PeculiarChangeling

Chapter 11 All throughout the lecture hall, the girls were sitting in circles on the floor, one person in the middle, taking turns channeling power. It felt less like magic and more like a team building exercise–and, really, it felt even less like that and more like a game for toddlers. Duck Duck Goose, but someone sat in the middle. Guess the Leader without any guessing. Daniel resisted the urge to make any sarcastic quips about kiddie games, but the jokes still came to mind. He kept his mouth shut, because if Daniel started making quips about how babyish the exercise felt, the retorts would be fast, obvious, and draw far more attention to the diaper he’d been required to wear. Better to keep silent and avoid reprisal. And, besides, he had work to do. This was why he was here, after all, to learn magic. He began as the top left point on the pentacle–the point representing ‘Earth’. Mathilde sat to his left, Hazel to his right, and Asami sat right in the center of the circle, legs crossed on the ground. In practice, there was no need for them to literally sit in a pentacle formation to do their magic, but this helped everyone remember their roles and reinforced the positions they were attempting to fulfill. Daniel, as Earth, was the most tangible, physical point in their coven, the shaper of all things solid. “How do we start?” Cassie asked. Asami spoke up. “I’ve done this before, so you can just follow my instructions. Scoot closer, though.” They all did so, moving close enough in that they could reach out and touch one another. “Okay, put one hand on the shoulder of the wom–the person next to you, and one hand on me, then follow my lead.” She shut her eyes, as all the girls reached out their hands. Mathilde’s hand rested on Daniel’s shoulder, a gentle touch. Daniel didn’t know if he should take her instruction to ‘follow her lead’ literally, so he watched for a moment, waiting to see that the other girls had actually closed their eyes. Once they did, though, he still watched for a moment longer. Hazel’s face was tight with concentration, and Cassie’s looked uncertain, eyelids fluttering like she was tempted to look around and see if she was doing everything correctly. Radha, meanwhile, wore a smirk, like she’d thought of something funny she couldn’t wait to share. Mathilde and Asami, though, looked relaxed. Since they were the most experienced amongst the group, Daniel tried to mimic them, clearing out his mind. Reaching out, he laid hands on Cassie, to his left, and on Asami. He shut his eyes, pushed aside worries, and allowed his magical sensitivity to extend to the space around him. Gently touching of hands, a close, cozy circle, the closed eyes and silent halls, it all facilitated their mental bonds. With practice, Daniel knew that covens could link minds with one another like second nature, but for now, they had to prime their brains and bodies to prepare. Though the goal was different, the intent had much in common with Rachel’s own mental manipulation the day before: Creating parity between headspace and arcane goals. He felt the pull a moment later–Asami’s mind touching his own. He didn’t allow her in, exactly, his thoughts were his own, but he met the connection and matched it. A mental handshake, rather than a mental hug; he was reticent to open himself too much to strangers. Through her, in a moment, he felt the others. Asami formed a mental basin, from which rivers flowed in and out, pooling their connections. They had no spells to cast, but they shared energy regardless. Daniel struggled with the specifics of his own cornerstone. He was Earth, his role was to give their magic solid shape, an outline. However, though he tried, the rivers that flowed between them still spilled out, sloshing over their banks and beds. The connections were strong, but without an equally strong boundary to hem it all in, much of the finer details were lost. (It’s my first time doing this,) he reminded himself. (It’s fine if I make a few mistakes.) He thought he could almost hear the thoughts of the other girls, but it was shrouded, too, muffled by the babbling power flowing between them. All he got was a vague impression–Cassie’s anxiety, Hazel’s tightly focused efforts. Enough that they could coordinate their efforts, not enough to invade privacy. After a few minutes of this, Asami let the connection fade, streams of power drying up, and Daniel opened his eyes. “So, that’s pretty much what it’s like,” she said. “Mathilde, do you want to be our next Familiar?” Mathilde smiled and nodded, and everyone shifted one seat to the left, while Mathilde rolled to the center of their circle, and once again they all shared their touch. Taking the point of Aether, Daniel expected his role to be different, but the fundamental shape of their coven to be the same. However, as Mathilde made her mental connection, Daniel found himself not connected by a stream, but by a current of wind. There was no dribbling connection flowing directly. Instead, the power he shared was picked up like a paper airplane, carried on currents to a whirling centerpiece–not so violent as a tornado or a hurricane, more like a gentle updraft. With Mathilde as their Familiar, he had no carte-blanche connection to the other girls’ thoughts or feelings. The power drifted away from him as needed, and came back as needed, little packets that were insulated from one another. The only thoughts he received were ones deliberately sent, asking for more power or less, focused requests to help shape their mental landscape more precisely. And his own job was to ensure that the packets were handled correctly–zipping to the right people, at the right times. It was now Asami’s job to keep the power from being lost, she’d taken the job of Earth, and she did so reliably. Daniel, however, struggled to keep things on course in his own way. Some magic went to the wrong people, or arrived at the wrong times–too much to one witch, too little to another. In his effort to keep the connections consistent, he caused the mental wind to billow and gust, only to lose it all. (Dammit,) he thought, annoyed with himself. (This shouldn’t be hard, we’re not even moving much power. What’s wrong with me?) Only a second later, the connection dropped, severed completely in an instant. Daniel blinked a couple times, surprised by the sudden absence of magic, and looked around. “What happened?” Mathilde looked away for a moment, then only said, “Some things were said a little too loudly, that I assume we’d rather keep private.” Everyone glanced around in confusion, except Daniel, who just widened his eyes. Mathilde must have heard his thought, his self depreciation, and rather than let that mote of personal criticism be announced to the group, she’d ended the exercise. And, because Daniel hadn’t thought to look around in mock confusion, he’d made it obvious who had led to the early completion. Since it was already obvious that Daniel was the one she’d done this for, he mumbled, “Thanks.” He assumed everyone else was wondering, ‘What did Daniel think about?’, but nobody asked, and Mathilde’s expression made him believe his secret was safe with her. “Hazel, you’re next,” Mathilde said, as she moved to take her spot in the pentacle once more. And, once again, things were different. Hazel was no current, no gentle breeze. Hazel’s mind called up the image of thick metallic cable, electricity coursing through it at blinding speeds. The power wasn’t necessarily greater than the previous two, but she threw it around with reckless abandon. It was Daniel’s job to be the Aqueus, the flow of the power, and in this role he failed utterly. He struggled to understand the distinction between this and his previous job, and within moments, surges of crackling power were coursing around, his inexperience and Hazel’s aggressive speed playing off each other in the worst way. And then he heard a thought, more crystalline and exact than anything he’d heard up to that point. (So what was Daniel thinking that was so embarrassing?) He could not identify the voice, the speaker, only the words, and it seemed to be a careless message. Hazel didn’t have Mathilde’s experience, and wasn’t holding anything back. Their thoughts were a PA system. (Hazel, you need to control thought flow better. Our thoughts are spilling.) (No I don’t, we’re a team, we’re supposed to know each other.) (She’s got a point.) (Still, we’re just now learning–that’s unfair to put on him.) And, because trying not to think about something was impossible, Daniel’s mind slipped. (I can’t–fuck shit think about something else elephants elephants elephants–) Trying to shield his thoughts through a barrage of mindless noise, Daniel lost even the tiny bit of control he’d had over his role. Feedback began to build in their magic. (It’s got to be one of the diaper things.) (Probably true.) (If I were him, I’d have quit the instant they made me wear that. Is he shameless or does he like it?) (Maybe he just really wants to learn?) (Yeah, no, he’s doing this for kicks.) (Who would like this?) Daniel tried to pull away, but an arc of electric shock struck his mind, and his hand felt almost magnetized to her arm. He winced. They’d built up power too fast, and to retreat was painful. Mind racing, he couldn’t do a thing to prevent the thoughts that flashed to the forefront of his mind. Rachel, leering over him, as she dealt out her humiliations. The sense of pathetic smallness he’d felt when she first put him in a diaper, and the deeper, greater shame when she’d forced him to use it. The window she’d put in his room, a constant display of his ineptitude, his incompetence, his– (Enough.) The mental connection broke. Daniel felt a tiny static burst, but the overwhelming power didn’t course through him. Eyes snapping open, he saw Mathilde wince a little, and could sense the burst of power seeping out into the ground around them. He heard footsteps behind their bubble and looked out to see Blackburn, a few steps away, pulling out her wand. Before Blackburn could act, though, Mathilde smiled and shook her head. “Sorry, Professor,” she said. “We got a little out of hand there, but I brought it back into control.” “Very well.” Blackburn looked at them for a cold, thoughtful moment, and Daniel was certain he felt her gaze land on him for longer than any of the others. “If you know what went wrong, remember that, and find new roles for those who couldn’t handle it.” Daniel was glad his next thoughts weren’t projected to the whole group. (So far we haven’t found anything I can handle.) It was, to his surprise, Hazel that spoke up when the teacher had left. “So, your prefect is Rachel?” “Yeah,” Daniel said. “She’s…” “She’s such an ass,” Hazel finished. “She’s mine, too. Pretty sure someone shoved coal up her ass and she’s trying to turn it into diamonds.” “I heard about her,” Radha added. “She got in a shouting match with a second year while I was getting settled in. I don’t know what about, but–I didn’t know faces could get that red just from yelling.” “You’re…not wrong,” Daniel said. “She hated me before she knew the first thing about me, and she literally said she wants to make my life hell. What’s her deal?” “She’s just mad because she knows she’s barely scraping by, and it makes her self conscious,” Asami explained, adding in a whisper. “She’s nearly flunked out of two classes. Had to take extra studies to stay enrolled.” Daniel frowned, confused. “What? I mean, I haven’t seen her test scores or anything, but she’s good. She’s got control like you wouldn’t believe, she’s fast–what’s her problem?” “Oh, she’s a Nitch,” Mathilde said. “The right term is, ‘Bitch’,” Hazel supplied, producing a giggle from Radha. “No, but seriously,” Mathilde continued. “A Niche Witch. ‘Nitch’. She’s good enough at a few things that she can scrape by, but her coven is…a disaster. Rumor says, she’s the reason Blackburn won’t let people trade coven members, because people kept trying to get rid of her.” Asami shook her head. “That’s just a rumor, the rule’s always been around.” “Still, if it’s a rumor, gotta be based in something,” Radha said. “Should we keep going?” “You’re on deck,” Hazel replied. Radha’s practice passed quickly–her mental landscape was rather like Asami’s, and yet rather different. Magic still flowed like water, but instead of streams and lakes, her passages and basins were colorful plastic slides and swimming pools, and the water poured rapidly around. Slower than Hazel, faster than Asami, it struck a balance between the two girls. What stood out to Daniel was not Radha at all, but his own performance. As the point of Spirit, he was meant to supply the concept of the magic. Since they weren’t casting spells, this part was easy–he could have given it any concept that he wanted, but that ended up being so broad that he couldn’t even imagine what to make it into. He didn’t fail, exactly, but nor did he really try. That left only one other student to take the center before Daniel would be up. Cassie hadn’t said much so far, and Daniel had little idea what to expect when she walked to the center of the group, sat cross legged, and extended her own mind to the rest of them. Daniel expected some new metaphor for the exchange of power, but instead, he found that the first thing he saw in the space was…Cassie. She didn’t represent herself as a metaphor at all. Instead, Cassie stood in front of him, though her uniform had been replaced with a flowing blue dress, and she stood in a garden, surrounded by warmth, life, and growing things. Daniel saw no direct transfer of power, but then he saw that it wasn’t just Cassie in the mental landscape–the other girls were there too. Not as the people he recognized, though. Radha was a squirrel, darting across the garden, carrying acorns which she deposited in a pile at Cassie’s feet. Asami had the form of a fox, prowling around, keeping everything in line, while Mathilde looked like a robin out of a Disney movie. Hazel was, perhaps inevitably, a prickly hedgehog. The whole group, all the woodland creatures, were rushing to her and from her, bringing little things from the garden, or taking them away, while she hummed a little tune. Daniel’s nose twitched, and he reached up, pawing at his face for a moment, pulling a floppy ear over his eyes. It took him a moment to realize what he’d appeared as, glancing back to eye his cotton ball tail. (I’m a bunny rabbit?) he groaned to himself. (Ugh–I guess that’s better than a skunk.) He’d taken the role of Mind, and here, he felt most confident. The practical part of spellcasting, not working with concepts, but with form. He scurried up to Cassie, and she knelt, brushing a hand between his ears and petting back his fur before handing him a handful of seeds that’d been brought in by Mathilde. Daniel understood