply break the poor woman!” The blood drained from Elm’s face at the mere thought. Run away? Abandon Mother? Never! Not even for Macadamia? intruded a curious thought. Not even for her? Suddenly he was uncomfortable, shifting and fidgeting. Bad thoughts. Uncomfortable questions. Better just to let them pass, and drink in the brisk northern air. Spring was teasing them that day, breathing on them with its warm, scented breath out of the South. All of nature responded, opening up in welcome with colorful flowers and green sprouts. For his part, Elm danced. It felt so good to twirl in the undergrowth at the forest’s edge, in safe distance of Mother. It had been so long since he had simply danced. Innocent were his movements, driven by his soul, a means only to their own end. But life, he was soon reminded, is an eternal, balanced cycle of light and dark. As the sun's rays grew long, and its bright disk kissed the distant hills and peaks, the men returned. They left the women alone during the day. Early each morning they were drummed out of their bedrolls and made to practice the skills of a soldier. They mimicked the movements that would deal out death in strict drills, and were marched until they were gasping for breath by other men in chairs, who shouted their superiority with merciless rhythm. Yet at other times they were made to dig latrines or trenches, or stand around guarding things (from each other, apparently) but without looking as bored as they obviously were. Only the highest ranking soldiers retained the right to do as they pleased during this time. They visited the women, but in small numbers. They were usually polite, although not a one dirtied himself by so much as looking at Elm. But at dusk the shift changed and the majority of the men were let loose. They set upon the women’s half of the camp like predators let loose in a hen house. The women, in turn, divided themselves into two groups: the ones who seemed to want the men’s attention, and the ones who did not, or were not attractive enough to bother soliciting it. At first it seemed innocent enough, until he saw a woman fight a man over a matter of payment (Elm couldn’t imagine what about). He beat her, as Elm looked on in horror. The other women nearby scowled and cursed him, but few tried to help. She was dragged onto the back of a cart, half-conscious, her dress torn open, while he shoved himself inside of her. His manhood had become something else now. Something hurtful. She cried out as he used her, as violently as he could manage. There was only darkness behind his eyes, and each of his spittle-filled, heaving breaths sounded ominous and unnatural. Not the sounds a human should make. For a moment Elm was back in that cave again, trapped while death stalked him only feet away. Or back home, trapped by one of his father’s drunken rampages. He buried his face in Mother’s skirts. She shushed him gently and stroked his hair, and she hummed until the gloom went away once again. It was on the second night that the darkness intruded upon his world in a way he could not ignore. It was known that something big was to happen in the morning, and both sides of the camp were filled with hustle and bustle. There was an extra energy to the men, who all demanded their laundry be perfectly clean, their stained uniforms perfectly starched. The women reassured them, then turned away and resumed the same chores they always did, often with the same empty gazes. Some few women, the younger ones who had been… claimed, was the right word, Elm decided. The younger, curviest ones, having been claimed by one of the higher-ranking men, would swoon and act as if the world might end with the sunrise, willing performers in the strange performances of the men. The rest shook their heads and rolled their eyes in silence. Elm wondered: if something terrible did befall the soldiers, would that really be such a bad thing? What did this world owe such men? He had been taught that a debt was owed when something was given. These men only seemed to know how to take. The king’s army claimed to be ‘civilizing’ the world, spreading ‘society’ and ‘progress’. If he asked these men what those words truly meant, would they be able to answer? His ponderance was cut short as the man who had kicked him before came into view. He lurched about, his words slurred. “Wench! Did I ask for slop?” Just like that, as suddenly as delicate glass shattered against a stone wall, the world around him became real. The man punched Elm in the mouth, hard, and the world spun away while the ground rushed up against him. It hurt. He wanted to cry, wanted to find Mother and have her take the pain away. He knew this pain. He knew the man’s slurred voice, the hatred that needed an outlet but cared not a whit who it was. But Mother… she could stop him… right? She tried, but this time he caught her arm as it attempted to club him. He smiled. It was a wicked, distorted thing, from a man who was more rotted inside than his teeth. A brutal backhanded blow sent her to the ground. Now he was kicking her. No one was stopping him. Why would no one stop him? His mind froze. His world melted to a sea of terror. It choked him. He’s going to kill her. That single thought consumed him. Suddenly he was naked. Helpless. The world was pulling him under; thick oil was filling his lungs… Then another woman intervened, rushing up at the man. She didn’t try to strike him, but rather cupped his cheek tenderly. “Leave the sorry creature be, Sweety. She’s learned her lesson. How about you teach me one now, hmmm?” She smiled seductively. A beautiful cover for the fear behind her eyes. Twice he shoved her away, but each time she rushed back. The second time she grappled aggressively with his manhood. “Come on. Show me what a real cock looks like? I know what you want. I know what you really need…” Mother was free. A freedom that was paid for by another woman’s pain. Elm watched as the monster pulled the strange woman away and had his way with her. There was no gentleness to it, no pleasure on her face. Only the cold motions of an animal as he stuck himself in her. She bore it, her expression a mask, even when he struck her across the face for no reason, then she limped away quietly after he discarded her. Other women moved in to comfort, in silent recognition. Elm had always known that sacrifice was more than just a word for hardship. It was a choice, too. A thing which was both given, and endured. The deepest sacrifice was not giving up a coin or a sack of grain, but a part of yourself, for another. Then Mother was there, pulling him tightly against her, shushing him and humming to him. “There, there, my Little Gordon. There, there…” But somehow, on that night, it was not enough. The monster, he realized, would always return. Safety was an illusion. He hugged Mother with all of his strength, shaking from residual terror, but something inside of him was hardening. An idea began to coalesce from his broken, fragmented thoughts. If he could never be safe from the monsters of the world, then the monsters would have to die. That night, after Mother fell to sleep, he did something he had promised never to do. He snuck away into the night. He was not running from the darkness this time, he was embracing it, melting deeper into it with each purposeful stride. His feet carried him further and further up the mountain slopes, long after the cold had stolen the feeling from his limbs. Finally he reached a place he found by pure instinct. A place he knew to be his destination without realizing he had one. A place of death. One of the huge, eyeless monsters, as big as a building, still lay dead in the snow where it had been slain. The men who had been slain by its mate were scattered around, their bodies oddly preserved by the mountain’s cold, as if winter had honored their sacrifice by keeping them frozen like statues. There was that word again: sacrifice. Men had died here to defeat a monster. They had not sacrificed a part of themselves; they had sacrificed all of themselves. Their very lives were forfeit for the protection of others. There were, it seemed, many forms of bravery, just as there were many shapes of monsters. Bodies were in pieces, some unrecognizable, but there was no sign that any of them had been moved. No sign anyone had been here. These men had died so selflessly, yet had seemingly been forgotten. It should have felt strange, he decided, or wrong, but it felt more like an irrelevant drop in the sea of madness that was the world. He approached the huge creature, took out a knife he had stolen from camp, and began cutting into its chest. Eventually he found what he sought: a huge, fleshy heart. It was made stiff by the cold, but he was able to grip the tiniest corner of it in his mouth and tear it free. It tasted awful, like spoiled meat never cooked. He swallowed it anyway. Swallowed, and then roared with all of his might and fury – a scream of defiance into the endless, empty night. Nothing happened of course. The mountains did not answer the scream of an insignificant madman. That is until -on this strange night- they did. From the darkness came a loud, wet, snort from a too-large nose, and Elm turned to see a creature emerge from the depths of shadow. A thing far too large to be real. A thing with no eyes, that saw him all the same. He did not tremble. He met its invisible gaze, flung his arms out to his sides, and roared once more.

Thanks so much! I should get another chapter up soon, but also want to give my other stories a little attention and these blasted speed bumps keep coming up. [BEGIN POINTLESS WHINING HERE] Life heard me complaining about temporary writer's block and really let me have it with an overlapping head cold, migraine, and family-emergency-that-later-turned-out-to-be-a-false-alarm combo, but I guess anything I survive, in the grand scheme of things, is just another speed bump. Wishing for my own death really brings into perspective how much I complain about the little things. Is it strange that I sometimes feel like a character in my own stories? My life is going to be one of those movies where, at the end, the camera zooms out on me in a padded cell writing the 'story' of my life on the walls using a stolen crayon I stuffed down my shirt. And then I'm going to realize it and be like "wait... so did all that cr** even mean anything or not??" Roll credits... Does anyone else ever feel like that? At least I have my stories. Here, where they live, they can mean something, if just a little. [POINTLESS WHINING COMPLETE, GETTING BACK TO IT...]