immediately what Mathilde was conceptualizing–the loose idea of a light spell. Not something difficult, not something they’d actually cast, but it was a spell he knew and could work with. Hopping away, he pictured what he wanted in his mind, bringing forth a concept conceptualized–of course–as a long, pointy carrot. For all the cartoon juvenility of the mindscape, here, Daniel the Fluffy Bunny Rabbit felt most confident, most at ease. He might not be good at the other points, but when it came to the Mind, the knowledge of how spellcasting worked, he felt he had a handle on things. His job didn’t require working with gut feeling or judgment, and it didn’t ask him to control power in precise ways–it was, almost completely, a mental game of taking memorized information from his head and using that information to give the ideas form and shape. This was where he belonged, and he knew it. Above and beyond the here and now, more than just in their training, this is the role that warlocks belonged in. There was power here, and this was the place he could use it. A warlock, with all the speed and power that implied, could take this power and do incredible things with it. His early assumptions had been wrong–the witches in a coven weren’t simply batteries that charged up their spells. They did far more, providing structure, relieving the mental load of spellcasting and allowing magic to have greater precision. The warlock leading a coven wouldn’t have to worry about using too much or too little power, the Aether point handled that. Nor did he have to worry about losing energy, that was controlled by Earth. Spirit and Mind reinforced the mental and literal structure of the magic, and Aqueus kept it all moving, flowing, so that the warlock would have all this ready at his fingertips. Maybe this would be a different course to the top. Maybe he didn’t even need to go to a warlock school. Daniel didn’t need to perfect everything after all–as a warlock leading a coven, he would have the girls to compensate for his weaknesses. They would give him everything he needed to achieve mastery, to let him demonstrate the power he had within him. Plus, occasionally, Cassie would scratch him between the ears. The mental connection finally faded, and Cassie sighed happily. Of all the groupings so far, this one had worked the best, and there were smiles all around when it ended. “You’re up, Daniel,” Asami said. Daniel felt it a bit unnecessary, but he wanted to do it regardless, just to see what the role felt like. A mental understanding was good, even if it wasn’t where he belonged. So, moving to the center of the group, Daniel sat down, letting all the girls reach out and rest their hands on him. It was more physical contact than he could remember having since…he wasn’t sure, but he tried not to let that bother him, donning the mental role of the coven’s familiar. Daniel extended his mind. To make the proper mental connections he had to go one at a time, slowly unfolding the arms of their pentacle, and it wasn’t until he’d touched every girl that he realized the form his own mental landscape had taken. He was neither a pool, nor a garden, nor even a gardener. He was not the only human, surrounded by a group of abstract representations of his peers. Daniel had projected himself as some kind of machine, not a computer even, but a modular, five-way arcade cabinet. Every other member of the coven stood around him, human, fully formed, speaking plainly, talking to each other about what they wanted to do, and Daniel was the only one without a voice. He immediately felt the claustrophobia–in his mind, he was unable to move, except for how the girls moved him. They had all the controls, after all, the buttons to push and the joysticks to move to get the results they wanted. He was a game for them, or a toy. And, as Blackburn had made clear, he was helpless. He hadn’t realized how helpless, either, until he was here, projecting the mental image into the world, with zero control over the magic. The only choice he had was to keep the coven’s connection alive, or to end it. But, a moment later, he realized something else. His goal as the coven’s Familiar was to carry magic between them–thoughts, energy, willpower. In his first moments, he’d been waiting for that to begin. As with his other roles, the work would show up, and he’d start handling it as best he could. Ten seconds passed in the mental space, where the girls played his mental arcade and input elaborate button combinations. Only then did he realize it’d already begun, and he hadn’t even noticed. He’d been succeeding, and he hadn’t even noticed. Sure, the mental construct was uncomfortable, even claustrophobic, but above all else it was effortless. Even trying to take notice, Daniel barely registered the effort it took to move it, and the thought process was reflexive, second nature. Even being the Mind had been work, but this? This was child’s play. ... I just finished doing a ton of work setting up an archive and library in my Discord Server. Even if you're not subscribed to my SubStar or Ream, the public stories archive is still available, meaning it's a great way to read the literally hundreds of stories and chapters I've got posted there https://discord.gg/FvyTkRu

I just need to highlight this and make sure it gets the recognition it deserves, because holy crud, this is wonderful.

You could say it was a bit of a "Meta" Moore situation 🤭 It just seemed like it fit!

Chapter 2 “Animal Wafers in my Stew–” I rolled my eyes slightly as I watched the picture show, leaning back against Margeret’s chest and popping a candy cigarette between my lips. There was a distinct difference between the Shelly I’d met the day before and the Shelly on screen. The actress in my office had been adorable, certainly, but she’d had a certain dignity to her that distinguished the woman from the child her body resembled. Her outfit, though pink and cute, had been refined, professional. On-screen Shelly, though? She’d fallen from a tree and hit every adorable branch on the way down. Her hair had curls whose flouncing ignored gravity, and her blush stood out even on the grainy film. It wasn’t just the makeup that made her stand out, though: The dame had pipes. Three feet tall and singing her little youthlocked heart out, she somehow managed to blend the talent that came with decades of singing experience and a genuine youthful energy, never making her role seem artificial. She sounded perfect, and between her wardrobe and her fluid dancing, you’d never know there was a diaper nestled beneath her puffy bloomers if you didn’t know what to look for. Even knowing her, having met her in person and seen her real self, I would’ve sworn that the girl on screen was just a precocious child with a prodigious singing voice. It made me wonder what else an actress could lie about. We’d hit a matinee screening. Margeret had come with me, posing as my mother so I could get free admission. I normally sat on her lap so I could see over the heads of anyone in front of us, but today the effort wasn’t really needed; the theater was practically empty. Still, a few inches of extra elevation afforded a better view. I watched the film with a careful eye. Silly songs and dance performances weren’t much my speed, but I wanted to get into Shelly’s head, into the world she lived in. Her costar wandered into the scene–Candice Wick, a woman in her early twenties who towered above her diminutive costar. They were playing cousins, I was reasonably sure, though these two had been paired off together in dozens of films over the years, and their relationship always felt like an afterthought. Twins, back in the early days when they’d looked the same age, then big sister and little sister, then adult and child siblings, as the age gap grew more and more pronounced. They had chemistry on screen, the sort of familiar banter you’d expect from a double act who’d been working together for more than a decade. The whole piece was too syrupy for my taste–I had a sweet tooth, but Shelly’s films were pure anodyne, cotton candy celluloid. Not exactly my tempo, but I couldn’t deny the craftsmanship and acting chops on display. And that smile–when Shelly flashed her grin to the camera, perfectly cutesy, innocent and adorable–I knew why she’d become the face of a media empire. The film ended on an expected note–the poor orphan girl got adopted into her cousin’s family, the day was saved, the mayor got re-elected, everyone lived happily ever after. Margaret and I left the theater in the early afternoon, holding hands in case anyone started asking questions about our alleged ‘mother-son’ relationship. “It’s about time to get to set,” I commented, checking my watch. “Mind dropping me off?” Margeret nodded, still smiling at the end of the film. She held my hand a little tighter than was strictly necessary as we crossed the street to the car, another indication of her chipper attitude. I knew she didn’t think anything of it, but when Margeret got in one of her happy moods, she had a habit of mothering me a bit too much. Trying to gently steer her back into a business mindset, I added, “You notice anything about that last film?” “What?” she asked, glancing down at me as she opened the rear door of her car, helping me inside. The car was in my name, and strictly speaking I had a license, but it was easier to just let her drive–unless I felt like being pulled over a few times per drive so that a cop could ask why I’d taken daddy’s car for a joyride. “Oh, no, what was it? The film seemed perfectly sweet to me.” “The film did, sure,” I replied. “It’s the audience–or the lack of one. The film came out this week, you’d expect more of a crowd.” “It is a matinee,” she pointed out. “Lots of folks are at work.” “Sure,” I said. “But still–we were the only two there, and we only went because we were being paid.” “Mmmm,” Margaret said, starting up the Chrysler. I caught the skepticism in her tone–I’d said something only partly true. I reconsidered my summary. Just because the film was too cloying for me, didn’t mean it didn’t have an audience. I shrugged. “Alright, well, I only went because I’m being paid.” She nodded, and we puttered onto the road, right into the heart of Hollywood. Within an hour, I was on set, standing beneath the hard gaze of a man who took his job far too seriously. “Places,” the director snapped into his megaphone. “Places, people–I swear to god, if this is the best we’ve got, I’m going to go out and hire some actual seven year olds to take your spots.” (He’s a real charmer,) I thought, though I put a little extra pep in my step as I moved into the desk chair that’d been assigned to me. The director, Don Allan, glared over his megaphone at the eight of us, all ‘extras’ who’d been hired to fill out a classroom scene with Shelly. He was in his forties, with a combover that did little to hide his prominent bald spot and a constant glare on his expression, as though someone in the room had whispered an insult and he was trying to figure out who’d said it. This was our third run through the blocking rehearsal so far, and I was beginning to worry that we’d never get out of the practice. I was only pretending to be an actor–yes, I’m aware of the irony–and I still needed to find time to ask a few questions. “Alright,” Don Allan insisted. “Let’s do it again. Shelly’s going to raise her hand, and–listen–and then you’ll turn…and…look.” The eight of us mimed looking over our shoulders to the back of the classroom set, our collective gaze falling onto an empty desk–Shelly was in makeup, and she didn’t need to be here for this part. “No!” he snapped. “You’re not turning to watch a performance–you’re turning to see who asked the question! This is simple, people, what are you not understanding?” Tossing his megaphone to the side, he pinched the ridge of his nose, exhaling heavily. “I’m going to have a smoke. When I get back, I expect to see some goddamned whimsy in here.” He stalked out. Only half the set looked convincing–he didn’t have to slam a door to leave, he just walked through the open space where the cameras would be placed when it came time to roll, past a table of snacks and out to the exterior door. That left me sitting inside half a room with seven extras who all knew Shelly better than I did. “Is this typical behavior?” I asked under my breath, trying to match the cadence of a new actor looking for gossip. “I heard things were rough on Don Allan’s sets, but woof–this guy needs to unwind a couple degrees.” The actors–my costars, really–were a couple seconds behind me in relaxing, waiting until after an audible slam echoed through the set, a door being closed with a firmly unnecessary amount of force. One of the extras reached into his prop desk, taking out a pack of smokes and a strip of matches. Offering one to the woman next to him, he lit them both up, the pair of pint-size actors sharing the smoke break together. “He gets pretty evil when we’re behind schedule and overbudget,” another extra prompted. I glanced back her way–she looked to be about eight, though she certainly didn’t sound it. She didn’t quite have the perpetual adorability of Shelly, a little too much world-weariness visible in her eyes, which is probably why she was filling a classroom desk rather than headlining. “Which, if you’re new here, that’s pretty much every day.” I pursed my lips. Sitting back in my own desk, I put up my feet on the empty chair in front of me, mimicking the relaxed posture of the other extras. “You think that’s why Shelly’s trying to get on other films? Rumor has it, she’s trying to get in with some bigshot drama director.” The man who’d taken out the smokes snorted. “The golden girl? No, she gets the princess treatment. Everyone knows where the checks are coming from–it might not be her name on the studio, but we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Chapel.” Nodding along, I considered that. It tracked with what I knew, though it also painted a question mark on the director’s back. Who would benefit the most from Shelly’s inability to find other work? The studio that made bank off her name, of course. The woman who’d been given a cigarette, one of the older-looking youthlocks in the room, stubbed out her Lucky Strike with about half of it left, tucking the remainder behind her ear and pushing to her feet. “I need to powder my nose,” she commented, though a slight lingering odor betrayed her euphemism a bit. After a long beat, I asked, “You think Candor Taurus really wanted to hire her? I mean, that’s a role to kill for, if I–” A loud scoff interrupted my question, and I turned to see Don walking onto set, a scowl on his face. “That’s a crock,” he snarled. “She’s not working for Candor Taurus, or anyone–our studio’s all she needs.” I put up my hands defensively and