[Okay I stayed up way too late again for a few nights and sure enough got something. Maybe it's true; maybe I can only be creative in the middle of the night. Not sure if it's a good thing, or if it's just going to be over-the-top in certain respects and I'll have no readers left, but what the heck. "Shades of The Towering Inferno" or "Shades of Mental Illness"? I'll let you decide:] Offices, Elevators, and Diapers CHAPTER FOUR Now as I’m sure we are all aware, every good disaster story that starts in an elevator needs dramatic moments of death-defying close-calls, scaling of smoke-filled heights with a certainly lethal drop below, clever escapes, moments of bravery and self-sacrifice, and finally an emotional resolution wherein the characters ride off happily into the sunset in each other’s arms. Unfortunately, I never claimed this was a good disaster story. Perhaps “disaster of a story” would be more appropriate. Our poor protagonists would certainly agree by this point, as they sat slumped against a wall of fallen rubble, where once there had been a stairwell. The smoke was getting thick enough that even sitting on the floor did not stop their lungs from coughing, or the air from feeling thin. Liza complained about feeling lightheaded. Joe bragged about being fine. Suzie still smiled from when “fine” Joe had lost consciousness and fell flat on his face. Oh, and then there was Dick, who had torn his shirt from his thick muscular chest, in a way that made Suzie imagine Tarzan, and now ripped it into smaller pieces. She told herself it was her head still ringing, or perhaps the oxygen-deprived air, but her imagination had taken the Tarzan image and ran with it. In her mind's eye he was transforming right in front of her. She imagined him thumping his chest and carrying her off into a nearby tree… “What is it, Miss Applegate?” Liza asked in response to Suzie’s loud, unappreciative snort. “Nothing… Just thinking about bad movies.” “At a time like this?” “I know. It’s stupid. I’m not really thinking, thinking about them, just-” Joe interrupted, having regained consciousness. “I like movies! You, umm, see that one about that genius? You know, that invented modern computing? Great acting. Good story. I think every school kid should watch it. I, umm, I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve actually stood before the very first computer. They keep it around like a museum exhibit. It was actually featured in the movie…” Suzie got a coughing fit out of the way, which was good cover for the fact that she was rolling her eyes. “Really? What about that other movie… the one about the nerd who was so smart he couldn’t save his friends from dying in a fire? You seen that?” He frowned. “Umm, no, not really.” “Really? Well I’m watching it right now. It sucks.” “Here,” Dick said, handing her an arm from his shirt, “it will help you breathe.” “You know the cloth is supposed to be wet, right?” “Well, it is damp,” Liza said neutrally. Suzie sniffed, then whipped her head back. “Sweat does not count!” “Okay, here, I got an idea.” Joe snatched the cloth out of her hand. “Okay, if your ‘idea’ is to pee on the… Wait, why are you already peeing? You don’t have your pants down yet… Oh.” Joe couldn’t meet her gaze. He tucked the shirt sleeve underneath him and sat on it while he continued to pee, still wearing only his underwear. The white cotton had turned yellow all up his front side and his flood was continuing. His thick stream penetrated the fabric and flowed down to start a pool underneath him. “Well, umm, I did kind of say I needed to go,” he said sullenly, “back in the elevator. But you wouldn’t share your diapers and umm, we haven’t come across a restroom yet…” “Seriously,” Suzie said without her usual sarcasm, looking at him with brows arched in an atypical expression of sympathy. “How is it none of you have considered diapers before now?” She grabbed the shirt remains out of Liza and Dick’s hands and tossed it at Joe, who held it tightly against himself as it too turned yellow. When his flow still continued, she sighed in defeat. That was until Liza handed her a bundle of more fabric. Without thinking, she accepted it and bent over Joe, batting his hands aside and shoving it up against him, tucking some of it up underneath for good measure. She began blushing as she pressed the fabric against his fountain, and averted her gaze. The bundle was much larger than a shirt sleeve. She only belatedly realized it was a whole shirt. She looked at Liza, who was now wearing only her bra and panties, and sighed. “You know,” she said sadly, shaking her head, “there is such a thing as being accommodating to a fault. Not that I want to tell you how to run your life, but…” She felt wetness against her hands and glanced back at Joe, only to see that the man had soaked the shirt but paid little attention to it. His eyes were now locked onto Liza’s partially-exposed breasts. She gave him an open-handed slap that rocked his head in the opposite direction. “...but now that’s going to keep happening.” Seeing his gaze come to rest on her diaper as she kneeled before him, she slapped him again. When his gaze landed on Liza’s still-damp panties next, she sighed, then reached out to slap him again. Liza’s hand on her wrist aborted it. “Actually, Miss Applegate, we may want to avoid giving him a concussion. All of us are probably suffering from some level of hypoxia as it is.” Suddenly blushing at her own boldness, the reserved secretary’s hand leaped away. Suzie shrugged noncommittally. She looked something like a child who had been denied a favorite new toy, but abandoned the slap. Only then did she realize that watching someone else pee is not all that different from watching a documentary on waterfalls or staring at a dripping faucet, and she began releasing into her diaper. “Shoot,” she said, instinctively glancing downward, “this is my last one.” Joe’s gaze shot down to her groin like a diving hawk, and she uttered an exasperated huff. While getting up she clasped her hands over the front of her diaper to try and disrupt his gaze, but it didn’t work. Not only that, raising her head caused her to breathe in more smoke and she coughed as she sat back down beside Liza. Her body had little enough fluid left, and she was finished a moment later. She glanced over at Joe to see if he was still staring at her, noted that he had stopped peeing, and further observed a new bulge in the front of his underwear. Her hands pressed against her diaper more tightly in a subconscious gesture of unease. Joe’s inability to control his stare was one thing. Her male coworker having an erection while watching her pee was quite another. A few moments later Joe picked up a soaked shirt sleeve and held it out to Liza and Suzie in offering. “It’s, umm, wet now, like you wanted…” Suzie stared at it as if it were a disgusting, slimy eel. “Yeah. Thanks, but that’s yours now. I’m good with suffocating-” The wet cloth was clamped across her mouth by Dick, who proceeded to tie it behind her head so it would stay in place. “I’m sorry, but as head of this department I’m responsible for your safety in the event of an emergency. I can’t have you suffocating, and you are quite correct that wet cloth is much more effective at…” He continued the lecture while Suzie, under the combined odorous assault of Dick’s sweat and Joe’s pee, crossed and uncrossed her very wide eyes while her hands flailed about. Dick became concerned that she was not fully absorbing what he was saying. He let loose a heavy sigh of his own. Employees, he reflected sadly, were always complaining that their ideas were not given enough credence, then protesting when he was kind enough to implement them. “Liza!” Joe said, grabbing Liza’s shirt and moving towards her, dripping on the floor as he went. “We have to protect her as well…” “No! …Mr. Hill, that’s really quite kind of you but…” The secretary looked around desperately, then tore off a sleeve of Suzie’s dress in one clean swipe. (A clever reader might be impressed by her sudden strength, but would no doubt immediately recall how easily the cheap garment had ripped in half back in chapter one. Suzie’s clothes-buying habits would be forever altered by the end of this story.) “...perhaps I should do it myself.” Liza rose up into a crouch, moved as if to remove her underwear, then aborted when Joe continued to stare. Instead she placed the sleeve on the floor beneath her, and peed through her already wet panties. When it was done, she daintily wrung out the fabric before holding it over her mouth. “Oh dear,” she mumbled Joe wrung out Liza’s shirt aggressively, but rather than cover his mouth with it, he placed it under its still-crouching owner’s dripping panties. “Could you, umm…” He made an awkward hand wave from her groin to the shirt. Liza’s muffled voice replied, “But, Sir, you just finished trying to dry it.” “Umm… I changed my mind. It’s too dry now.” “Are you certain?” “Oh, yeah, for sure, and I don’t want to die of smoke, so umm…” The request seemed quite irregular, but Liza, being the thoughtful, complaisant person that she was, shrugged and proceeded to let go with a soft, high-pitched sigh, once more peeing through her panties as she tried to ignore Joe’s wide-eyed fixation with the process. “...Furthermore,” Dick was saying, “company policy strictly prohibits employees remaining in an unsafe place, which this has clearly become. So, in the interests of making this meeting a productive one, and including everyone in the process, I will open the floor to suggestions.” He had already decided to ignore the continuous and quite gratuitous dress-code and conduct violations. They had become pervasive enough so as to require their own meeting. Noting the lack of responses to his present query, he looked at each of them sternly. Suzie’s eyes had rolled back in her head, and her hands clawed at her wet mask. Liza coughed in spite of the wet cloth and only shrugged. Which left Joe, who was unique in his lack of aversion to the circumstances. He breathed deeply through Liza's shirt, soaked as it was in her own pee, while his eyes rolled almost as far back in his head as Suzie’s. He relaxed his shoulders in obvious contentment, but said nothing. “I’m noticing that when we have meetings on a Monday, participation is reduced,” Dick said in honest concern. “It seems our ‘free coffee’ policy is not having its intended effect.” “Oh dear. Well, Sir, as much as I’m certain we would all like to postpone this…” “Actually, I have an idea.” Joe pointed to a nearby wall. He looked smug, as of course all IT personnel are expected to be, having been bestowed with sacred knowledge too complex for the mere mortals who surround them. “I kind of, umm personally supervised the installation of the cat cables for the new T3 backbone, you see, last year, and umm…” His body was held in a rigid, confident pose, as he preened at his own self-importance. “...I was kind of the reason we got the upgrade too, but umm anyway, the main trunk runs through a vertical shaft in that hollow wall right there.” He let that hang in the air for a time, only continuing after getting a few expectant looks, pinching the bridge of his nose, and finally making impatient gestures while he explained. This was all part of his training. As I am sure you, Dear Reader, are already aware, the first rule of being in the business of tech support is to ignore everything your client says and read a series of thoroughly counter-productive instructions from a pre-written flow chart, but that’s beside the point, and Joe had no such chart. The second rule, however, is to emphasize your superiority over the lesser life forms around you at all times. That one went against his self-conscious nature, so it was fortunate he had practiced. “...It’s like, umm, 18 inches deep maybe, and runs for several floors in either direction. So we could, you know, pull out some cat cabling and use it as rope? I mean, it’s so obvious now. To me of course. I would have thought of it, like, much sooner, but you know… the smoke inhalation… and umm, stuff…” With that said he inhaled another lungful of Liza’s scent, which the others took to mean that he was finished with his ‘explanation’. Dick made certain to declare the meeting in ‘recess’ in order to try out Joe’s idea, and helped the younger man break through the appropriate section of plaster wall. The metal shaft turned out to be tall, thick metal braces anchored to the building’s framing, with thin aluminum panels as siding. Those came off with relative ease. They yanked out as much cabling as they could reach, but much of it either refused to come loose or was severed by Dick’s almost violently-strong pulls. This raised a new problem, as the two men agreed it would be dangerous to try climbing down a three-story wall using a rope that might snap under their weight or be severed the moment it caught on something. Thick electrical conduit ran opposite the cabling, but even Dick could not pull loose the heavy wire within. It was extremely difficult to see what they were doing inside the dark shaft to begin with, the hallway’s emergency lighting and dim reflections from the distant window being mostly useless as light sources. Their eventual solution to the cable problem was to braid multiple ones together and combine their strength, but this reduced the total length. One of their makeshift masks fell down the shaft and was lost during the process, and Suzie’s dress, already missing one sleeve and its bottom half, soon found itself without the other sleeve, but otherwise their revised plan seemed to be going off without a hitch. This being other than the final chapter, you can probably guess that the resulting rope was too short. From their third-floor window, they concluded, and a too-short ‘rope’, it would be dangerous to climb down to the street below, as jumping the remaining distance would likely injure them. There seemed little to no chance of an ambulance -or any other assistance- in the city’s present state of chaos. Their final solution was to try and climb down the shaft itself. With all of the cables and conduit running through it, there were handholds aplenty. Its size was just large enough to accommodate even Dick, although his broad shoulders would nearly get him stuck on several occasions. Liza passed around some bottled water she had found in one of the nearby rooms while they explained the plan to Suzie, who gasped in air as the cloth was removed from her face. She had never been so glad to inhale smoke, although the others remained oblivious to her distress. As they talked, she downed the entire bottle of water. “Okay,” she said at last, breathing heavily and wiping her mouth. “Here’s what we’re going to do. One of you is going to toss me out that window over there… head first. I can’t take any more of this; I want it to be over.” Everyone gave her concerned looks, but refused to do any throwing, and she relented with a heavy sigh. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s do your idea then.” Suzie glanced down the dark shaft a minute later and quickly suggested that Dick go first, to which the supervisor made no objection. Liza, it was agreed, would go next. Joe leaped in front of Suzie, volunteering himself to go next by climbing into the shaft. “Such chivalry,” Suzie commented dryly, then climbed in last. Soon they were all below the level of the floor, and gratefully breathing smoke-free air. Dusty, stale air, they each noted, as they coughed and sneezed their way down, but breathable. Despite the conduit and cables to grab onto, everyone but Dick was soon complaining about sore arms and tired muscles. Initially, Joe was more silent about complaints than any of them. He spent his time looking either straight down at Liza’s chest, or straight up at Suzie’s puffy diaper. Later on, well after the events of this story, he would look back and remark that, taken altogether, it might have been one of the best days he had ever had at the office. And he would most definitely remember the moment when, still illuminated from above by the light leaking in the open panels, Suzie’s sneeze caused her to start aggressively leaking into her diaper while he watched from only a few feet below. Her legs were bent in front of her, her knees pressed against one wall, her back against its opposite, and her arms were anchored against the two walls to either side, leaving him with what he considered a rather perfect view. “Shoot. Shouldn’t have drunk that whole bottle…” she remarked. He was close enough to clearly hear her quiet hiss, as her leak became a stream. “And eyes to front down there, Mr. I.T. Guy! Yeah, I see you looking!” He would also remember the perfect roundness of Liza’s breasts (when he finally did avert his gaze from Suzie – which as you can guess was not right away), the cute sound of her sneeze as the dust got to her as well, the way her chest heaved, and the way that physics did their part to tantalize him, her every motion causing the slightest jiggle. He would remember the smoothness of her creamy skin. He would remember– Well, I’m once more certain you get the idea… He was, as we all know by now, the sort of man who remembered a great deal about rather particular topics. The group had only just begun to make real progress when Dick let loose an atypical yelp. “We need to go back,” he suggested rather urgently. “But, umm, you’re only like one floor down,” Joe replied, not moving. They all heard Dick clumping and clanging against the metal around him, continually adjusting his position, but his voice seemed locked -as it usually was- in his practiced, professional monotone. Well… mostly. “I appreciate your feedback, but -ow!- I’m afraid that I don’t have the mandated supplies to treat -ah!- first degree burns as described in the manual of emergency first -ouch!- aid, which precludes us from climbing any lower than -arg!- where we started. All of the metal around me is -oh lord!- getting quite warm and is not suitable to touch or climb upon. I’m afraid this floor might be -holy grapenuts!- the source of the smoke we saw, and the fire has likely reached this wall. I’m making -mother of!- an executive decision here to go up instead, and I would appreciate -son of a!- your expediency.” No one besides Joe had needed the explanation, as grunts of pain proved quite expressive. However, having received it, the IT professional was finally convinced, and the whole group was in motion. Climbing up was much harder than climbing down. It was no longer enough to brace themselves against the metal panels or slide down conduit, and none of them had practiced proper climbing since their high school gym classes. At first there was a lot of grunting and groaning, but no one was moving very fast. “Oh dear. Sir, smoke is getting into the shaft.” “I’m aware,” Dick replied. “I’m afraid that we’re -oh bother!- going to have to add fire retardancy -ow!- to the dress code as well…” “Sir? What do you mean… Oh dear me, are you on fire?” There was the sound of Dick panting, grunting, and banging around, and of cloth ripping. The group took the answer to be sufficient, and suddenly found additional motivation. The pace of climbing picked up. “I can’t… I can’t climb anymore,” Suzie said at one point. She wasn’t sure how long they had been climbing. It seemed like an eternity. Her breath came in gasps. Her muscles burned. Surrounded by impenetrable darkness, time took on a different meaning. “See if you can knock out any of the panels around you,” Dick instructed. “There may only be plaster on the other side.” Suzie was surprised to hear her boss out of breath. Later she would learn the cause: Liza was no longer climbing. She was getting carried on Dick’s shoulders. Joe, in turn, was getting carried on her shoulders. The poor beleaguered secretary was grunting the hardest of any of them as she struggled to keep him balanced upright on her small frame. There wasn’t room for Suzie to properly kick but she pounded with her fists on the various panels around her. One of them gave, just a bit, and she almost cried with relief. When more pounding didn’t work, she braced her back against the opposite wall and pushed outward with all of the strength her awkwardly-bent legs could muster. The panel was budging, but slowly. Her muscles heard the continued instruction to push, which they did, but interpreted the order rather liberally. A warm squishiness steadily pressed itself into her diaper. Finally the metal panel in front of her snapped off its shallow hooks, the thin, weak wooden plasterboard lath behind it caved, and the plaster surface beyond that shattered into a cloud of dust that made her cough. Artificial light poured in. “Oh, man, did you just…” Joe reached up from just below her and explored the bottom of her diaper with his right hand while he sniffed, pressing his pointer finger into her squishy bum experimentally. “Hey!” she protested sharply. “Hands off!” She swatted his hand away for emphasis. “Oh dear, did she?” “Again?” asked Dick. “Hey at least I’m not the one who keeps peeing all over the floor!” she shot back. Otherwise ignoring them, she contorted herself through the opening and crawled gratefully onto solid ground. She noted the absence of smoke with indescribable relief. In time, she knew their gaseous foe would follow them up the shaft, but she reasoned that they could cover the hole somehow, or perhaps make an escape first. She grudgingly helped Joe through the hole, then -less reluctantly- Liza. Dick was completely ignored. He crawled through on his own, still shirtless on top and now wearing smoking fragments of his dress pants below. His skin was singed in several places. Like all of them, he was covered in dirt and dust. She winced in sympathy, but could not bring herself to express it aloud. They found themselves in a medium-sized, roughly-square room. There were no windows in sight, only the harsh emergency light above the room’s single exit. Beneath them lay old, scraped and scratched vinyl with a square tile pattern. The walls were stained and dented, and cobwebs padded the corners. Even without the improper lighting, the space had an obvious ‘seldom used’ look. They competed for floor space with a haphazard collection of old metal-and-plastic tables and chairs, most covered in a layer of dust. “Storage room,” Suzie thought aloud, getting to her feet. “Told you,” Joe said. Suzie turned to look at him with exaggerated deliberateness. “Oh really? And just what, my dear I.T. Guy, did you ‘tell us’, exactly?” He shrugged uncomfortably. “That, umm… this would work?” “Oh… I see. You told us that we’d end up gasping for breath after nearly dying in a claustrophobic metal shaft. You told us that we’d have gone through all that, not to be rescued, but to be trapped on an even higher floor with even less chance of climbing down to safety?” He fidgeted with his hands. “Umm, well it sounded better when I said it… You know, you have kind of a negative personality.” “Negative personality?” She blinked, having trouble deciding if it was worth the energy to throw him back down the metal shaft. “I can’t do this,” she said instead, walking away and pushing her way out the double doors at the room’s entrance. “Hey, umm, my name’s ‘Joe’… by the way…” “Yeah, whatever, IT Guy.” That was the last the others saw of her for the time being, as they helped each other to their feet. “I don’t hear anyone,” Liza observed. Dick moved to the door, cracked it open, looked around, then turned back to the other two. “I know this floor. Maintenance. It has a conference room that we used for a training seminar, but that was a long time ago. It’s now under the purview of the janitorial and building maintenance personnel. Assuming any of them were working today, they may well have been trapped on other floors.” He exhaled slowly. “That’s a relief.” “Sir?” He smiled wryly, as if it were obvious. “Well, I’m hardly dressed appropriately.” “Oh yes!” Suzie shouted from somewhere down the hallway, “That is exactly the right thing to be worried about in this situation: your reputation!” “I think you look fine,” Joe replied. It would have been more convincing had he not been looking at Liza while saying it. She wrapped her arms across her breasts in a self-conscious gesture and tried to pretend that she didn’t notice his intense stare. “We should split up,” Dick suggested. “Look for exits and other survivors.” They did so. Dick found several more rooms to their left, but each was either empty or further storage. Liza and Joe went right out of the doorway, then split up when the hallway ended in a ‘T’ junction. There were more junctions in both directions and it was a good quarter of an hour later before anyone found the elevator. It was, of course, out of service, and no one forced the doors. Each of them remembered the smoke that had poured out of the shaft last time. The stairwell was found next, but by simply glancing over the nearest railing it was easy to see that it had collapsed not far below them. There was a huge crack in the outer wall, in those places where it was not missing altogether, and a cool breeze drifted in. Despite being outside air, it smelled vaguely of smoke. The city around them, they were beginning to realize, was in no better shape than their own building. Judging by the angle of the light beams, Liza guessed it to be around noon. The whole process went slower than it should have on account of Liza and Dick soon being the only two doing actual exploring. Joe opened one of the doors to find a large cafeteria with floor-to-ceiling windows on its far side. When he noticed Suzie standing before them, her curves forming an alluring dark shape that blocked out the bright blue sky beyond, his journeying was forgotten. Despite its size, the room was mostly empty. There were a few tables near a decently-sized minibar, which sported a full-sized fridge. “Just come oooonnnn innnn!” Suzie said, poorly impersonating a game show host. She had her back to the door, and was looking not at the blue sky in front of her, but at the desolation far below them, as the city continued with its throes of death. Her voice was slightly slurred as well, causing Joe to worry that