shook my head. “Just asking about a rumor.” “Rumors,” he spat, saying the word like a curse. “Where’s Barbara?” “Went to change,” another extra supplied. Don swore, then waved a hand at the whole group. “I can’t get you into better shape than this–go get into makeup, I want to be rolling in thirty minutes.” Nobody had to tell these actors twice–in moments, the set emptied out like someone had yelled ‘Coppers’ at a speakeasy. I was the last one out, giving Don Allan a passing glance as I waddled towards the makeup rooms. He looked tense, more so than he’d been before his smoke break. My comment about Shelly working for other studios had rattled him. Sliding my gaze smoothly past the director, I waltzed through the rest of the studio, trying to look like I belonged. It was in some ways easier than normal–I didn’t look like a kid to the people around me, just another extra, and so I didn’t have any adults… I didn’t have any non-youthlocks trying to get in my way. Bobbing my head, I shook out the thoughts buzzing around in there and returned my focus to the job. I took a second to inspect the mail cubby by the makeup rooms, but it didn’t offer much in the way of clues. A half dozen notes were set in labeled shelves, but there were no guards keeping an eye out to keep the messages private or to ensure the wrong person didn’t walk off with them. Had someone noticed a letter for Shelly sitting out in the open, there’d be nothing stopping them from swiping it before anyone was the wiser. Walking through the door into the makeup room, I found myself blinking away at the sheer illumination in the place–every mirror had half a dozen lightbulbs around it, and there were more on the ceiling, with a few more mood lamps scattered about to boot. Makeup artists were apparently allergic to shadow, and my eyes watered a little as they adjusted to the stiflingly bright room. Once my eyes had adjusted, I clambered up into one of the makeup chairs to await my turn. It was similar to the kind barbers used, with a foot pump at the base to raise and lower it and a swivel so the makeup artist could rotate her subjects around. A couple other extras had arrived before me and were in their own chairs–though, I noticed, only a couple had arrived. Most had apparently scattered to steal a quick break before they were required on set. One makeup artist was assigned to us extras, applying thick layers of foundation that wouldn’t run from sweat or come off too easily while filming. Shelly had her own team, three technicians primping and polishing her appearance to a perfect shine, highlighting the contrast between her importance and our own. Sitting in the chair, she straddled the line between her reality and her persona–the miniature professional woman and the doe eyed darling tot. The makeup team had her almost done, but it was missing something–the sparkle in her eyes, the energetic posture, the acting that turned her wardrobe from a costume into a character. Her outfit might have been On-Screen Shelly, but her mind still reflected the world-weary woman I knew lay beneath the clothing. She made brief eye contact with me when I got in the chair, but didn’t give me so much as a nod of recognition, keeping our real relationship a secret. I was just another extra. My feet dangled off the chair while I waited, pondering what I knew to pass the time. This job had left me plenty of time to think, but not much to think about so far, just a few loose motivations and a blank spot where my evidence should be. That all changed as the door opened, and a skinny man in a slightly oversized suit came bustling in, a three foot poster folded awkwardly under his arm. “Shelly!” he called, tripping over himself as he pulled one of the posters out. “I’ve got something to show you.” I could tell by Shelly’s look that she knew this man well, and that she wasn’t pleased to see him. That pegged him as her manager, William Waters. As I saw the poster in his arms, I got an idea of why. It was a painted version of Shelly’s likeness from behind, though with her head turned so that we could clearly see the precocious grin on her face. The real subject, though, was the disposable diaper hanging around her waist, sticking out with more poof than even the frilliest bloomers. There was a slogan printed beneath: ‘Coddles - Protecting even the brightest smiles.’ He held it up for Shelly to see. “I just got out of a meeting with the marketing director at Beverly-Mark, they’re ready to start printing these in magazines and–” Over the course of a second, I saw Shelly’s face flicker through all a dame’s most dangerous emotions–surprise, confusion, and then, finally, rage. I was wrong. Her world-weary, professional act melted away in front of my eyes. Shelly’s true self came out, face contorting in anger, and then came the screaming. ... The kickstarter for "The Baby Bet" Audiobook is fully funded! That means we're going forward with production! If you're interested in securing a copy of the audiobook, it's 15$ - less than it'll be when it goes up on retail - and if we can hit our first stretch goal, we'll also be adapting and including the trilogy of "Gamer Pants" short stories as a bonus! www.kickstarter.com/projects/peculiarchangeling/the-baby-bet-coming-to-audio

Chapter Three Note: I’m gonna need major help on this one from Sophie, for obvious reasons. Ai tries to seem like she isn’t so much following Aya as she is simply walking behind her. She can’t give herself away now, not when she’s so close to escape. Her heart pounds in her chest so hard she’s worried everyone will know, but if anyone else can hear her blood rushing through her ears, they don’t react. (Just get sent home. Put this all behind you. Maybe I won’t even remember, it’ll just be like a nightmare, when you don’t even remember the details, and I’ll be free.) They get into an elevator, and Aya waits. After a moment of perplexed silence, she gestures to the badge scanner. “Eh–Bala,” she says, looking between Bala and the buttons, “I don’t have authorization to get down there, it has to be your badge.” “Right,” Ai replied, nodding and reaching out to swipe her badge. “Of course, I apologize. I’m just lost in thought.” Aya frowns a little deeper. “You’ve had a day, haven’t you?” Ai returns the gesture, slightly perturbed confusion. “What do you mean?” “You suddenly care about Ai, and now you’re apologizing. You’re not normally this sentimental.” Shrugging, Ai says, “Just thinking about why we’re doing this.” The elevator doors open, right into the deep, buried lab. Ai steps in, looking around–the walls in front are painted white, but the ones behind her, the ones she hadn’t seen in the security video, are bare drywall. They weren’t meant to be seen. “Get it set up,” she says. “Be fast.” “Alright,” Aya says, gesturing to the side, to a thin door. “Go ahead and get changed.” Ai frowns. “Changed?” Aya blinks a couple times, baffled. “We’re not sending you to another mind, are we? Ai has to be in the driver’s seat if we want her to go back.” “I misunderstood,” Ai says, before correcting herself, projecting more Bala-like condescension “Be more specific next time. I’ll be quick.” Entering the small room, she takes stock of the supplies–it’s got diapers and a changing table. It’s made for this purpose, after all. Of course, Ai has to be careful–she can’t take off her pee-soaked panties. She shucks out of her pants and lays down, but leaves her wet panties on, feeling ridiculous as she unfolds a diaper from the stack. Unfolding it, she feels ridiculous, but there’s no escaping what she has to do. Lifting her damp panties off the table, she slides the diaper beneath her hips, adjusting it a little to get it straight. She’s uncertain why she knows how to do this, or what experience in her previous life had taught her to self-change her diapers, but she can’t question that right now. Folding the diaper between her thighs, she pulls it snugly over her wet panties, squishing the sodden pad against her crotch as she presses the sticky tapes down. She almost puts the pants back on, but what would be the point? The diaper needs to be on display. “Ready?” She asks Aya as she steps back in. Aya nods, gesturing to the far controls. “Just needs your authorization and the dimensional code.” (My–fuck.) Ai hadn’t even considered that she’d need to do the work here, that she’d have to help with the set up. Walking to the display, she hesitates. A menu flashes at her, asking for dimensional coordinates. It wants four digits–if she guesses at random, she won’t have a prayer of getting it right. Frozen, staring, Ai tries to think back to Bala’s meticulous notes. Had she written the code down anywhere? Would Ai’s memory be reliable even if she had? She knows then she can’t get home, but she has to try. (Hell, anywhere has to be better than here. Even if my mind gets scattered to a new dimension, at least it’ll be free of this place.) Holding her breath, picking numbers at random, she enters a code, choosing an arbitrary number, a throwaway pick that has no meaning to her. 1508. “Should we restrain you?” Aya asks, as Ai lies down on the mat, ready to slide into the machine, ready to go…somewhere. “Just tell Ai that she’s going home,” Ai replies, heart pounding, fingers shaking with anxiety. “I know how she thinks. She’ll obey.” Aya nods. “Okay.” She’s waiting on Ai, waiting for “Bala” to wet herself. Ai closes her eyes, concentrates–she doesn’t need to pee, she already went just half an hour ago, but Aya doesn’t know that. (If it’s just a trickle, it won’t even be visible, right?) After a moment, she gasps and her eyes shoot open. It’s her best act, a performance to make it seem like she just arrived. Looking around, she blurts, “Where am I?” Aya smiles warmly. “Just lie down, Ai. You’re going home.” Ai doesn’t want to be too obvious. She pretends to think for a moment, to calm down, though she’s anything but calm. Hoping it won’t give her away, she watches Ai, searching for a spark of recognition as she places the part. “Oh–okay. Okay, I’m going home. That’s good.” Aya watches her back, and the two of them share a long searching look. Ai’s heart tightens in her chest, but Aya doesn’t make any accusations. Reaching out, she pats Ai on the shoulder. “Just lie down, and this will all be over soon.” Ai lies down. Aya pulls the lever. Ai slides into the machine, and white light flash in her eyes. … Ai didn’t know where she was, but at least she could remember. The machine, the jump, her promise to herself that anywhere would be better than nowhere, it all stuck with her. Turning, she took in her surroundings. She was in the middle of a living room, with a couch and a television. Behind her, there was a kitchen with a kitchen island. Everything had a modern aesthetic with the exception of the far wall, where a mural of a huge blue wave had been painted. The sound of water crashing against sand in a constant rhythm steadied her anxiety. This world, it seemed more like the one she knew. More realized, more comforting, more of a world and less of a place invented solely to torture her. Looking at her arms, she saw she was in a new body. Not her own. Her skin was tan, and the ground looked a little further away, like someone had panned the camera. And–to her chagrin–she’d once again appeared in a wet diaper. Are you fucking kidding me? Even now, she couldn’t escape the humiliation Bala had inflicted on her. She didn’t exactly want to snoop, but she wanted to catch herself up as quick as she could, so she began to explore. On the coffee table in front of the couch, she saw a laptop. She could see the icon of a web browser. Good, they have internet here. Perfect. Walking over to the desk, she sat. Ai wanted to go to Google, or whatever equivalent search engine they had in this world. She could look up the year, what country she was in, see if she could find information about support for… What will I pretend to be? A lost immigrant? An amnesiac? Whatever she might have done, she didn’t have an opportunity, because her attention was stolen by a word document open on the computer. “Academy J, by Mia Moore.” Though she had told herself not to snoop, she saw the first couple paragraphs in her peripheral vision, and after that, she couldn’t look away. I blew on my coffee, trying to cool it down to a temperature where I could chug it. I’d already pushed deadlines back more times than I was comfortable, I had to get this anthology finished, but the stories weren’t playing nice. Maybe I could talk to Blossom about it, but I wanted to surprise her. If the characters kept taking on lives of their own, though, refusing to go where I wanted them to, I didn’t know if I could get this done in time. I’d stopped at a cliffhanger, but I needed to get back to it. Get this story done, then finish the others. It’d already lost everything kinky, and I was unsure of where to take it from here, but it needed to get done, and I didn’t want the stress of deadlines to take the fun from the story. Walking in, I saw Blossom at my computer, reading– “Hey, I said I wanted it to be a surprise. I thought you just wanted to have some diaper time while I wrote?” She spun, eyes widening. “Who the fuck are you?” "What? Blossom, what's wrong?" I wouldn't say I was the most perceptive person in the world, but Blossom had never spoken to me like that before. Even when she was terse, she was level headed, with a point to make. Had I done something wrong? Was it the story? "Weren't you going to change or something?" Tears were in her eyes, and she looked ready to scream, or like she might be having a panic attack. “You–this is–how do you know what’s in my head?” “Blossom–” “Don’t call me that!” My heart was racing, but it would come in second place to my brain. What had I done? How could I fix it? I hadn’t done anything to make her mad, had I? The only thing that changed was that Blossom was that she’d read the latest Academy Works. “Is…is it something in the story?” That set her off. “You–” Tears streamed down her face now, unbidden. “You know everything I think. You know everything I do, even though you can’t, even though it didn’t even happen in this universe–tell me how.” Not even my self-cynicism could keep up with Blossom. I groped around in my mind for anything I could have done wrong, hoping I'd find something, literally anything. It was so much better than the building confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She stands up, gesturing furiously at the computer. “Here. This.” She points at the computer, reading aloud, reading each word as though it were a judicially ordered death sentence: >>>Ai blinks, but the panic doesn’t set in until several seconds pass. >>>(Where am I?) >>>Sometimes, in the past, she’d woken up in an unfamiliar place. It always disoriented her, struggling in a foreign