she had fallen and hit her head again. Then he noticed the bottle of a colored liquid in her right hand. “Are you, umm, okay?” She glanced over her shoulder at him, then turned back to the sky. “Oh, I’m sorry!” she continued in her game-host voice. “That is an incorrect guess! The correct answer is: we’re all going to die!” Her snickering ended with a brief snort. “If anything’s wrong, you know, you can, umm… you can like… talk to me.” She snorted again. “Oh sure, we’re best pals, right, IT Guy?” He sighed. “Umm, name’s ‘Joe’, but… I kind of mentioned that.” “And since we’re best pals, I can tell you anything, right?” Her body lurched slightly. “Drat. I hate hiccups.” “Well, yeah, sure, you can tell me anything! But, umm, how did you get drunk like… this fast?” Only then did he notice nine more empty bottles arranged neatly on the counter. “Oh, this is nothin’, Honey. You should -hick- see me on a Friday when I really get going!” She turned around and walked towards him slowly, her hips swaying more than usual, and then stopped just in front of him. She used her hands to lift herself onto a table top, using its empty surface like a chair. Her diapered bottom landed with a quiet squish. “But don’t worry, I can -hick- drink anyone under the table. Alcohol doesn’t even phase me, Jack!” “Again, it’s ‘Joe’, but umm, sure, I can see that…” What he could actually see here, mind you, was the front of her wet diaper where his gaze was once again fixed. The walls interrupted them with a groan. It was a deep, tortured, ominous sound. There was a sharp, high-pitched crack too, which Joe later realized had been a window pane breaking. “You hear that?” Suzie said, splaying her arms in the air dramatically. “That, my dear I.T. Guy, is the sound of this building’s inevitable demise. I’m guessing the foundation is crumbling, or some critical support structure… thing… is collapsing. Maybe the fire is just going to eat it all up… mum-mum-mum-mum…” She burped loudly, then smiled a crooked, unhinged smile. “Either way, we’re all going down, my hopelessly salacious friend. Unless we get burned up in a fire!” She giggled again, then leaned back, palms on the table behind her. “See, this is what’s going to happen next: if this building doesn’t straight-up collapse, an aftershock is going to come along and take out what’s left of it. I’m surprised we haven’t felt one yet. No one is going to come rescue us; no one could even get to us if they tried. Eventually they’ll bring in a helicopter or something, but this building will never last that long.” She burped. “Looking back, do you know what I regret about all of it?” “Umm…” Joe’s palms were sweaty by this point, and for once he noticed Suzie looking at his crotch. She had a sly smile as she examined his manhood, where it bulged against his underwear with both hands. “You’d think -hick-. You’d think I’d regret the fact that… that all my dreams amount to nothing. You’d think that I’d regret my… my career path, or that I’m a single woman with no family left on this earth to miss me. I mean, that’s what I’m supposed to regret… right?” “I, umm, I don’t…” “No.” She giggled as if something was funny, then frowned. “No, you ‘don’t’ anything, do you? You don’t have any aspirations. You certainly don’t have a girlfriend. I don’t even think you have any friends… How am I -hick- doing so far? Do you even have regrets? Any mark you wish to leave on this world – other than a trail of naked women behind you -hick- whose clothes you’ve torn off?” “Hey, I didn’t – well, I mean, Liza’s pants, but that was an accident!” “My dress?” “Oh, umm, yeah but I mean that was also an-” She leaned forward, shook her head condescendingly, and placed a single finger vertically across Joe’s mouth while making shushing sounds. Her voice was almost comically exaggerated. “No, none of that now my poor, prurient IT Guy, don’t do that, don’t you do that. You know what? -hick- You are almost single-handedly responsible for the fact that not one of the four of us is wearing any clothes to speak of. Sure, you achieved this illustrious accomplishment -hick- through sheer clumsiness, stupidity, indecency, manipulation… anything but actually being attractive, -hick- but… but you know what? You should own that! It might just be your one talent: to be a… a walking disaster! So own it, Little Man!” “I… umm, well wait are you saying it’s like a good thing..?” She leaned back again, a slanted smile crossing her heart-shaped face. “Well, you’re a lecherous, amorous, licentious… I’m out… is there a thesaurus around? Well, you’re what they call a ‘pervert’ I believe. -Hick- But, hey, if you can live with that, why not!” “So… a good thing?” She scoffed, shaking her head as if to dispel a headache coming on. Which wasn’t far from the truth. Her head was swimming a bit from drink, yes, but it was working with Dick and Joe that gave her a propensity for migraines. “Look, you’re missing the point here. You see, the point here is that -hick- I… want to kill you. But I’m not! The building is going to do that when it collapses. So instead, I’m going to reflect on the fact that -of my limited offerings- you are the man that I hate the least.” Joe perked up as if he had just received flowers. “I am?” “Sure. -Hick- Because… because you know what you’ve got going for you? You’re not Dick. See how that works? Alright, yeah, he’s got a tight body chiseled straight out of stone… thick, strong arms that could bench press a car… chest like a semi truck… alluring, dark, hooded eyes that just… -hick- …just look right into you and make you want to…” She shook herself again. “Okay we’re getting off track here. “Also, that beer is going right through me! Why do maintenance people even have beers in their fridge? I went to college for four years, you think I have a fridge full of beer down the hall? No!” Her body had already started wetting on its own, but she closed her eyes briefly and relaxed all her muscles anyway, committing herself to the experience. Her own warmth splashed against her as she shamelessly flooded her diaper, making no effort to stop regardless of how wide-eyed Joe’s stare became. It would have been nice if the man could have closed his mouth before he started drooling, she reflected, but such were the limitations of what she had to work with. Joe was practically salivating as she spread her legs just slightly, and he listened to the soft hiss of her wetting as intently as a wild man -having never heard music- might listen to Beethoven. “Anyway -hick- what I’m trying to say is… Oh gosh, did I drink that much? What I’m trying to say is: I can live with all that. I can live with the fact that my dreams never came true. I can live with the fact that I’ll die alone in this world. -hick-” She leaned a little further back, a mischievous smile playing with her features. “You know what I do, in the end, regret about my life?” Joe gulped, his throat had gone too dry to speak. There was another hideous groan from the building and several panes of glass actually shattered. A cool breeze moved across them. Suzie ignored the violent sounds, while Joe failed to notice altogether. “What I do regret is… -hick-… that I didn’t have any fun! All the other college kids were out partying… me? I worked into the night and eventually drank myself to sleep after everyone else had crashed… alone. I never traveled – I have two years of unused vacation time, -hick- two years! All for a joke of a career that was never going anywhere under that… under Dick. But you know… you know what? I could… I could make peace with all that, if I could just say to life, before it snuffs me out, ‘the joke’s on you; I had a hell of a time!’ If I could just say that…” Her gaze inspected Joe from top to bottom, slowly, purposefully. “So you’re not much, but you’re what I’ve got. And this… -hick- this is the time I’ve got left. So before this building burns down, you and I… we’re going to have some of that reckless, stupid, fun I’ve been missing out on!” She lifted her legs, first one then the other, and looked down curiously, having thought she felt a leak, but then decided not. She shrugged before moving them further apart. She had finally finished peeing, and her day diaper was impossibly soaked, its cloth-like shell discolored with the moisture it contained, from almost the top in front to nearly the top in back. It would probably leak the next time she soiled herself, she reflected with no particular concern. Joe was trying to remember what speech was, and finally managed a croaking voice. “I, umm… I mean, you want to clean up first?” Suzie’s face was an indecipherable mask to the poor man. “Is that -hick- what you want? Because, I think what you want is to forget about that, go grab a beer or two, and then ravage me like an animal. What do you think?” She ran a finger slowly, gently, down his chest. “You -hick-… you got an animal hiding in there somewhere, Little Man? I’ve seen the way you look at me… Or anyone with breasts and a vagina, but let’s ignore that and -hick- keep this about us…” “Yeah, I mean, umm, I don’t… I don’t think the plumbing is working anyway, so… Wild animal, totally!” He tried to growl, but it came out more like a fumbling attempt at a kitten’s purr. She smiled. “That’s the -hick- spirit.” She turned herself to lay parallel to the table’s length, as if it were a bed, and waited for him, resting back on her elbows. She noted that his manhood seemed likely to burst right through the wet fabric of his underwear at any moment. His skin had grown slick with the sweat of desire, and he moved his lanky body to the table's end with a self-conscious hesitancy that she almost found adorable. Except that he clearly wasn’t getting the whole ‘like an animal’ concept. He shrugged awkwardly out of his shirt, but then stood there like an idiot. The poor man seemed to need some help. Not surprising, she decided, since he had probably never been with a woman in his life. She pointed at his underwear. “Lose ‘em.” He did so, then miraculously managed to figure out what to do next and climbed onto the table. (Then slipped and crashed to the floor with a loud thump, then climbed onto the table again.) He crawled forward until he was above her, then finally started gaining a bit of momentum. His eyes were dark pools of urgent need, and his hands actually shook as the poor terrified, excited man reached to her waist and pulled loose first one tab of her diaper, then another, then another. She kept her eyes locked onto his own the whole time, drinking in his longing. Pretending it was enough. Upon feeling the last tab on her diaper pulled away by his clumsy hands, she stroked his face invitingly, opening her lips just a space... The wet, heavy garment slid off the front of her, falling limply to the table between her legs. A cool breeze brushed across her. It was a stark contrast to the warmth of her freshly peed diaper. She lifted her legs and wrapped them around his narrow body, felt his throbbing member brush against her tantalizingly, so close now. She prepared to take him inside her, and moved one hand down to assist (this was clearly a man who would need to be guided in for a landing). Joe’s heart was beating so fast, he felt certain it would explode. His gaze combed across her, taking in everything like a dying man in the desert seeing water. He watched her diaper fall open with wide-eyed wonder, taking in the forbidden, mysterious land of her womanhood. (And her alluring, wet, poopy diaper.) No detail of her curves, not an inch of her smooth, soft body, was left unexplored by the naked passion behind his eyes. He paid special attention to the firmness of her breasts, as they hid beneath, and pushed against, the remains of her dress. When her warm hand guided his mouth towards her own, and her legs wrapped around him, her intense heat merged with his own and he felt ready to explode. “Since we’re about to die and all,” she said abruptly, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “I’m sorry about making fun of you earlier.” He might have replied, were he capable of making words. Her soft hand gently gripped his organ, guiding it slowly towards her… And then he squirted out his seed, half of it going into her diaper, half of it onto her groin. He gasped; his whole body convulsed as he pushed out more and more of his spray. And after that explosion of ecstasy, so cruelly brief, he was done. She pulled her hand away and examined where his cloudy load had grazed it. Her body went limp but still burned with a now unquenchable thirst, the heat in her chest matching the fire between her legs. She could only sigh. It would be the heaviest exhale anyone had heard from her yet, filled with the unspeakable dissatisfaction of one who had just realized that their whole life had been a con. “Unbelievable,” she said, her breath still fast and heavy but slowing. “Life hates me. That’s what this is.” “Miss Applegate, are you in here – oh dear! Oh dear, oh dear oh dear oh dear…” Joe’s head whipped around, and he promptly fell off the table yet again as he let out an unmanly scream. Dick’s voice came next. “What is it, Liza? Is someone in danger here? I…” Suzie had pulled her diaper closed again by the time Dick entered the scene, and was busy retaping it even as his voice drifted into dumbfounded oblivion. She got part way up, resting her feet on the bench and once more using the tabletop as a chair. There was nothing provocative about her posture this time. Her body drooped forward, her chin resting in the palm of her right hand, elbow on her knee, while her face was painted with a loud, determined frown. Her voice was still slurred. “The one time I want a man to be a complete animal…” She casually lifted Joe’s sopping underwear over her shoulder by her pointer finger. It vanished a moment later, as the man hastily attempted to cover himself while staying out of view behind her. “Miss Applegate, is everything alright? You sound like you hit your head again - ohhh…” “Yeah, so what? So I had a couple beers. You two idiots want to die sober? That’s your -hick- questionable decision.” She slipped off the table and shuffled over to the fridge, pulling out another beer and popping it open in one smooth motion. “Oh dear, but how did she get drunk so fast?” Joe and Dick both shrugged. “Oh, hey, IT Guy?” Suzie said, walking around the table to stand before him. “Umm, yeah?” She tore his shirt off with a brief but loud rrriiippp, and walked away. “I need this. The toilet paper in this building is always that cheap garbage.” The others backed away from her as she walked out of the room without another word. “Did anyone find an intact fire escape, working stairwell, or means to call for help?” Dick surveyed. No one had. “I don’t… actually think that, umm, the building is stable, by the way.” Joe said, gesturing to the walls around them. As if on cue, there was another sinister groan. “Oh dear. Well, perhaps we could go back into the shaft and try another floor?” “Without being able to get onto or past the second floor, I’m concerned it won’t help. We might find other survivors, but what we need is a way to get them out of the building. Otherwise we’re no help to them.” “Well, Sir, that might not be completely true. There might be fires on other floors. They might not know the shaft is there. They might be trapped and suffocating. Or perhaps they're perfectly fine, and have an idea we haven’t thought of?” Suzie walked back in as they were continuing to discuss the matter, but ignored the discussion. Instead, she walked up to Dick with a disapproving frown. Although the man no longer wore his shirt, his sense of duty concerning dress codes had obligated him to continue wearing his tie. It was important, he understood, to set a good example in even the most trying of circumstances. Suzie only cared that it made a convenient leash, and she grabbed it. “It’s a -hick- sad state of affairs, Mister, but you’re up.” Then she towed a bewildered Dick out of the room. “You’d better have one heck of a wild animal pent up beneath all that stuffiness,” they heard her saying from the hallway. “Oh dear, what is going on?” Liza asked. “I believe inhaling all that smoke may have affected Miss Applegate more than we realized!” Joe let loose a loud burp from the minibar. It was his turn to have an open bottle in his hand. “She’s right,” he said miserably. “We’re all going to die.” “Oh dear, not you too!” Liza complained, running over to Joe and pulling the bottle out of his hand. “I’m going to die a virgin now, Liza. I was like… this close… but then she was like ‘No! It’s too big, it won’t fit!’ and I was like ‘Whatever, you’re not the first woman who couldn’t handle me!’” Liza pursed her lips. “Are you sure she said that, Mr. Hill? Because that doesn’t really sound like-” “Umm, yeah! Are you calling me a liar?” She arched her brows in concern, guiding him gently to sit on the nearest bench, but said nothing. “Please don’t give up hope, Mr. Hill. I’m a virgin too, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But if you’re really that concerned about it, why don’t you help us find a way out? I believe in you.” “So we’re like the only four people in the world who never had sex? Wow, that’s kind of improbable -Wait! You… you do?” “The only three people, I believe,” Liza added with a slight blush, “as Mr. Hyman is actually married. But yes, I really do!” “‘Mr. Hyman?’ Dick?” “Yes. Mr. Dick Ignus Norman Hyman. For ten years, I believe. Is something wrong?” “Dick I.N. Hyman? Wow, umm, that’s unique. Married huh? I wonder if Suzie knows that.” There came a distant, muffled shout from the hallway, its source obscure. “You’re what? Are you kidding me?!” “Oh dear… Yes I think she may have figured it out, but Mr. Hill, please focus!” He nodded obligingly, but only his head moved. His eyes were locked onto Liza’s chest, where her breasts peaked out the top of her exposed bra. “That’s not what I meant, Mr. Hill. Oh dear, why is everyone having such a hard time focusing today? Shouldn’t we be trying to find a way out of this building?” “Well, umm, I don’t mean this in like a… bad way, but you’re kind of… distracting. How, umm, how is it that you’re not married?” Liza blushed. “Me? Oh dear, when would I have time? So much work! And of course, as I’m sure you can see Mr Hill, I’m rather… plain. Dating can be hard for a woman like me-” Joe interrupted her with a wild fit of coughing, mistakenly trying to breathe and swallow at the same time. “You…” cough, cough “…think that you’re, umm, ‘plain’?” Liza’s cheeks turned almost scarlet red. “You… don’t think so?” Joe swallowed, then cleared his throat. “I mean, umm, sure… But, you know, umm, some of us guys actually find plain girls to be, you know… desirable… So, umm, you shouldn’t give up hope.” “Really, Mr. Hill? That’s quite nice of you to say. I’m certain I don’t know anyone like that.” He cleared his throat again, straightening his posture. “Well, actually, I umm – aaaggghhh!” Suzie had already stormed through the door and across the room by the time he noticed her, which was the same moment she violently yanked him to his feet, her hands gripping his shoulders like two vices. “Okay, Mr. IT Guy, this is how it is. I’m apparently going to be sober, and most likely dead, before I ever get laid around here, thanks to getting trapped with the two most obnoxious men in the freaking country! So you are going to think up a way out of this before that happens, get it?” “Me? But… why me?” “I don’t know!” She let go of him in order to wave her arms around vaguely. “You’re the one who thought up the whole… duct thing… and I guess that means you technically saved us so… Come on! Think up something else already!” “Miss Applegate, I believe I see-” Liza waved a hand in front of her nose. “Oh dear, we really need to get you into a fresh diaper again, but I was going to say: look!” She pointed out the windows to where, in the far distance, a helicopter seemed to be patrolling the skies. Everyone froze, including Dick, who had followed some distance behind Suzie. He was strangely silent, and absently straightened his tie as he walked. “The roof,” Joe said quietly. “Liza,” Suzie inquired urgently, “you said you found the stairwell, but it was collapsed just beneath us?” Seeing a nod, she continued “What about above us? Can we go up?” “Oh dear… I don’t know… What is left looked very unstable, but the steps upward did seem partially intact.” “Good enough for me.” Suzie charged away, and the others exchanged glances before following her in silence. Joe paused to take one last look at the sunlight streaming through the windows behind them, while the building groaned once more. Another window cracked loudly, then shattered. He thought he could feel the floor shifting beneath him, and it made him somewhat nauseous. The sensation perturbed him deeply, of course, but Joe being Joe, it was soon forgotten as his gaze locked onto Liza’s panties (she was walking just in front of him). He noted, with a flare of desire, that they had not yet been given the chance to dry since the last time she peed in them. But his mind soon drifted away, recalling the memory of Suzie laying beneath him, looking up at him with large, dark pupils filling her beautiful eyes, wrapping her legs around him as she lay in her open, messy diaper. He had never wanted a woman so badly. What a pity, then, that he happened to be in the middle of a sadistic, twisted, trapped-in-an-elevator disaster story such as this. Or is it? Only the next loony chapter can tell, but rest assured that fate, for better or worse, is not done with them yet.

Thanks for the suggestion! I hadn't thought specifically about time of day, although it is true that I'm generally more productive after the sun goes down. Circumstances have driven me out of bed -and into bed- early this last few days, leaving me little time at night when I'm most creative. That must have been what disrupted my roll. But really, it just seems to be a pattern with me, and this applies to every creative outlet I've discovered, that my brain is either in an 'on' or 'off' mode. When it's turned 'on' I get a lot accomplished. I can create and create and there doesn't seem to be an end to it. I also get very little sleep. When it's 'off' I can sit in front of the computer all day but all I'll be doing is staring at it blankly. I've tried 'taking breaks', going out for walks, doing something fun, reading something or watching a movie for motivation, moving to a different space to write, nothing works. I have tried the "limit myself to a few hours each day" approach, but in the end I just get repeatedly frustrated by having to walk away in the middle of something, to the point that I just don't want to do it at all anymore. I cannot seem to win this battle. For whatever reason, the only thing I've found to do is just to let it happen. I find a second, non-written outlet until my mind gets burned out on that one, then come back to writing, back and forth, maybe even keeping three in the rotation. It is an endless cycle of bursts of productivity followed by long dry spells. Each time I think "that's not going to happen this time; I'm having far too much fun to stop". Then it does. It is endlessly frustrating, but you are completely correct: I simply can't force it. I just hope my "dry spell" is short this time around. It bugs the heck out of me to leave my stories just hanging like this, half-finished. And it utterly ruins the feeling of accomplishment I was building. But anyway, thanks again for the moral support. I'm just going to keep coming back to the computer and trying again, hoping for that spark.

I was really on a role in all my stories, then all of a sudden my creativity tank hits empty and full stop. Engine stalled. No ignition. I'm done. Quite frustrating. I'll get back to these stories as soon as I get my mojo back. Apologies.

I was really on a role in all my stories, then all of a sudden my creativity tank hits empty and full stop. Engine stalled. No ignition. I'm done. Quite frustrating. I'll get back to these stories as soon as I get my mojo back. Apologies.

I feel you. Although I do want to avoid implying something untrue, like "I've never been turned on by humiliation or forced diapering". Unlike forced babying, I've read plenty of forced diapering stories, just as I've written plenty of humiliation content. This very story contains plenty of humiliation content. I may write more. There's something about someone being totally out of control, and/or at the mercy of another, that can be provocative. But for me at least, turning them into a baby destroys that. Like you, I just don't get the appeal. Just as any story in which they never escape their peril feels incomplete. When it comes to my own creations, you said it best: I want protagonists I'm rooting for. I instinctively write the struggle of people yearning to find a world where they can be accepted for who they are, where they break free of their chains and/or make the world a better place, because that's my happy ending.

Thank you, truly, for your interest and praise! I must be a terribly self-centered person, for while I love writing, and all of my silly little stories, it is comments like yours that truly keep me going towards the finish line. Without them, I imagine I would never actually finish one (I have drawers full of unfinished ideas in all areas of my life). And of course it's always nice when people appreciate the same things I do. I know forced babying/regression are common themes in the abdl world, and I hold no judgement whatsoever towards anyone who likes them (these are all just stories and fantasies after all), but I personally have a hard time depicting them as other than the actions of a villain. I guess I like the caregiver / adult baby relationship too much. To me, it is a beautiful act of compassion/love, but make it forced and it just feels like a kind of cruelty/torture. Then again, some of my protagonists in other stories are involved in subjecting people to humiliation here and there, however accidental or because they are incompetent, and I guess that's hardly noble. So there's a good chance I've got a small case of 'hypocrisy', buuuut never mind that... Moving on!