environment “It’s the story I’ve been working on, for the anthology, but you know that.” I shook my head, trying my best to comprehend the insanity that had consumed everything I know. Distantly, I was aware that I probably sounded as unhinged as the situation felt. “It’s not a story, it’s my life.” “What? You’re not making sense.” Was this a joke? If it was, it was pretty messed up, even for Blossom. Had I stumbled into a scene or something? I was ready to grab onto literally any answer. “I got into that machine, and I was desperate to get anywhere else: away from that place, that–that Academy, I guess, and I got here and…what are you? The architect? Are you reading my mind and just writing down everything that happens?” “Blossom–” “My name isn’t Blossom. It’s Ai.” I stared at her, uncomprehending. It didn’t make sense. How could she be Ai? I’d known her all this time, and… I got a sinking feeling of fear, and of comprehension. The last thing I’d written, Ai had left her universe, come to another. It couldn’t be real, could it? Surely– “I just make it all up,” I explained, trying to convince myself as much as her. “Nothing I write is real. It’s just a story.” “You–the ‘story’ you wrote, you tortured me. You humiliated me. Why?” “Because it’s just a fantasy, just a story. Ai isn’t real!” “I’m standing right here.” “If…” I felt insane. Playing along with the delusion, or engaging with the idea that this might all be true, but I don’t know how else to move this conversation forward. “If you’re really Ai, prove it.” “How? You know everything I’ve ever thought.” “Take off the diaper.” She stares for a long moment, confused, then her eyes widen. “You want me to go away.” “I’ll bring you back, I just…I need Blossom to tell me if it’s all real.” “I don’t trust you. You hurt me.” “Okay, but…what else can we do?” Her eyes were red and tears streaked her face. The confusion and fury of the situation, trying to comprehend what was going on after…well, after she’d escaped from Academy J, probably, it’d all bled through her emotions. Finally, though, her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Promise.” “I promise.” Of course I did, what else would I say? It seemed to be good enough for her. Keeping her gaze on mine, she reached down and popped the tapes off her diaper. … “Don’t worry, just breathe.” She looked at me, and I could see the point where Blossom left and Ai appeared. It transitioned subtly, but I knew Blossom’s face too well not to notice her expression shifting. Besides that, I’d left myself another clue. “So you believe me?” “I do.” I swallowed. Believing her meant too many things about my world, it brought out too many existential fears, but I couldn’t disregard evidence when it was staring me in the face. “What did this Blossom person say that convinced you?” Ai asked, interrupting my train of thought. “It’s not what she said, but…she had an idea,” I explained, turning around. “Since what I’d written apparently actually happened, sort of, in another universe…” Turning around, I pointed at my computer screen, emphasizing the new lines I’d written. >>>While Ai leaves, Aya gets an idea. Pressing a few buttons on the screen, she sends an additional bit of information through–she can change things, more than just copying minds. She changes the color of Ai’s eyes to pink, but only when she’s in control. Ai read the line, then turned, looking at herself in the window reflection. Her eyes were bright pink. “So what are you?” she asked, turning to look at me. “What’s going on?” “I don’t know. I’m just a writer, I make stories for the internet, but…if you’re here…” Existentialism rose in me again. If Ai was a fictional character, and she was here, did that mean all fictional characters were real? Or did it just mean that I’d been creating universes when I wrote alone? Or did it mean that I was just like her? A character? She frowns, an idea forming in her head. “If you can make things happen by writing, though…can we just ask the story to explain everything?” My eyes widened. Of course–of course. “You think so? I mean–sure, it worked once, but–” Turning to my laptop, I readied my fingers to type. “So…what do I say, anyways?” “Make Aya send a book, I guess. One that answers all of our questions.” Simple. And–if it worked, that’d mean I’d be able to do more. My excitement started to build, and I typed quickly, frantically. The prose was awful, it was contrived and as thoughtless as the most low-effort fanfictions, but I didn’t care about the quality. >>>Aya has another idea, and sends through a magical book that can answer any question, ensuring that Ai won’t be confused anymore. “That’s it.” I hit enter, and a moment later, the book appeared on my desk. Flipping to the first page– (Hold on. No. This is wrong. What the hell was I thinking? Let’s figure this out.) … Ai blinked awake. She’d become disturbingly used to the experience of finding herself in a new place, a new world, and she took in her surroundings with speed. It didn’t take long, because she had no surroundings. The world wasn’t. She’d appeared in a complete void. Behind her was the only thing of substance–another person. Average height, slim build, he wore a onesie with a full, drooping diaper beneath, but seemed to barely notice. His ears had the slightest tapering point to them. “Who are you?” Ai asked, because what else was there to ask? “That’s complicated,” he replied. “I’m…not sure how I want to handle this, honestly.” Ai was too smart not to make a deduction, an intuitive guess. “Are you another writer, like Mia?” He laughed. “Dammit, this is the problem–If you weren’t so damned clever, things might’ve gone differently, but I couldn’t make you any other way. I can’t write idiots.” She faced him, stunned. Here he was, talking about how he’d made her, with a tone no more complex than if he’d talked about making a bowl of cereal. “You created me?” “No.” A thin smile curled his lips. “You’re on loan. Mia, too, though I didn’t ask for permission there, I just borrowed her because I didn’t know what else to do. I did try to follow in your creators’ footsteps, in their style–with a couple exceptions, I had to get a little pedantic revenge out where I could–but…I don’t know. They can be mean, really mean, but I don’t know if they’re worse than me.” “If you’re…I don’t know what you are, but if you’re so powerful…can you send me home?” Her eyes were wide, pleading. He looked back with a cool, calm stare. “Your creators and I were questioned, once, together: ‘Do you ever feel bad about what you do to your characters?’. They both said yes, instantly, without question. Of course they did, of course they had empathy for the suffering they inflicted.” The statement hung in the air, and Ai couldn’t help but ask the obvious followup. “And you?” “I said no.” Ai swallowed and took a step back. In the void, that didn’t mean much, she had nowhere to go. “So why talk to me?” “It’s like I said, I don’t know what to do with you,” he replied with a shrug. “There’s no good outcome, not that I can see.” “Send me home then. At least give me that.” Her chest stuck out a bit, posturing confidence. She had the courage to stick up to anyone, at least right now. “You don’t have a home, Ai. I never wrote it.” He shook his head. “And if I made you a place, gave you a happy ending where you can put all this behind you, what story would that be? It’d be an anticlimax. Worse than a cliffhanger, it’d be…well, it’d be lame. I had an idea, that you could end up in charge with Aya’s help, that she would tie down Bala and make her wet herself after every diaper change…it was too complicated to get to that ending, and didn’t feel in character. None of it worked.” “I don’t care.” “I do.” He shook his head, frowning a little. “And I wrote you clever. I wrote you smart, and stubborn, and as real as I could, but that means I can’t hurt you how I want. You’re too good for that, you ruined it, and I couldn’t make you compliant without breaking your character.” A moment of silence passed. He studied her, thoughtful and curious. “Do you want to know why it doesn’t bother me, when I hurt you?” It was a hypothetical question. She answered regardless. “Yes.” “Because you’re not real. You’re a character, a puppet for me to play with. I make you dance, I make you cry, I make you beg, and then I, and my audience–your audience, really–we get to remember what happened to you. You’re just a vessel for surrogate experiences, for our fun.” She fell quiet for a long moment. “Like Bala.” He shrugged. “I thought it was clever at the time. It’s not the same as reality, of course–it has to be intense, so intense that it’d be torture in real life, or else it’s too mild. I’d never want to be tied and bound and have my mind destroyed, but I want to remember it. My audience wants to remember it too, and they want the ending to stick with them.” “So…” she started, thinking about it for a long moment. “I’m fucked, then.” “No. I went too far, I got too weird with it, I tried too many new things. The story’s kind of off the rails, and…well, shit. When it was my turn with the playroom, I really trashed the place, didn’t I? Anyone who comes after me’s not going to be able to do anything with it.” He looks around. “I didn’t bother deciding what this space should look like, either. Too much work for no real benefit.” She stared at him, eyes watering a little. To have her reality stripped apart, to be told in no uncertain terms that her life was not her own, and that her fate would be decided by an uncaring being who enjoyed her pain, it broke her just a little. “I could stop the story here,” he admits. “Just give up. Walk away, and don’t come back.” “I’d just…be here?” she asked, looking around. “Alone” “No. You’d be…nothing.” “Nothing.” “You’ve been there before. I gave you a different name, different trials, but it was you even then. And, when I got lost, you went away. If I put you down now, if I stop here, you’ll go back there.” “I don’t remember that.” “You wouldn’t. It’s not forgetting, though, it’s nonexistence.” Her posture slumped. Defeated, and yet…she had a little fire left in her. “So, don’t end the story, and don’t hurt me.” “I don’t know how to do that.” He shook his head. “No story is better than a bad story. I can’t break character, I can’t undermine the world I made, and I can’t give you a happy ending.” “Then figure it out, asshole. You made me, or, well–someone else made me, but you say you’re the one making this happen, so you have to end it. If you try to give me a bad ending, if you keep hurting me, it’ll be like you said. I’ll ruin it. So you can’t break me, and you can’t change me without disappointing your ‘audience’–well, fuck your audience.” He gave her a warning look. “Careful. I like my audience. I love them, even. I want them to like this, because I care about them. I care about your creators, too, I…” Laughing, he added, “I wanted to impress them. That’s why I tried to do everything. But I started with the sex and the torture and the smut layed down thick, and then I got weird and experimental, and it’s been, what, ten thousand words now since anyone’s had a smutty thought?” “Please.” Her eyes were huge. “I just want to be able to…be.” “I know. If you didn’t want to stay an adult, to stay in charge of your mind, you wouldn’t make for a good protagonist, it’s just…I’ve got other people I need to worry about, and I’ve gone and made you so sympathetic that I can’t even hurt you properly.” She took a deep breath. Her resolve didn’t break, and he wished he could have the tenacity he’d given her. “Okay. Tell it to me. All of it. Everything you wanted to do. Maybe I’ll think of something you hadn’t.” He laughed at her. “That’s not how this works. You can only be smarter than me by being faster, by coming up with clever ideas quickly, you can’t think of things I don’t know.” “Do it anyway. Prove yourself right.” Though he didn’t know exactly what this would result in, he followed through with the idea anyway, just to fill another half page. “Well…fine. I never figured exactly how to line up with the world of the Academy, but the short version is, Bala wants to be free, to be cared for, to be…a baby, sort of. She doesn’t want autonomy, but she has to have it, because–” He shrugged. “Because it’s a bad story if she can just make the kind of universe she wants to live in. There needs to be conflict, get it?” “Okay. So…you make her what she wants.” “How so? I didn’t set it up at all, there’s no foreshadowing, nothing.” “I don’t know, that’s your job.” “And your job is to be the victim. To have a bit of hope, to have a chance at escape, but to ultimately be the surrogate for our fantasies. Bala can steal your mind, she can make you the victim, because it’s hot when you can’t say ‘no’.” “You know, this is going to look pretty fucking pretentious if you don’t have a good ending, not after all this.” “Unless I just don’t publish you anywhere.” “I don’t think you’re going to keep this buried.” “You’re right.” She shrugged. “Okay. So if you need it to be hot, why not just…make it work differently?” “Change the rules in the middle of the story? That’s not up to my standards.” “Don’t change the rules. Write a better story.” He knew where she was going with this–of course he did–but he still frowned. “I’ve never been criticized by my own character before.” “Can you do that, though?” she asked, eyes sparkling with hope. “Try again? Give me an ending where I’m happy?” “Huh,” he said, tilting his head a bit. “You know, I…I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Hope dashed, her jaw drops open. “Why?” “Frankly? I’m busy. I’ve got more projects on my plate, and this one is already overdue. I can’t just start over from scratch.” “You’re fucking kidding me.” “It’s okay. I’m not going to leave you like this. I’m not the only one borrowing characters out here, and, well…maybe someone can do a better job than me.” “So you’re just going to pass the buck?” “Yup. Don’t worry, it’s…” his face sours slightly. “Okay, maybe you should be worried, a little, but you won’t remember any of this. Mia’s going to forget, too. I’ll just have to be sloppy, there, to write in a retcon, because otherwise your creators will have a fuck of a time trying to write after this.” “Promise me there’s hope,” Ai looked him in the eye, pleading. “I promise. I don’t know what she’s planning, but I know she does happy endings sometimes.” Ai nods. “Promise me one more thing. Don’t forget me.” “If I did my job right, nobody will.” ... Author notes: I'm so thankful to "Mia Moore" for letting me write in her universe! It's an incredible honor to be invited to work on this project, and I hope that I did justice the setting and characters that she* created. If you want to check out my other stuff and support my writing, I've got a Ream! And a substar!