@Babypants I finally found Candy Johnson beach movie dancing... I had to pinch myself, then watch it again. Good golly look at her go! Off the charts sexy sure, but more than that: just the raw energy she displayed... No amount of coffee could give me the ability to do half of that! The reaction of the men was often hilarious too. One video I watched had car-tire-skidding sound effects as the surfers dropped, at one point they reversed the playback to simulate the surfer 'backing up' to do a double-take. In another she does the hip swing and the men go flying through a wall just from watching it. Some of the expressions... Oh gosh I laughed; I'm such a sucker for deliciously corny humor! I wish we still lived in a world where movies like that were made. It seems like instead, we're moving into an era where actresses are actually, publicly scorned for being beautiful and sexy on screen. At least in mainstream Hollywood. So sad. In any event, thank you for that. Well worth the hunt!

The Wild North CHAPTER ELEVEN (MACADAMIA) The sun’s rays were given power by their high elevation and a clear, crisp blue sky. The kind of blue so light and clear it seemed almost white. Macadamia could see a piece of it, just one small precious square of freedom, by looking upward through the flap on the ceiling used for letting out the smoke from a fire (not that there was one). The bright yellow sphere beamed benevolently down on the tent’s thick, dark canvas, which greedily soaked up the warmth. While it lasted, Macadamia found some small relief. Even without proper clothing, the tent was almost comfortable. Alas it was a cruel sort of relief; her muscles could relax, but they ached from shivering so much, and while her fingers and toes started regaining feeling, it came in the form of a tingling pain. She would have preferred they all remain numb. She and Skilla were given food and water in small amounts: tough, stringy dried meat in a disgusting, thin soup, and some clear but foul-tasting water. Sleep came to her in restless bouts filled with dark dreams, and never quite made her feel refreshed. Unfortunately, as the sun dipped low in the sky and its heat abandoned them, even that one small respite was taken from her. Soon the penetrating cold would be sucking the precious life-giving warmth from her exposed skin (of which there was quite a lot, considering she still wore nothing more than chest wrap and diaper). One of the ‘pole-bearers’ entered (Macadamia still found the title ridiculous, but to everyone amongst the hunters it was treated with great dignity). She claimed to come on behalf of Velina and stiffly demanded to know if Macadamia had ‘reconsidered’. Macadamia almost spat at the woman’s feet, but it would have taken too much energy so she ignored the aloof emissary, who turned to go moments later with a disdainful sniff. Just as she was leaving -and only for a moment- the pole-bearer turned back and looked at the prisoners with something that might have been pity. That brief glance was the closest thing to proper compassion Macadamia could remember receiving since fate had brought her the misfortune of meeting the ‘huntress’ Velina, and it did not take her long to decide that it had been a fluke, for as the light faded she and Skilla were abruptly hauled out of their puny tent and dragged across the camp into Velina’s. The women who shoved and pulled them refused to speak at all, let alone offer anything so cordial as an explanation. Once inside the huntress’ massive canvas structure, they noted that one end of the canvas floor had been rolled back to expose hard rocky soil beneath. A pole had been anchored into the ground, and another wooden beam was tied crosswise near its top. Macadamia and Skilla were each tied at the wrists and ankles, and were then hung from the crosswise pole, one on each side. The room was lightly populated with robed pole-bearers standing at attention or scurrying about serving some sort of tantalizing, delicious-smelling, hot beverage. Velina sat on the most elevated pile of cushions, while several other women sat on their own lower cushions. They were all in a circle around a central fire, the smoke from which escaped out a flap in the high ceiling. All of the huntresses wore plain silks over thick wool, over another layer of silk. Their clothing appeared simple at a glance, being without elaborate embroidery and using fairly plain, earthen colors, but closer inspection revealed it to be quite elaborate. It was in the cut, she decided: the way each layer of the garments was tailored precisely to the body shape of its huntress so as to be form-fitting and yet still drape elegantly. Each layer of clothing was a different color, usually ones which blended well with the dark granites, stark white snow, and brown scree of the mountain slopes. Their variegated folds and shapes confused the eye. Under different circumstances she might have been fascinated by a culture in which it was not showy riches that expressed taste and style, but a strange form of artistic camouflage and subtle tailoring. As it was, she only wanted to curl up by the fire and be warm. Throwing the huntresses into said fire was next on her list, but only after a nice, warm sleep. She stood where she had been tied, her arms tented above her head, but her legs felt like rubber. “Please ignore our ‘guests’,” Velina said to the other huntresses. “I only wanted the poor things to warm up a bit; I do not wish to be cruel, after all. Certainly, no one here needs a reminder concerning the rewards of disobedience and betrayal.” Macadamia stared at the women with quiet contempt, but they ignored her with a remarkably honed technique. They never met her gaze, even when they looked her over coldly, as if she were a tied-up animal. Somehow, they were simultaneously aware of, and deliberately ignorant of, her presence. Her glares had no effect; they were transparent to her animosity, which passed right through them without evident harm or bother. At least the tent was warm, she had to admit that much. Not that Macadamia had any illusions about concern over her comfort being the reason she was here. This was not just part of her torture and humiliation. She was being used to send a message. “By now, you are all no doubt aware of the fate which has continued to befall our brave bucks. I have given my scouting parties strict orders not to engage the hostile barbarians, and I recommend you do the same.” While the huntresses talked, several other women began attending to the two prisoners. They gave the prisoners cursory sponge baths to start; apparently Velina was not opposed to neglect and cruelty, she simply didn’t want to smell it in her presence. For better access, Macadamia’s breast wrap was removed, and her diaper was slid down to her ankles. It landed with a heavy slap. Her memory failed her as to when or how many times she had wet. She was slapped on the legs like a stubborn animal until she lifted first one leg and then the other, freeing the diaper to be taken away and (she hoped) cleaned and returned – not that she truly held any optimism about getting anything returned to her really, ever. Two women aggressively wiped down every part of her, with all the attention but far less kindness that might have been shown to a horse back home. She didn’t fight or protest, nor did she have the energy to feel properly outraged, though some amount of color returned to her cheeks as she bore the humiliation her captors vigorously piled upon her. The circular arrangement of the huntresses, with more people gathered behind them, meant that quite a few eyes had a clear view of her. None looked at her in an obvious way, but Macadamia had never felt more watched. “I wish to inform you all,” Velina continued as if nothing was going on, “that I have sent my first pole-bearer back to my village to speak for me. She will call council in my name, inform them of what has taken place, and call for a greater council, not just for my own village, but of all huntresses, to take place here with us.” There was the usual soft, surprised murmuring by the observers, which Macadamia was starting to think was just part of the ritual of announcements. Meanwhile, Skilla was being cleaned as well, and she seemed to have a bit more fight left in her. She actually did spit on one of the women, and was paid a vicious punch to her abdomen in return, strong enough to cause her to fall to her knees. They began stripping her scant remaining coverings, beginning with her chest, but soon noticed that her underwear was wet. After lifting her and forcing her to turn around, the women further noticed a large dark stain on the back of the otherwise white garment, as well as a squishy lump. The operation was paused. “Mistress, forgive me,” spoke one of the women doing the cleaning. “This traitor has soiled herself in your presence. I beg forgiveness for allowing this insult. What do you wish me to do?” “I’m no traitor, you useless-” A loud, sharp, backhanded slap cut her off. By this point, nearly everyone present was sparing them a few conspicuous glances, if not outright staring. Macadamia could only watch in helpless sympathy and mortified curiosity at what they would do to Skilla next. She needed to relieve herself as well, but held it back fiercely. Now was clearly not the time. Skilla’s underwear was still getting wetter. The woman was clearly trying to hold it, likely doubled over from effort as much as pain by this point, her legs crossed and her arms still tied up above her head, but despite her efforts pee continued to come out in short spurts, yellowing her front. There was a quiet splat and a quick grunt of frustration from Skilla as her dark spot in back grew larger. “I’ll never forgive any of you!” she growled. “I’ll pay you back and more!” Velina turned her nose up and away, making a show of being disgusted even as she uttered a sorrowful kind of sigh that mimicked sympathy. The other huntresses dutifully did the same. A few shook their heads sadly. Macadamia had the sudden feeling of being in the audience just as the lead performer went on stage. “Oh dear. I show leniency, invite you both to share my fire, and this is how I am repaid? It appears there are two babies in this room that presumed to masquerade as adults. To think my misguided predecessor encouraged and sheltered you both! Clearly, you need some further discipline.” She turned to the women giving the sponge baths. “Diaper them both, since they so adore being children… and give them some of that much-neglected ‘discipline’ I mentioned, yes?” Skilla continued to put up a fight, but the pole was anchored securely enough to keep her from doing much besides flailing around. Her words had been reduced to pure growls of rage by this point, as she twisted and continued to fight both rope and body. More spurts of pee followed, and soon her underwear could absorb no more and began to drip. Another spurt turned into a stream, penetrating her thin, wet covering and pouring out onto the rocky soil beneath. There was another splat, and the brown backside of her undergarment began to show quite a bulge. The huntresses ignored her and turned back to each other, but the gathered pole-bearers did not. Expressions of naked disgust were on prominent display, despite the women’s previously demonstrated ability to hide their feelings when they chose. More actresses on the stage, Macadamia thought. “I am certain that I may count on the support of each of you as we face this unprecedented danger,” Velina continued. “Never in our generation, or our parents’ generation, have we encountered such a deadly foe. Understand this, my sisters: deathbiters cannot think. They do not plan. Never do they attack in groups. The monsters we now face do, and they represent nothing less than an existential threat to our entire people. This is why, once council is convened, I intend to do something unprecedented in our lifetimes…” She paused to meet the gaze of each other huntress present. “I intend to call for permanent status as Supreme Huntress, at least until this matter is resolved.” For the first time since she had been dragged in, Macadamia felt that something had happened which was most definitely ‘off script’. There were no dutiful murmurs this time. Just silence. The huntresses maintained their impassive masks, but many of the gathered pole-bearers gaped at Velina in evident shock. Even Skilla was mostly forgotten. Mostly. Phendalla was present, Macadamia noted, and did not seem the least surprised by the news. She only stared intently at Skilla, with a gleam in her eye and the slightest quirk of a smile on her lips. Several others continued to watch as well. For her part, Skilla appeared to have struggled herself into a temporary exhaustion. Or perhaps she was simply too humiliated, Macadamia could not say for sure. Either way, she had her head bent forward onto her chest, and had fallen to her knees. Only her wrists, still tied above her head, kept her from falling forward. The excommunicated pole-bearer had apparently surrendered her fight, and helplessly peed herself before the group, her narrow yellow stream tumbling forward from between her legs, forcing itself through the sodden fabric. There was a final long, wet, series of splats and pops, and her underwear was stretched to its limit containing her mess in back. “Is it entirely necessary,” another huntress abruptly spoke up, “to… detain these women like this?” She was younger than Velina. Her posture was stiff with the forced confidence of inexperience. Whenever she glanced towards the two captives she shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, I believe it is.” Only once Skilla had finished humiliating herself did the clean-up crew resume. They violently ripped open the sides of her underwear (which was quickly whisked away) rather than force her to stand. Ash was scattered across the wet ground beneath her, and her lower parts were wiped down. It was all a very efficient operation, and Macadamia could not help but wonder with disgust if the women had done this all before. She felt an abrupt surge of need to relieve herself as well. That was odd. Then she remembered: the last time they were given water was not long ago, and the pole-bearer who delivered it had seemed quite intent on making sure they drank it all. Not that either of the thirsty captives had argued at the time. Had it tasted even more wrong than normal? She mentally scolded herself for letting exhaustion and demoralizing circumstances dull her mind. She was not keeping up, and would never escape by being a witless victim. Her attention was drawn back to the huntresses as one of them stood, a different one than last time. “I wish to offer another… perspective on this matter. No one doubts your wisdom, of course, Huntress, but what you plan has not been done in generations. It has not been needed in generations. We live together in peace, as one society. We coordinate our hunts. I wish to acknowledge the wisdom of our ancestors as well, in choosing not to name a permanent supreme huntress. Surely we all appreciate the authority to govern for ourselves.” Velina waited patiently for the speaker to sit before responding. “Thank you for your wisdom, Sister Huntress. I would offer you my own, further perspective on the matter. Despite the lack of cooperation from this misguided… child woman,” she gestured to Macadamia without looking, “my scouts have determined an approximate number of these barbarian men. It is staggering. Easily ten times our number of wild bucks have gathered, and even now they prepare to advance. Surely one of these savages would stand no chance against one of our fine bucks, but while it is skill that wins a hunt, it is often numbers that win a war.” Macadamia had not noticed the two women who had left until they returned, each carrying one of her diapers and some wide ribbons of cloth. The second diaper puzzled her, then she remembered the one which had been removed from Elm days before and never returned. Apparently they had kept it around after all. Each pole-bearer chose a prisoner. Macadamia heard Skilla being forced to her feet beside her, while another woman slapped Macadamia’s legs until she lifted them into the proffered diaper. It was forced roughly up against her groin, still slightly damp from apparently being rung out and nothing more, then the woman began wrapping Macadamia’s breasts using the long ribbon of cloth. Neatly-carved pins made of bone were used to secure Skilla’s diaper, which was just a bit large for her narrower waist. Her chest was wrapped, and finally the two captives were left alone. “Then it is decided,” Velina was saying. Macadamia had missed much of the conversation, but decided she cared nothing about it anyway. She only hoped it was getting close to over. This tent was warmer, but she had endured quite enough of being tied up and treated like an animal. “Nothing is decided!” declared the huntress who had objected earlier. “Oh?” The room held a tension so tight it threatened to shatter into a million pieces at any moment. The gathered pole-bearers held their breath, looking uncharacteristically tense. They gathered a little tighter into groups around their respective huntresses. Slowly, in an absent manner, Velina lifted her left hand. Just as casually, she snapped her fingers. Apparently that ‘punishment’ that had been threatened before was not forgotten. The huntress had simply been waiting for the right moment. Two women stepped up behind Macadamia and Skilla, each holding a short, leather whip. Then it was on. The two captives had their diapers shoved down to their thighs and the beating began, each sharp slap of the whips cutting violently through the heavy evening air. Velina did not even look. Her gaze was locked onto the protesting huntress. Each crack, each grunt or cry from the two prisoners spoke for her. Crack. ‘See what I do to my enemies?’ Slap. ‘This could be you.’ Snap. ‘If I can take down the most powerful of us, then you are nothing.’ Macadamia’s already sore bottom felt like it was in flames. Despite her best efforts, she cried out as the whip struck again, then gasped each time it returned. That was the final lie, she reflected miserably, of all the storybooks and tales of adventure. They had all, no doubt, been written by people who had no idea how much pain actually hurt when it was applied as a tool, how sharp it could be, as it cut right through her thoughts and into her free will. “Please!” she said breathlessly. Her tormentor, miraculously, did pause, but until Velina actually gave the order Macadamia felt certain the sharp pain might attack again at any moment. Her rubbery legs collapsed and she found herself on her knees, which -like Skilla- was as far as her tied hands would let her drop. Sure enough, a sharp pain shattered her thoughts a moment later. “Make it stop,” she whispered, “please, I’m going to… I’m going…” Her bladder released. She no longer had the control necessary to fight both the drug in her system and the pain. It spurted out of her in plain view of everyone, but her diaper had only been lowered to her thighs and still caught the pee. A spurt became a stream as she closed her eyes. She still throbbed and burned in back, but the whipping had stopped, she noticed gratefully. Relief from her bladder granted her its own small boon as well. Velina snapped her fingers again, and Macadamia felt her diaper being pulled back up even as she continued to pee. The cloth scraped across her bottom like a hundred tiny knives, after which the pole-bearers moved away. Apparently, the demonstration was complete. She was now soaking herself again, breathing heavily in relief, her own spray spreading out through the cloth as everyone looked on, its warmth a meaningless comfort. She thought she might poop as well. It never came, though she would have had no ability to stop it. Even control over her own body had now been taken from her. To humiliate, to reduce another human being to ruin… or to show pride, and look down upon others… They were like two halves of the same coin, she thought dimly – all some sort of demented, maniacal currency, and between Helindra’s death and the public torture of her enemies, Velina had now shown her ‘wealth’ in terms that no one would ever question. “These two pitiful creatures are the mark of my misguided predecessor. Imagine bringing overgrown children on a hunt! She too believed in a policy of inaction. We all saw what an unfortunate disaster that ended up being, did we not? All her valiant bucks lost… I could barely salvage half of her hunt after I weeded out all of the traitors. Not even her cook could be saved! Such weakness in a huntress! It boggles the mind, does it not?” So that’s how it's done, Macadamia thought as she half-listened with a quietly simmering bitterness, how to properly imply responsibility for an assassination without admitting guilt. “Surely, you, my dear, wise sister, would never advocate repeating the mistakes of the past? Perhaps you only meant to say that we should discuss a strategy to defeat this barbarian army so close to our borders before we adjourn?” The muffled quiet of the camp around them and the gentle crackling of the fire, both normally below the range of comfortable hearing, were as loud in that silence as the approach of a trampling herd. “Of course, Honored Huntress.” The second woman looked about as comfortable saying that as she might have been chewing gravel. She sat back down, her movements stiff. Velina smiled. She had won. “Then let us discuss just that, so that we may know what to bring up when the other huntresses arrive…” Thankfully, neither Macadamia nor Skilla had to endure anything further for the rest of the meeting, but nor were they returned to their tent afterwards. The fire was fed for a while, but as the night grew deeper the commotion died down alongside the flames. Dinner was brought for Velina and eaten. The two captives were forced to watch with gurgling stomachs, and eventually two more pole-bearers came in with bowls of slop. Velina nodded. “Very good, you may feed the children.” Refusing to untie their captives’ hands, the women impatiently fed them one spoonful at a time before callously pouring water down their throats, making Macadamia sputter and cough. Then Velina and her last attendants left, as the fire died down to glowing embers. Apparently being a huntress entitled her to a private tent as well. The next day passed with the captives still tied up. Velina continued to conduct business as if the two of them were not there. At some point during the day Macadamia found she could no longer hold back, and interrupted a meeting of some kind by wetting herself. The huntress paid it no mind, but the guests paused in awkward silence until the steady hiss from Macadamia died down. At some point in the evening, with no one in the tent but the two prisoners, Velina, and one of her pole-bearers, Macadamia felt an awful knot forming in her stomach. No doubt, she decided, the fault of the vile slop they were passing off to her as food. She tried to hide it, unwilling to give Velina further satisfaction from seeing her discomfort, but it became increasingly difficult. She knew the battle was lost when her body started writhing mostly of its own accord. She let go, but only succeeded in peeing herself again. Her squirming intensified, and she forced herself off of her knees, at first standing, then squatting, then squirming while squatting. The process of moving her joints turned out to be excruciating after dangling from her arms all night as she slept, and she let loose a series of grunts and gasps. How many were from moving her impossibly stiff muscles, and how many from her attempts to loosen her bowels, she did not know. “Oh, for pity’s sake!” Velina blurted suddenly, snapping her fingers. Macadamia finally found relief just as the same two pole-bearers who had tortured them the day before returned. Her body began unloading its thick, ropey contents into her diaper while the two women stood over her with stern expressions. She felt her eyes widen in horror as she anticipated another whipping, but could not stop her body from shoving more and more into her diaper. It came out hard at first, then increasingly squishy, as her bulging diaper continued to expand. Upon seeing her relax her body and sigh softly in evident relief, the women set upon her once more. Had she gone too far? Her muscles tensed in fear, but thankfully this time there was no ‘punishment’. They simply forced her to stand, dropped her diaper, and cleaned her while her soiled garment was taken away. “The other one too,” Velina said absently, waving a hand rather than turning to look at the proceedings. One of the women pulled back the waistline of Skilla’s diaper to look. “She’s dry.” Skilla remained motionless, just as she had since the day before. She still rested on her knees, her arms strung up in the air. The whole night had passed without the woman so much as nodding to anyone. “I refuse to endure these constant interruptions. Honestly! It’s like being back on child rearing duties again…” Velina’s hard gaze bored into Skilla, nearly causing Macadamia to cringe too. “You will go. Now. Or I will have you whipped until you do.” Skilla said nothing, but a moment later a conspicuous hissing could be heard from her diaper as well, which started turning yellow. “You see,” Velina said, turning away again and closing her eyes. “Even disobedient children can be taught.” For such a slight person, Skilla proved to have a robust bladder. Her diaper drank up all it could handle, at which point a small stream of yellow pee began forcing itself out and running down her right leg. Still her spray continued, and her diaper surrendered, releasing a steady waterfall down both her legs. “Drat. Bring some more charcoal,” one of the pole-bearers instructed the other. Finally the hissing stopped, and for the first time Skilla moved. She turned her head to look up at the pole-bearer standing before her. She looked at her sagging diaper and the puddle beneath her -rapidly diminishing as the ground absorbed it- then resumed glaring at the other woman for all she was worth. Skilla, Macadamia had to admit, knew how to glare. Her eyes were round pits of dark, dangerous fire. A threatening flame that promised defiance to her last breath. Macadamia had taken the woman’s prolonged silence as defeat. She now saw the depth of her