Chapter Two “Sorry, sorry–” Ai had grown used to moving around the room, but sudden disorientation still hits her this time–she’s not in the room anymore. She’s somewhere else entirely, and she has no time to appear disoriented. It’s pure luck that her endorphins didn’t carry over from the last moment she could remember, or her panicked state would have triggered an anxiety attack almost immediately. Aya is in front of her, moving forward with urgency, reaching out with a couple napkins wadded in her hand. Quickly, Ai shakes her head, scooting back. “Erm–” She tries to take in everything all at once. They’re in a break room, the kind that’s common across pretty much the whole world: there’s a fridge, a sink, a microwave. A few other people are eating lunch, workers in lab coats that she doesn’t recognize and doesn’t care to meet, because Aya has all her attention. Ai can remember Aya holding her down, pinning her in place, bringing down powerful blows on Ai’s thighs and diapered bottom. Then, she’d seemed so powerful, so immovable, but now she looks almost…subservient. The woman’s face is so full of urgent concern and a need to help that Ai’s initial impulse, to panic, quickly consumes itself. She is confused, but not afraid. It might be another trap, but if it is, Ai doesn’t understand it, and she doesn’t let herself work up any anxiety over nothing. Her lap is hot and wet, but that, too, is different from how she remembers. She’s not wearing a diaper, and the warmth has spread past her crotch, down her legs. It’s too warm, almost scalding. Looking down, she sees soup, bits of processed chicken and rubbery noodles spilled all over her lap, her pants soaked with hot broth all the way through and into her panties. The heat is enough to make her wince, but she ignores the pain and shakes her head, taking the napkins from Aya. “Eh–thank you.” “Sorry, just–” Aya starts, looking away. “Clumsy. And I feel bad.” “Why?” Ai asks. (Because you spanked me?) “Because–look, I know I was just playing a role, but it felt mean. And then…finding out it got shuttered the next day, how am I supposed to take it, except to think it’s my fault?” Ai doesn’t have time to think of a clever response, not as new information pounds into her brain, insisting she try and keep track of it all. The best she can manage is a noncommittal shrug. Aya looks away, exhaling through her nose, and she doesn’t look back for several seconds. “I’ll stop apologizing, just…sorry. No, sorry, I…this whole situation has me feeling so...I don’t know. She still looks like you the whole time, y’know? But I’m not supposed to treat you like you, and…it’s just a weird headspace to occupy.” Trying to keep her act going a little longer, Ai avoids a response, but it’s clear Aya wants to hear…something. Reassurance, maybe. Ai has an inkling of what’s going on, but she lacks certainty, and the wrong word could be disastrous. “If I may…” Ai starts, speaking slowly to buy time to think. Ultimately, she goes with her gut: If her hunch about the situation has any merit to it, she shouldn’t be kind. “It’s not my job to make you feel better. If your performance were a problem, I’d have said so, but you can work out your feelings in your own time. I need to go clean myself off.” Getting to her feet, she whirls, half to stride out of the break room, half to hide the uncertainty that’s painted onto her face. The move is vindicated a moment later, when Aya calls after her, “Hold on–Bala, wait.” Ai keeps walking, because now, the uncertainty has been promoted to panic. She doesn’t know the name, but she knows that it’s not her. Taking deep breaths, Ai walks out into the hallway, looking both ways. It’s painfully generic, as though whoever made this space never intended it to be seen, except by people who wouldn’t be impressed or even care about the surroundings. Without any indication of where she might need to go, she picks a direction at random, trying to look confident as she strolls down the hall. She knows a few things, by Sherlock-esque deduction. She knows that whenever she’s found herself in this…place, she’s been in a diaper, but more importantly, it’s always been a wet diaper. She can remember the sensation of just having wet herself, but not of being dry. Apparently, the rules that governed her counted any undergarments, not just diapers, and it didn’t care whether she’d soaked her panties with piss or chicken broth–wet was wet. She’d escaped from the curated experiences that had been made for her by sheer luck, but she won’t have much opportunity to use that freedom. The soup is drying quickly, already cool on her thighs, but she’s got a more urgent fear than that. Lab technicians– (Researchers? Scientists?) People in lab coats pass her in either direction, all giving nods of deference. She seems to be in charge, or at least in a position of authority. Too many people are paying attention to her, and Ai scrambles to think of a way to extend her brief bout of freedom. She needs to deal with the stain on her pants first, and ensure her mind will stay intact once the soup dries. Ai somehow doubts that she could excuse it if she pissed herself for all to see, so she needs protection, a way to be wet without being obvious. So, looking out for the nearest restroom with a dress-wearing stick figure on the door, she ducks inside. For once, she has a stroke of luck. Wherever she is, they don’t care for decor, but they care for hygiene. A dispenser on the wall holds pads and tampons, and she takes one of the former out before detouring to the nearest stall. Moving past the mirror, she makes a point not to look at it. She doesn’t want to deal with that yet. In the stall, she slips down her soup-covered pants, but takes care to keep her wet panties in place. If she screws this up, she won’t get another try. Fingers shaking, she removes the pad from its packaging and fumbles it into her panties, adding enough absorbent material that–she hoped–it would count. Now she just has to wet herself. Sitting on the toilet, it’s harder than she expects–she’d already been in a wet diaper, she’d even pooped in one, but convincing her body that she really, truly needs to wet her panties is another matter. She gets another stroke of luck. Someone comes in to wash their hands, and the sound of flowing water is enough to trick her brain into action. She floods the pad, and as it swells with pee, the excess trickling down into the toilet, she sighs in relief. Waiting until the dripping is done, until she’s sure nothing will leak into the pants, she gets up and flushes. There’s no putting it off now, she has to confront the truth. Ai steps out of the stall and faces her reflection. She isn’t wearing her own face, the face she knows. She’s not her. Ai stares at the face–the face she’d seen in the TV twice. First in the video, she’d seen the probably-Indian woman with the black hair stare at her with malice and condescension. Then, when the video had ended, she’d seen the same face stare back in her reflection, full of confusion and horror. She is her own tormenter, and staring into the bathroom mirror, she can’t escape that truth. It’s just what she saw before, when she looked at the TV screen, the image that’d driven her into a panic. She is not Ai. Her features are southeast asian, she has flowing black hair, and from her point of view, she’d seen the face curl up in a smug smile on a VHS tape not ten minutes prior. Ai isn’t here, not really. Bala stands in the bathroom, gazing at her own reflection, with Ai’s mind temporarily holding the steering wheel. She is, somehow, inside Bala, borrowing her body, living in it like a parasite. Only…parasites don’t get plucked from their own lives and forced into a host. She is something else. (A passenger.) That feels better, except passengers still chose to come on a voyage. (A prisoner.) Better. She inspects herself more thoroughly. Her clothes are pared down and professional, with a slightly scientific angle. She isn’t wearing scrubs exactly, but the style seems scrubs-adjacent. If she worked in STEM, Ai might know what to call it, but she has to go with her loose, half-accurate descriptions for now. No nametag, but she doesn’t need that. She knows whose face she wears. More interesting is the elastic, retractable lanyard on her waist, attached to a magnetic keycard. She has no way of telling which doors it can open, but surely it will open something. With a pee-soaked pad keeping her mind in place, she wipes her pants off to get rid of soup crud, washes her hands, and steels herself. If she gives herself away, she will probably wake up back in some room, some new chamber, being tortured for an unseen audience’s pleasure. Ai refuses to go back to that, not if she can help it. She needs information–she needs to know what’s going on, and how she can escape it. She has an idea for how to get that information, too, but it will require her to embody the woman who taunted her on the TV; a woman who seemed to be embody spite and cruelty, wanting nothing more than to torture Ai for reasons impossible to fathom. Ai can do that. After all her torture, she’s got some malice built up that she needs to vent. Stepping out into the hall, she spins on the first person she sees, some researcher or worker or it doesn’t matter. “You,” she snaps, pointing at them. They freeze, and whether it’s her posture or tone or purely from Bala’s reputation, Ai gets the ‘deer-in-headlights’ look she wanted. “Yes, ma’am!” they reply quickly, almost dropping the clipboard they’re holding. “Give me a status update,” she says, staying as vague as possible. “I know there’s a lot up in the air right now–I need to know the most up-to-date information.” Their eyebrows raise, fear driving their response. “I–I don’t know that, ma’am. I’m just getting off lunch, and–” “And, what?” She demands. “You think I want to hear excuses?” “No, but–” “But, but, but,” Ai interrupts. “If you can’t be prepared and ready to give an effective answer, I’m not going to wait on your timetable, no sir. Since you can’t answer my question right now, we will go to my office and you’ll stay there until you find out.” Bala’s office has to have the details she needs, Ai just needs access–and this poor figure in front of her can give her that access. Their eyes widen even further, the fear of being fired–or possibly worse. Ai doesn’t know how they treat bad employees here. They might put insubordinate workers through the same torture Ai had experienced, for all she knew. Nodding quickly, the employee stammers, “I–yes ma’am!” Ai waits a moment longer, raising one eyebrow and channeling impatience. “Well? After you.” The worker squeaks and turns without another word, and their effort to scamper forward and get this awkward situation over with pushes them to lead without question. Ai follows, hiding her satisfaction, as she gets directed straight to Bala’s office. The decor is as sparse as she’d come to expect, but it’s well stocked. A computer is on her desk–an iMac, the kind where the screen is about the size of a beach ball because it has all the computer parts built into it, and a phone sits next to it with all sorts of extra buttons for intercom and Ai-doesn’t-really-know. There’s even a rolodex–Bala is an organized administrator, it seems. “I…” the lab assistant stammers. Gesturing to the computer, Ai snaps, “Get to work. Use my phone, hell, drink my coffee while you’re at it, since I’m apparently waiting on you. Trust me: Waste enough of my time, and this will get personal.” She doesn’t have to say another word. The terrified figure gets onto her computer, logs in with an admin password, and quickly pulls up status reports from a lengthy chain of emails. “Okay–okay,” they say, their breathing coming fast. “I–Ma’am, I’m sorry.” “I won’t shoot the messenger,” she says, moving in to look. “The project’s been fully canned, they’re pulling funding and looking into other things,” they explain. “After your Alter Identity saw her reflection and had that panic attack, management decided that this wouldn’t be an effective route to regression after all. They already had doubts after seeing that the regression reverted between sessions, which–I mean–I’m sorry–they decided that it was taking the subject’s mental state in the wrong direction. Please don’t be mad at me. They–it’s just one failed experiment, you’ve still got authorization to pursue your other plans once this AI is erased. Ai tries not to sound too eager, too excited. “What happens to her after that?” “Oh.” They pause, uncertain. “I…that’s more your department, you’re the one who built it, but…doesn’t the AI kind of just stop?” Frowning, Ai makes a gesture with her hand for them to continue. “Stop?” “Well, she’s a constructed identity. She doesn’t really exist. Once you undo the conditioning, so that she can’t manifest, I kinda just assumed that the AI would…‘die’ isn’t the right word, but you get my meaning. Why are you asking me this?” “I meant, ‘What happens to the research we’ve conducted on her’,” Ai lies, screaming within her thoughts. “But, never mind. You’ve done what I asked. Get back to work and we won’t have to talk about this again.” “Yes ma’am,” they say, looking almost like they’re going to salute before simply getting up out of Bala’s office chair and hurrying out of the office. Ai stands there, stunned. If she gets caught, she won’t have to worry about being being tortured or humiliated. That would be bad, but being sent through humiliations, having her ass beaten bloody, being edged and tormented in diapers, it still seemed preferable to her new crisis. At least, if she was being forced to fill diapers and solve impossible puzzles, she’d get to exist. Facing the weight of this realization, Ai allows herself a brief moment to slip into a dissociative meltdown. There just doesn’t seem to be another reasonable course of action. She only exists in wet underwear, and if she cleans herself, if she takes off the piss-soaked pad in her panties, she’ll cease to exist forever. Nothing she can think of softens that blow–she’ll be caught, or she’ll have to change eventually, and when that happens, she will just be… Gone. For a moment, she sees herself there, just standing in the office, paralyzed by inaction. In the context of her circumstances, knowing how small and weak she is against the prospect of nonexistence, what else can she do? But the disassociation makes things worse. Seeing herself, thinking of herself as nothing but a body, it only reminds her that this isn’t even her body. Even the simple numbing remedy that comes from an out-of-body experience is denied to her, because she has no body to be out of, just a temporary residence. So, though she wants to break down and sob, there’s simply no opportunity. She bottles up her fear, her anxiety, her existential dread, and pushes it down into herself. Maybe, maybe, there’s a solution buried in Bala’s computer. Without any other plan, she sits down at the keyboard and begins pouring through the files. Bala is, to her relief, a meticulous woman, with all her files carefully labeled. Less helpfully, the projects all seem to have code names. She reads all the folders twice, trying to find the one relating to herself. Star Gazers. Cookie Clicker. Quiet Time. Coral Island. V's Guest. Jacqueline Hyde. Hello Nurse. There’s a few others, too, more blatant than the rest. Zoo. Language. Vulcan. On the second pass, Ai finally gets it. ‘Jacqueline Hyde.’ Jekyll and Hyde. Dual identities. “Right,” she whispers. “Duh. So much for a secret name.” Clicking on it, she starts to read. It doesn’t take long before she’s drowning in jargon, technical terms and descriptions of machinery she cannot understand. She’s not helpless, though. Ai is no scientist, but she’s not clueless. When she comes across a series of recordings, video logs labeled with dates and particular keywords, she feels a surge of hope. She clicks on the first one, and flinches involuntarily when she sees her borrowed face appear on the screen in compressed, low-quality video. The woman on screen, Bala, lacks the condescension she wore the last time Ai saw her. She’s standing tall, professional, a bit cold. “I’m recording this for posterity. Since I imagine anyone watching this won’t be interested or able to understand the technical elements, I’ll keep this simple. If you want to understand how the machine works, check the documentation.” Bala smiles, but Ai notices a touch of bitterness behind the expression. “As if they’re anything but babble. Glass tubes and sprockets and nonsense–the why doesn’t matter, it could have been magic or alchemy or nanotech. Aya makes it work. The important thing is the research, not the methods.” Backing up, she reveals a projection screen behind her and raises a clicker, though the slide she pulls up is so compressed by the video display as to be almost illegible. All Ai can make out is a vaguely human shape and skin-tone colors. “How can you tell which elements of regression therapy are most effective, and which are wasted time? If you’re successful, you can’t, because the only person who can tell you what worked on them is now incapable of expressing that information in any scientifically useful way.” Raising both hands to frame her face, she says in a mock tone, “‘Yes, and how did you respond to the spanking?’ ‘Goo gah guhh goo’. It’s not exactly rigorous.” Clicking the slide forward, a machine of some kind–steel and wires–pops up on the display. “That’s where the Versable comes in. I’ve had Aya create a universe in which we have access to the infinite span of worlds, and where we can tap into minds from alternate universes–those parallel to our own. We make copies of their minds. We could bring along their bodies, but that wouldn’t help–we may as well clone Ai, if we did that. To ensure we’re working with a clean slate, we strip the context of the identity, so that they have a form of amnesia–they’ll remember who they are, but not any specific events. We get the personality, but not the person, copied into a compliant host. We’re calling them ‘Artificial Identities’, and I so wish that there was someone in this universe who would get the joke.” Waving a hand, she moves things along. “With the right triggers implanted in the transverse personality requisition, we can make the identity come out in response to stimuli, and revert when that stimuli is gone. The host mind remembers everything, and can record the experiences after the fact. Now, all we have to do is find a compatible mind, bring it over, and see how it responds when we administer our regression experiments. So that’s the plan–find a compatible mind, bring it, break it.” A smile creeps over her face, spreading like a virus, and she adds quietly, “And I know exactly what mind we’ll be breaking.” The video comes to an end, and Ai sees Bala’s face reflected in the black screen for a moment before the video player minimizes and an image of a green field replaces it. Swallowing, she scrolls forward, skipping videos, looking for useful keywords. ‘Attempted implantation - 1’ through ‘Attempted implantation - 7’ are all skipped. After all the attempts, however, she finds what she’s looking for. ‘Successful implantation of Artificial Identity - 1.’ Holding her breath, Ai pulls it up. Bala is standing by a machine, the one from the slide in the previous video, though the new video shows it in crisper detail now that it’s not a photo on a projector being captured by yet another camera. It looks rather like an MRI, and Bala is operating one set of controls, naked save for a diaper. Pulling a lever on the opposite set of controls, Aya starts the machine, and after Bala enters a few instructions, she gets onto the mat and it slides her in. The device spins. Light flashes out, so brilliant it overwhelms the camera for a moment, and when the picture returns, Bala sits upright. “Did it work?” Aya asks. “Did I–did I do it right?” Bala shrugs. “Only one way to find out.” Closing her eyes, she focuses for a moment, and though the camera is too grainy to show much, a slight pixelation of compressed yellow stains her diaper. A moment later, she bolts upright, eyes wide. “What–where the hell am I?” “Take a breath,” Aya says, holding out a hand. “You’re in a medical facility. Do you remember how you got here?” Bala thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. “No.” “Do you remember your name?” That takes a little effort. “Mary. Mary Bambine, but…I don’t remember anyone ever calling me that. What happened?” In front of the computer, watching the video, Ai frowns. This wasn’t her. It isn’t her. They brought over two people? “The amnesia will wear off in a little while,” Aya lies. “Can you tell me what year it is?” Again, Mary focuses. “I feel like…it’s got to be…I don’t know. I don’t know. Where am I?” “Just take a breath,” Aya assures her, moving closer. “I just need to adjust something, okay?” She watches Mary, who watches her in turn, cautious but not resisting. Reaching forward, Aya suddenly grabs and jerks on the front of the diaper, ripping it free. Bala sits upright and takes a breath, smiling, satisfied. “It worked. It worked. Make a note of that mind–we’ll clear this one, then copy it in fresh so that she doesn’t remember waking up in the machine. I was right–we just needed your special touch. You operate the machine better than anyone.” Ai closes the video, her breath coming in quick bursts. The next video is labeled as the same day, then ‘2 - Failure’. Bala sits in front of her desk, nursing a mug. She looks tired, even through pixelation. “Status report,” she says, speaking slowly. “I thought, once we got the copies working, it would be smooth sailing, but… We aren’t copying minds. We’re taking them. I think we have a way to put them back safely, but I don’t know what the consequences of that would be. If the subject retains memories of being tested, we could corrupt the whole multiverse.” She sips from the mug and inhales sharply, like the drink is bracing her willpower. “We brought ‘Mary’ over. She wasn’t my first pick, but I need methods that work on more than one girl–I had planned to start light and only focus on my main goals once the methods were perfected. From everything we could determine, this ‘Mary’ was a perfect subject for regression testing, for experimentation with diapers–her mind matched what we were looking for, almost to a T, but after the first pull, we didn’t put her back. We deleted her. And when we went to make another copy…” Frowning, she shakes her head. “I’m making this video for the logs, but we’re not reporting this, it’ll only be in my personal file. They can find out once we have our data. It’s too important to give up. I’m not giving this up, but…I know there’s an infinite amount of people out there, and an infinite number of minds to borrow, but I don’t want to hurt people to accomplish my goals.” Pursing her lips, she still seems bitter and sad as she adds, “Well…most people. If I have to pick one person to destroy, over and over, it may as well be her.” Ai’s fingers are numb as she looks at the final video. ‘Successful implantation of Artificial Identity - Two.’ She barely breathes as the video plays, as Bala enters a code, lies down, and goes into the machine. She and Aya are wordless as a new identity is copied, and when Bala comes out, they don’t immediately tape her into a diaper. “We got her,” Bala says, breathing quickly. She seems excited, like a child at the peak of a rollercoaster, waiting for the drop and the gut-twisting, thrilling weightlessness to follow. Fear and anticipation in tandem. “Fetch the straightjacket–I want to get to work right away. I want to learn how to break this mind within the week.” “That’s ambitious,” Aya cautions, though she’s already obeying, leaving the room. “Do you want to start slow?” “I want her thoughts gone,” Bala replies harshly. “I want her head empty. I want to feel her thoughts slip and slip until they’re goo, until she’s a drooling mess and she can’t fuck things up ag–” Jaw setting, she catches herself, aware of Aya’s uncertain stare. “We aren’t going to take things slow,” Bala finishes. “We’re going to move fast and break things.” They exit the frame, and the clip continues for thirty more seconds on an empty room before the video player closes out of itself. There are no videos more recent than that. Checking the timestamp against the computer’s calendar, Ai sees it’s about a week old. They brought her over, with plans to destroy her and discard the remains, but…there’s a way back. She just needs help to do it. It takes flipping through Bala’s rolodex to find the right phone number. It takes another moment of uncertainty, fingers hovering over the phone, before she works up the courage to call Aya. Ai’s too timid for a full phone call, she only manages one sentence. “Come to my office immediately.” She slams the phone down before Aya can reply, hoping that her fear will be read instead as confidence. Aya is prompt–a good sign. She’s either obedient or afraid. Entering Ai’s office, Aya closes the door behind her. “What do you need, ma’am?” “You heard the project is being shut down, I presume?” Ai asks. “All our work is being tossed down the drain.” Glancing to the side, Aya nods. “I–of course I heard.” “Do you know why Ai is scheduled to be destroyed instead of sent home?” she asks. “No,” Aya says quickly. Speaking louder, speaking more slowly, she says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ai frowns. “We can send the minds back, but–” “Bala!” Aya blurts, looking over her shoulder quickly. The door’s closed, but she’s still alarmed, as though they might be overheard. “You–you can’t say that. You’re the one who told me to keep that element a secret.” Blinking, Ai tries to maintain composure. “Of course I am, but it’s just us here. There’s nobody listening.” But there are other people listening, or at least following along. Ai still has her audience, paying attention to every word she says. Striding to the desk to sit across from Ai, Aya leans forward, speaking in hushed tones. “You ordered me to keep it a secret–to make sure nobody finds out we’re pulling real minds, not making copies. If the higher ups found out, it would…” She can’t finish the sentence. If she could speak the truth, she would have said, ‘It would make things too real, it would change the balance and spoil the mood. You can’t enjoy the scene and fear for her life at the same time.’ “My point is,” Ai says. “To hell with the risk. If our research is being canned, we need to get Ai home, immediately. At least we can mitigate the harm, even if we won’t be able to get the results we want.” Sitting up straight, Aya nods, breathing out a sigh of relief. “Yes, ma’am.” If only this were the end of the story, it might get a happy ending. Alas, there’s still a full chapter yet to come.