misjudgement. Still locked on to the pole-bearer with that fierce gaze, Skilla narrowed her eyes, held her breath, and took on a look of intense concentration and effort. There was a loud, squishy explosion in her diaper, which shuddered and deformed as it was aggressively filled. Then Skilla let loose a too gentle, clearly exaggerated, even downright theatrical sigh, never once looking away. Somewhere inside, in a place that was not yet broken or in two much pain to care, Macadamia found herself cheering for Skilla. A victory against their captors by either of them, no matter how small, now felt like a victory for them both. “Soon you will learn how to handle children,” Velina gloated from behind closed lids, having witnessed none of Skilla’s quiet defiance. The pole-bearer fumed for the space of several breaths, her fists opening and closing, her mouth working but no words coming out. “Why must I be assigned this… duty?” She complained, belatedly adding a sheepish “Huntress” to the end. “It is important for you to learn certain lessons.” With no elaboration forthcoming, the pole-bearer turned back to Skilla with a fierce gaze of her own. She took one very deliberate step forward, and then performed a backhand slap across Skilla’s face so vicious that left its victim’s whole body rocking and split her lip wide open. “A fair start,” Velina commented, still resting her eyes. “Children like these do need a lot of discipline. Now, do something about that smell, will you?” Skilla was changed, somewhat aggressively but still short of a beating. She was yanked to her feet only to be shoved to the ground when they had the diaper off her. They did not ‘wipe’ her so much as claw at her with towels, her body rocking this way and that under the harsh ministrations. She bore it all in silence, with that same quiet, dangerous look on her round face. Once again their diapers were, as best as Macadamia could gather, rinsed and wrung out, rather than replaced. Each time this happened the lingering smell of old urine was just a little bit stronger. The cloth in the back was hopelessly stained brown by this point. These people did not know how to properly clean a diaper, and she was actually starting to worry it would become a health problem. At the very least the diapers would not last long under this kind of punishment. Not that diaper lifetime was their real problem at the moment, she had to admit that. Another night was to be spent hanging from a wooden beam, or so it seemed at first. Then something unexpected happened. It was late at night. The camp was quiet. A robed shape slipped in between the tent flaps. Both captives lurched awake at the intrusion. It was hard to sleep soundly, Macadamia discovered, being suspended vertically by her arms and with basically every part of her body in constant pain. Whoever it was, they kept their hood up to hide their face in shadow – hardly necessary with the fire reduced to embers. No one said anything as the figure approached. Skilla had seemingly become a mute, Macadamia was too tired, and in too much pain, to care who it was, and the stranger did not seem to understand the appeal of introductions. Not even after she pulled a knife. Compared to her pain, the events didn’t seem entirely real. More like a dream. If it had been real, she might have just told the stranger to go ahead and slice her neck open. At least the pain would be over. No, she had to live. She had to keep her promise and come back for Elm. She did not want to live, mind you, but she refused to give herself any other option. It was hard. Her mind kept wanting to find excuses to choose the easier path. Good thing, then, that it was not up to her. The stranger, rather than stab anyone, proceeded to cut the two captives down, then free their arms and legs. If Macadamia had thought she felt lethargic before, this was a whole new game. The slightest movement of her arms caused her already stiff, burning shoulders to flare up in blinding pain. Her muscles refused to obey any orders unless she really, truly insisted, and she did not want to insist. It was so much easier just to lie there. Finally horizontal, she could close her eyes and get some real sleep. The cold did not seem important by that point. Her body was used to it, and seldom bothered to shiver anymore – although the lower body temperature made her thoughts sluggish and her muscles even more stiff. “This is not us,” the stranger said at last. It was a vaguely feminine voice, but mellow and soft as the autumn winds blowing through the trees. “I have always aspired to be a huntress, but this is not what we are. We have lost our way. Please, do not judge us by the actions of a few. You must get away from here. I brought clothes, and I can get you out of the camp. Please. Forgive us.” Skilla, forever refusing to lie down, had already forced her stiff body to its feet. “Oh, I do,” she said in a voice rough from lack of use. “I forgive you.” With a deftness Macadamia could not believe, Skilla’s hand liberated the knife from its owner and buried it into their chest. It must have been a perfect blow into the heart, for the poor woman lost consciousness almost immediately, falling limply to the ground. “I’m going to thoroughly… forgive… each and every one of you,” Skilla promised in a voice so cold it made the winter around them feel balmy. “No!” Macadamia tried, but her voice was weak and hoarse. “Why did you do that?” Rather than answer, Skilla pulled the robe from the dead woman’s body, put it on, and slipped out into the night. For what seemed like an eternity, Macadamia struggled to get her mind to start thinking, and her body to start moving. Getting the will to move was the hardest part, after that it was just about beating her body into submission with sheer persistence. Somewhere during the process she noticed the world outside the tent getting lighter. Was it morning already? No. The light was wrong somehow. It was less like the shining of the sun, and more like… the flickering of fire. Soon her ears were bombarded with surprised, often terrified shouts. She looked down at the body of the woman who had died saving her. Her heart cried out for pity and respect for the dead. Her body cried out for the warm clothes the woman was still wearing. Eventually respect one out – but not by much. She moved to the tent flap, still only in her wrap and diaper, took a deep breath and stepped through, hoping desperately the whole time that her muscles would actually obey if she told them to run. She didn’t have to. Just outside the tent was a large knapsack. Her knapsack, she realized. Just as the dead woman had promised, it held fresh supplies of all kinds. Including clothes. Before she could even think about it her hands were in the pack, desperately pulling things out and throwing them on the ground until she found one of the robes the women wore. She put it on and nearly cried as she hugged herself, rubbing her arms and taking in the glorious feeling of the thick, warm fabric. There was a hooded cloak in there too, and she put that on with equal vigor. There was a waterskin, and she poured water into her mouth as if trying to drown herself. Then came the food: delicious fire-roasted nuts, sweet dried berries, dried meat that was actually softer than boot leather! She wolfed it all down as fast as she could, only stopping when she nearly threw up. Then she crumpled to the ground, gasping in between tears of relief, and sobs of joy. Never before had she truly understood the simple joy of existing without pain or hunger, cold or thirst. Only then, finally, did she look around properly. No one had paid attention to her, she saw, on account of having far, far bigger problems. Not one but several of the largest tents were on fire. In this camp, but also in some of the neighboring camps. Someone somewhere was shrieking. Macadamia looked to see a woman hovering over another dead body. A crowd of robed pole-bearers gathered near one of the tents. They seemed frozen, as if oblivious to the burning camp around them. “The huntress… the huntress is dead!” someone shouted from inside the tent. There was no sign of Skilla, and she wondered -in her strange state of mental fog- if she would ever see the woman again, wondered if that would make her happy, or sad. One of the pole-bearers ran up beside her. “Quickly, you must help, Sister! We must get the fires out!” Macadamia only stared. Something began to come to life inside of her. A sleeping dragon, feeling itself free of the terror under which she had lived for days, free of the constant, crippling cold and pain, awoke. A dragon called rage. “No,” she spat. She heard her own cold voice and recognized it as not dissimilar from Skilla’s. She did not care. Let it be cold. Cold as these winter-cursed mountains. “Let it burn. Let this whole, wretched place burn in the pits of the mountain’s fiery heart.” She saw the other woman back away from her, but it did not occur to her to do anything about it. She did not care what that woman did or where she went. “Let it all… just… burn…” She almost left right then and there, but found herself back in the tent, kneeling before the dead woman instead. “I won’t forget,” she said quietly, not even sure what that meant but wanting to say it. Then she was outside again, slinging her arms through her pack’s straps. She noticed another pack on the other side of the door. It was Elm’s. Her arms wrapped around it before she had time to think, and she hugged it as if it was the young man himself. “I’m coming.” She bundled the second pack into her arms and got her bearings. The sky above was a huge field of little shining, white flowers. Incomprehensibly large – larger than the endless mountains! How was it that she never before stopped to look at the sky and think, ‘how magnificent’? How was it that no one ever truly appreciated beauty until they believed they would never see it again? Mortality painted the world with a vibrancy unequaled. It took a while for her sluggish mind to come up with the information she needed, like which direction was which, but finally she set off back down the mountainside. Back to a home that was most likely destroyed. To a man she had promised to rescue, who could easily be dead by now, or moved on without her. To a world she had turned her back on. Towards nothing, and everything. She no longer felt the pain of loss when she thought about home, only a numb sort of regret. Had it not been for Elm, she might well have turned around with a shrug and headed deeper into the mountains. Let it all burn. No, not yet. One thing left to do. She would find Elm, and she would take him away from this awful, foul world of monsters – be they the human variety, or something else.

I did not manage to find the two you mentioned on the streaming services I have, although I did manage to watch the Dr. Goldfoot sequel with the "girl bombs". It was not, I admit, as funny as it sounded like it would be, but I imagine the first one was probably better. Still, as inspiration for similarly goofy/kinky story ideas I appreciated the recommendations!

Thanks! (I can see from Google searching your references that I should be watching Towering Inferno or maybe reading some of The Tower for some inspiration here, and fuel for things to spoof.) And yeah, as far as Dick, I've always thought of him as that supervisor who can quote any rule and throw the book at you about anything, but has no practical, common sense to tell them what they should actually be doing - as in the sort who actually believes that the only useful metrics of the company's health are to be found on a spreadsheet somewhere. I'll bet he found a way for his department to skip the fire drills completely just to "increase productivity". I'm ashamed to say that I only just now educated myself on the plumbing systems of skyscrapers. I never realized they needed their own pumps and tanks. Turns out many have periodic tanks, pumps, and pressure systems scattered throughout the floors, not to mention the tank you mentioned on the roof. All of which raises further questions, like why the fire suppression systems (which would have dedicated plumbing) aren't functioning. Turns out even writing a good spoof takes a certain amount of research. I can see I'm going to have to get a bit more serious about this. Also, I'm glad you like the character focus. Reading your feedback made me realize something. As I write more and more ABDL, I am noticing that I struggle to keep the diaper-related content fresh and inspired (if it ever was in my case). I like the "Shades" part of "Shades of the Towering Inferno" because more "Shades of Gray"-like content is actually something that really interests me. I started out writing ABDL in the first place because I find wetting, diapers, and punishment to not only be fun topics, but sexy. But in practice, I've been feeling like I got detoured into what is becoming a sort of predictable monotony of diaper pooping and changing across all of my stories. Not that I don't love those things too, in fact diaper pooping and changing can be super sexy! But I'm thinking that a fresh focus on that side of things, on what motivated me to write this genre in the first place is just what I need to stay inspired!