Academy II By Peculiar Changeling "At the end of the world, there will be neither clamor nor calamity, neither echo nor epoch. It will be mired in silence and sleep, in deliverance and death. At the end of the world, there will be both patience and purpose, both temperance and time. Only then will it be graced with eternity, and from eternity, a chance." -The Source, in valediction Chapter One Ai blinks, but the panic doesn’t set in until several seconds pass. (Where am I?) Sometimes, in the past, she’d woken up in an unfamiliar place. It always disoriented her, struggling in a foreign environment to take it all in at once. Having to piece together her arrival: how she’d gotten there, where she was, all while her body was still sleep-lagged and not fully awake. This isn’t like waking up. She had blinked once and found herself in a new place, fully aware, and the assault on her senses came from all directions. She takes it in, but it’s as though her senses are coming on one at a time, discovering pieces of her surroundings before she can understand the whole. Her arms are crossed over her chest–no, they’re bound over her chest, held down in a tight self-hug, like she’d put on a baggy jacket and had the sleeves tied together like a pretzel around her body. Though Ai had never worn a straightjacket before, she deduces what’s pinning her arms down before she can even see it. Warmth spreads over her crotch, and again it takes her a couple tries to guess why. (Did I spill something? No. Blood? Also no. It’s like–ah, I’m peeing.) That too feels wrong–the warmth doesn’t spread down her thighs, nothing past her crotch, but she can feel more moisture spreading out. Something is between her legs–an acute bulk that rustles when she shifts her weight. This time, she needs to look, but her attention is quickly taken up by distracting revelations. Mostly, the hands pressed against her body. One hand with fingers laced through a strap over her chest, holding it tightly like a leash, one pressed into the front of her… (I’m not wearing pants, and those aren’t panties, that’s a…) “Diaper?” she says aloud, and the person attached to the hands laughs, a gentle teasing tone, her form still coming into focus. “Good girl, you’re using your diaper, that’s correct,” she replies. “Just like you were told.” An audience watches her, paying particular attention to her diaper, to the way she reacts to her humiliations, but she’s blissfully unaware of their presence. For now, it’s just her and the strange woman. She pulls away, slack-jawed, eyes darting between her diaper and the woman standing in front of her. Editing Note: Mia gave me a description of Aya, I need to find it so I can put it here. “What–no, I didn’t–” “Shh,” the woman says, a smirk spreading across her face. “If you want me to believe you don’t need your diapers, you’ll have to prove it. There’s a toilet just through that door–even though you couldn’t hold it completely, but if you can keep from making a big, stinky, mess in your diaper, I might let you come out and play with the big kids.” Ai doesn’t understand, but her mind is still coming into her body, still taking things in. The room looks…not clinical. A clinic would have a degree of comfort, it would be designed to help patients feel a little better about their situation. The room she’s in looks scientific, but only in a way that makes her feel like a specimen pressed into a glass slide. It’s hastily assembled, as though it were an afterthought, not worth giving any real focus. Why care about the set dressing? Her audience won’t remember what the room looks like; it’ll only remember the way she looks when she’s forced to fill her diaper. Before she can ask another question, before she can make her brain obey, the woman pushes a rubber ball between her teeth. She moves so swiftly and smoothly that by the time Ai recognizes the gag, it’s already locked into place. It doesn’t silence her, but it garbles her words into mere noise, so that when she tries to object, it comes out as, “Buhh-mughga!” The woman smiles again, warmly, like she’s watching a child present a crayon drawing and not facing a fully grown woman babbling into a gag. With straps around and above Ai’s head, she can’t spit it out, and her hands are trapped in the straightjacket, so she can’t reach up and pull it free. Ai’s senses finally come to be in her body fully, finally give her a full picture, and the result is claustrophobic. She jerks and twists, but her arms are held fast, with only a hint of wiggle room. “The suppositories won’t leave you much time,” the woman says. “If you want to use the potty, you’d best get started.” With her role in the performance done, the woman leaves–the audience doesn’t care about her any more, not unless she stays to taunt and belittle. That isn’t her role, it’s not why she’s here, so she won’t play that part. The room is empty, save for the two doors: one leading to the promised toilet, the other to the exit the woman had taken. With her gone, Ai is left alone. Ai fights off the urge to keep struggling in the jacket. It wouldn’t get her anywhere; she needs to make progress. Taking deep breaths through her gag, she centers herself. It’s difficult to walk around with her arms bound. She wobbles unsteadily, and the diaper makes the waddle more acute than it’d otherwise be. Reaching the bathroom door, she leans her back against the perpendicular wall for support. The bathroom door has a metal latch and a combination lock holding it shut. Next to the lock, a sticky note holds a simple message. Combination is 1508 - A big girl should have no trouble opening it - Be sure to hurry. If you don’t make it to the potty, you’ve got another spanking in your future! - ❤️ Aya Ai’s eyes widen and her brow furrows as she reads the note. It carries an implicit message. If she enters the combination, she can use the toilet, avoid…a spanking, and… (She can’t be serious, can she?) But, because she’s already in a straightjacket, already in a soggy diaper, she intuits another truth. (She’s serious.) Ai makes up her mind. She needs to enter the combination. She takes a moment to inspect the combination lock. It has a spring-loaded cover over the combination, so that it’s difficult to reach. She tries pushing at the cover with her nose, but it won’t move, and the attempt forces her to squat awkwardly. She does half a chicken dance, her padded butt wobbling in the air as she tries to keep upright. Besides, even if she could get the cover to the side, there would be no way to turn the numbers without hands. Maybe her teeth, but they're gagged, and to remove the gag, well… Ai needs her hands. She steps back, breathing deeply, and feels a tentative, anxiety-inducing gurgle in her belly. The woman– (Aya. Her name is Aya.) Shaking her head, Ai tries to focus. She knows precious little, and can't afford to discard what few details she’s gleaned. Aya had mentioned suppositories. Ai doesn't know how long it will take the medicine to work, but judging by the early cramps, she can’t imagine it will be long. Shutting her eyes, Ai takes a few deep breaths. There aren’t any tools in the room she can use. Nothing sharp or hard or useful for leverage. It’s all up to her. She tries wriggling again, but this time, it’s not desperate flailing. There’s a little room for her arms to shimmy from side to side, and when she does, she can feel the back strap move. Squirming with new hope, Ai moves within the jacket. With the little amount of play she has, it seems like it should be possible to wriggle free, to– “Mmmph!” She squeaks as she feels a sudden, intrusive buzz start up in the front of her sodden diaper. Bending over, she looks down and sees what she’d missed before. Attached by two straps on the straightjacket, held snugly in place over her diaper is a flat, plastic vibrator. Something had triggered it to start–her audience doesn’t want her to have too easy a time of it, and the distraction serves to entertain. Ai bites down on her gag and her cheeks flush. There’s only so much she can focus on at once. The claustrophobia, the restriction, and now the vibrator buzzing away, flooding her body with hormones and unwanted pleasure, it forces her down to the ground, sinking onto her butt. (Deep breaths. Just persist, I can do this.) The way the vibrator works, pulsing into a layer of sodden padding, just makes it worse: the pleasure is coming through her diaper, forcing her to acknowledge it, to think about the piss-soaked diaper in the context of intense, mind-numbing desire. After a minute or so, the vibration stops, and the concern that it might kick back into high gear is just more motivation for Ai to keep trying. The gurgle in her belly–an insistent reminder of the suppositories doing their work–only pushes her further. (Think. The strap. It has play.) Sitting against the wall, she tries lifting her legs and moving her arms, shimmying side to side to get it out from beneath her, but there isn’t that much play. The strap holding her sleeves together won’t go past her waist. She tries the other way. Pushing against the wall for support, she stands, wobbles, and then pulls up. Bingo. It takes a lot of wriggling and effort, but the sleeves move over her head. Ai’s arms aren’t free, but they have mobility. The sleeves might still cover her hands, and the damned strap holds her arms together, bound so that she’s always making an O shape, but it’s progress; an enormous step in the right direction and a sign that she can succeed. Before she can celebrate this victory, though… Bzzz. Her face flushes again, and she is once again distracted from escaping her situation. Ai can’t tell if the vibrator is turned higher, or if she’s become more susceptible to it by her first session of edging. Her Ego might shout and complain, but her Id’s reaction to the sensation is undeniable. The vibrator sends pulses through her sodden diaper and into her sex. Intense pleasure signals carry up her back and into her thoughts, killing her ability to focus on anything, even breathing, air escaping her mouth as little desperate moans. (You’re better than how you feel.) She bites down on the gag until it hurts her jaw, forcing deep breaths through her nose. (Don’t let this beat you.) Another minute passes before the vibrator dies, and in its wake Ai needs a few moments to recover, panting into her gag. The pressure in her bowels is more intense than ever, but she’s still able to hold it. She still has time. Getting back to her feet, Ai already notices an improvement. With her arms able to move freely, she can balance, all the wobbliness gone. She doesn’t need to use the wall for support any longer. Waddling back to the padlock, she tries again, pressing the sleeves of the straightjacket into the combination cover. No dice. She can sort of get the cover to slide to the side, but when she does, there’s not enough play to get the small dial beneath to spin how she wants it. Her attention returns to the jacket. She can open and close her hands beneath the heavy canvas. It doesn’t give her much control, but it gives just enough to grab things. Fumbling at her back, moving her arms together so she can reach as far as possible, she feels at the straps holding the jacket over her body. Ai isn’t certain, but by wriggling and moving her back, she puts together a rough estimation of how it had been assembled. There are three buckled straps that comprise the linchpin of the vest. If she can get those loose, there’ll be enough play that she’d be able to get the crotch strap free. And, once that’s free, the jacket will just slide right off. Simple. Not easy, but simple. Ai refuses to contemplate the alternative to success: the pressure in her bowels releasing, and the subsequent threats that’d been made. She tells herself that the pressure she feels is just a ticking clock, and she lacks the time to think about why this self-delusion isn’t true. Determined, she gets to work, pawing at her back. Going by sense of feel isn’t easy, especially when she has to work through layers of dense canvas, and her only way to manipulate things is to fumble through the jacket and try to squeeze whatever she can reach. Grumbling into her gag, she works at it all the same, spinning in place to try and get a better angle like a dog chasing her own tail, until… Cli-clack-clack-clack. The rattle of the metal buckle pulling free is pure relief, pure triumph. Just two to– “MMpHH!” Her unbidden squeak seems deafening in the utterly silent room, legs buckling beneath her as she the vibrator kicks into high gear. This time, Ai knows it’s turned up higher just from the pitch of the vibration, and she also can’t deny that her body is more susceptible than ever. The mixed sensation, frustration, and simple burning feelings that the buzzing brings up from deep inside Ai makes her forget herself, and she rides the pleasure with purpose. It isn’t just that there’s a vibrator pressed into her diaper, there’s something… more, but she can’t identify what. She wants it. Just before she can ride into a reluctantly anticipated climax, the vibration stops. Ai cries out–no longer grateful to have the vibration end, but furious that she was denied her pleasure. She could have at least had a little bliss before returning to her task, but they– She sits up sharply, the truth finally dawning. The timing is too perfect for the vibrator’s control to be automatic, on a timer, anything. An intelligent observer is turning it off and on at particular times. But… though she walks a circle of the room to look for one, she can’t see a camera, a viewport, or anywhere to hide and watch. The door doesn’t even have a gap beneath it or a keyhole to peer through. Her audience is watching another way, and she has no means to understand how. It can’t just be visual, either–they know precisely how Ai feels, they know her intimately, able to turn off the vibrator to deny her the climax that she’s been conditioned to want. Ai tries not to think about what else they could condition her to want. For now, she just wants three things–the toilet behind the door, the climax she’d been denied, and an explanation for her circumstances. She can’t have the third and isn’t in control of the second, so she forces herself to focus on the first. Accepting that she’ll have to deal with a malicious audience, Ai turns her attention to the second buckle. It’s harder in some ways, having to reach further down her back, but with the first buckle free she has a lot more range of motion. With only a minute of squirming, it comes free, and this time, knowing she’s got watchers, she braces herself. It comes, right on queue, and she leans back against the wall, biting down on the gag and riding it out. She doesn’t hide that she’s enjoying it, and she admits to herself that the soggy diaper carrying the vibration into her might actually make things better. This time, Ai speeds things along. One orgasm could clear the distraction from her mind, it could let her think more clearly, it could end the uncomfortable correlation that’s building in her unconscious between diapers and an almost incomparable sexual craving. She tries to indulge in the pleasure, to rush to the peak. And again, it stops before she can climax. No pleasure to be had, just denial. (I was…just trying to get Aya to stop, because I knew she wouldn’t let me finish.) Ai doesn’t believe herself. Only one buckle to go. She knows she’s going to make it. Her desperation is intense, but even if the vibrator sessions take minutes of her time away, she can last. It’s so close. Ai just has to get the last buckle, which, now that she has a high range of motion with most of the jacket loose, isn’t difficult at all. Bracing herself, anticipating the vibrator’s surging power, she waits a couple seconds. She’s left disappointed when it refuses to activate. Frowning, she continues her escape. With all the other buckles free, she slides the straightjacket off her body. Though she feels a need to use the toilet, it’s not unstoppable. For reasons she can’t quite explain, she goes for the combination first, before stripping out of the diaper. 1508. (Is that 15-0-8? Or 1-50-8?... ‘1-5-08? Eh… oh, okay. There’s no ‘0’ on the combination, and no ‘08’. So it’s gotta be 1-50-8.) Free fingers working deftly, she enters the combination. And, as triumph is within her grasp, she feels the vibrator pulse to life. The door swings open, but at that moment, her knees buckle. She falls to the ground, staring into the bathroom she’d unlocked, but she’s left stupefied by pleasure and cannot enter it. The vibrations are like nothing she’s ever felt before. Greater, more dominating than any sex in her memory, any pleasure she’s ever felt. The vibrator paralyzes her completely, rising in waves that give her just enough time to try and break free before it surges once more, throttling her mind, never quite reaching an intensity to let her climax, nor dropping enough to allow her escape. Her body craves the sensations, the feeling of a saturated diaper throbbing against her sex, and Ai cannot pretend that she only wants the edging to end faster. She can only sit on the ground, staring forward at the toilet only a few feet away, hopelessly frozen in agonizing bliss as the pressure in her builds, builds, builds, and with her thoughts and body so far from her own control, there’s no holding back. The edging may have lasted a minute, or ten, but it keeps her down until the suppositories do their work, and her diaper suddenly swells. The seat balloons out as a sudden warmth sludges into the padding. It’s faster than she expected, more intense: One moment, her diaper was only wet, but now it bulges and sags, muck packing in every corner available. Even then, as the smell hits her and she knows she’s lost this game, she still wants it. (No…) She still needs it. Her promised climax, the one bright spot of hope amidst the landscape of her shattered dignity. Biting down on the gag, moaning in wordless prayer to whatever cruel god controls her vibrator, Ai is given only disappointment. The vibrator dies, and she is left utterly defeated as the door behind her unlocks. Frustration pours over her. She’d lost. She’d lost, she’d humiliated herself for her audience’s pleasure, she’d bottomed out her diaper while only moments away from victory, she’d lost. And, even then, helpless to change the situation, the lingering desire still burns, craving the orgasm she’d earned. In the mental drop that follows, panting heavily and catching her breath, her thoughts clear slightly. A question in her thoughts that she hadn’t been able to consider, not until her thoughts were in her control again. (…the vibrator had been attached to the straightjacket, hadn’t it? So how–) The door behind her swings open. Aya steps in, making a show of sniffing the air, of ‘realizing’ that Ai has loaded her diaper like a helpless infant. “That’s what I thought,” Aya declares. “Well then–I think it’s time for your spanking.” It’s exactly what her audience had wanted, and the fate Ai had fought desperately to avoid. But then, her wants don’t matter. She exists to be observed, not to be happy, and right now, her observers see Aya pull her down, push her body so that her ruined diaper points into the air, and begin her assault. Aya’s slaps are merciless and devastating, and Ai is at a loss for which contacts are the worst. The swats to her thighs sting like a swarm of bees; each leaving angry red marks on her tender, bare skin, and each eliciting a helpless, pained squeak into her gag. Pain builds with each impact, growing, multiplying on itself, burning overlaid on a deep ache, accented by acute spikes of acid pain. The blows to her diaper did little to hurt her body, but sent disquieting shockwaves through her soul. Though the pain is muffled by a layer of saturated, abused padding, the way that each spank presses the results of her accident into her reminds Ai that she failed and humiliated herself, and that she’d do it all again if it would get her ten seconds with the vibrator to reach the bliss she still craved. It makes her squirm in embarrassment and shame, worrying if she had always been this depraved, or if she’d just been broken that easily. But, while pain and humiliation eat at her in their own ways, neither are the worst. What drives her insane are the occasional pauses, the rests where Aya retreats her hand and gently caresses the skin of Ai’s back and her delicate hair, soothing her, whispering sweet sounds without meaning, reassuring Ai in whispers that she’s doing so well to take her spanking like a good girl. Ai wants to scream. (How dare you try and comfort me when you’re the one inflicting the pain?) But another thought plays in her mind. (If you’re not going to stop, can you hold me closer?) In the haze, the mindfuck soup that’s slowly blending her consciousness into putty, Ai starts to slip, but she refuses to lose herself. She catches onto a thread–the one facet of her identity that remains. Her id slips away, disassociating from her quickly sublimating ego. She puts together her coherent thoughts, slim as they are, and chief among them is confusion. (It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got. How did I get here?) At first, she thinks about the room–how did she get put in the straightjacket? Or in this facility, for that matter? But then, a more specific form of the question presents itself. (How did I get here? Over Aya’s lap?) Ai remembers her defeat: Subdued by the vibrator, dropped to her knees, forced to pack her diaper full mere feet from the toilet. She remembers Aya coming in, taunting her, the subtle ways that the woman made Ai feel as small and helpless as possible. Then…Ai was over Aya’s lap, and the spanking began, as though the world had shifted around them. Aya has a chair now. (There definitely hadn’t been a chair in here before!) The thoughts have no clear answer, and worrying over them, trying to parse the impossible situation, forces her mind back into her body. The full physical sensations assert themselves again: every smell, every feel, every ache. Flailing, struggling, none of it seems to help. She’s going to be on Aya’s lap until the spanking is over, and there’s nothing she can do to resist that fate, but she no longer has the capacity to realize this. The mental break draws her deeper into her role: she fights, she kicks and yelps and whimpers, not because she thinks it will get her away, but because if she shows her defeat and wears her humiliation like armor, maybe Aya will give a little sympathy. Finally, the last few blows on her thighs rain down–hard enough that she cries out with more volume than ever–and it ends. The pain is over. All that’s left is a smug, taunting little bit of pressure; Aya rests her hand on the seat of Ai’s full diaper and presses down. It’s a degrading reminder that, for everything she’s been through, Ai still needed her pleasure. “Shh, shh,” Aya says, though Ai is perfectly quiet save for shallow breaths. “You took your spanking like a good girl–I think that deserves a reward.” (A reward?) Ai’s eyes snap open, heart suddenly pounding. (Will…will she give me the wand?) Of course not. Even her gifts can only ever push her deeper into humiliation. Aya pulls Ai up, first seating the young woman on her lap, then turning her so that they face one another. Ai wriggles, but Aya’s firm grip pulls Ai down, so that her legs straddle one of Aya’s thighs. “You did good, just enjoy yourself,” Aya coos, and before Ai can even try to ask a question through her gag, the taller, stronger woman begins to bounce her knee up and down, a rhythmic motion against the ground. Each bounce raises Ai up just for a heartbeat, momentum carrying her into the air, and then down again to smash her weight into the mucky, full contents of her diaper. She’d packed it full–the suppository had left her unable to do anything else–and the heavy, squelching contents slosh against her skin with every landing, wafting the stink upward into a haze she can’t help but inhale. It’s as bad as the spanking–worse, because at least then the humiliation was broken up with pain. Now it’s one note playing over and over ad nauseam until Ai can’t think about anything except the state of her diaper, how she had failed, how she had been helpless from the start, how she never could have done anything except lose control, fall to her knees, and prove her infantile helplessness for all to see. It had been inevitable, and now Aya makes sure that Ai knows it. But Aya isn’t all cruel. Once the lesson has sunk in, once Ai’s headspace is fully sunk into the seat of her diaper as firmly as her last accident, Ai realizes–this is the prize she wanted all along. She doesn’t need the vibrator, she just needs her diaper, and the slick ecstasy rhythm of Aya’s constant bouncing. It doesn’t take her long. The bouncing lacks the white-hot power of the vibrator, the ability to all but rip an orgasm out of her body, but all of Ai’s intense edging has broken down her mind, left her horny and desperate in a way that only one pleasure could solve: the pleasure she gets from her diapers. She wants this–all of it. Shuddering, Ai’s thoughts laser-focused on her helpless lack of control, relying on Aya’s firm arms to guide her as she bounces up and down. Each new rise and fall now rocks her with pleasure so intense it almost hurts, and only when she’s gasping and whimpering, thoughts numbed by ecstasy, do the bounces slow to a stop. She falls forward into Aya’s waiting arms, sweaty and delirious. “There’s my good girl,” Aya says, patting her back gently. “Now, let’s get you changed, okay? The experiment is over for the day.” (The…huh?) Aya doesn’t explain further, and with her gag in, Ai can’t ask. She wants to, but her head is awash with a soup of endorphins and it’s difficult to convey any requests. ‘Take off my gag so I can speak immediately’ doesn’t occur to her. She’ll ask when she can, if she can, if Aya will allow it and if her audience doesn’t put a stop to anything so reasonable as ‘telling Ai what’s going on.’ Aya guides her to the floor, gently laying Ai on her back, so that her diaper is easily accessible. Reaching for the nearest tape, Aya pulls it free. … Ai blinks. She’s in the room–or, maybe a different room, it’s so bland that she can’t quite tell. Sharp emotional whiplash courses through her–all the hormones and post-coital bliss has vanished. She feels almost sick at the change, like instantly switching from drunk to sober, though there’s no expected headache or physical discomfort to accompany the stark mental shift. Aya is gone. Ai’s diaper is clean–no, that’s not right. Though it’s reasonably dry, and there’s no longer a heavy load weighing down the seat, she can feel a trickle of dampness dribbling into the crotch. She’s mostly clean, but a little wet. Otherwise, she’s naked. A gag is locked in her mouth again–nobody wants to hear what she has to say–but her hands are free. More importantly, her mind is free as well. Something seems to have cleared it–the soup of endorphins that had rendered her thoughts into pulp has lifted. She remembers everything clearly, but with the distance of the morning after, the feeling of a cold dawn light that showed how far she’d fallen just moments before. In the corner, she sees a steel cage, like a kennel that might hold a large dog, but sturdier. Against the far wall is a TV, an old tube style that probably weighs a billion pounds and has its own built-in VHS player. The doors are where Ai remembers, but the handles have been replaced. Instead of padlocks or tumblers, they have pin pad locks. A new puzzle. A clock on the wall counts down–it shows five hours and fifty nine minutes, with the seconds slipping lower and lower. Thirty three. Thirty two. Finally, Ai turns to see a stack of worksheets on the floor, with crayons in a cardboard box next to them. She has a good sense of what she’s supposed to do, but she isn’t interested in playing. She knows that playing will lead to more demolition of her mind, more brainfuck pain and pleasure that will leave her identity in further fragments. Reaching down, she rips off the diaper. … Ai blinks and looks around. She is in the same room, but she’s standing somewhere else. Her brow furrows. Did she…teleport? Did the room move around her? Or did she lose time? The clock shows that only a minute has passed–Five fifty eight and some seconds, not five fifty nine. Looking down, she notes the constant–she’s got her diaper on again, still just ever so slightly damp, though the tapes are different–placed a bit higher, pulled a bit more snug. She wants to say, ‘Screw this’, but the gag stops her, so she just thinks it as intensely as she can and rips the garment free. … Ai blinks, steps back, and stomps her foot. She’s moved again, a few steps over. Pressing both her hands into her face, she groans, muffling her exasperation. Only thirty seconds have gone by. Her diaper… (Fuck this, I’m not wearing a fucking diaper.) She rips it free. … Ai- “AAGGGGHHHH!” She screams, frustration coming through without any need for defined words. Her diaper is still in place–though, looking closely, she sees that duct tape has been added, reinforcing the straining sticky tapes that’d lost their bite after being undone several times. It’s slightly cool, almost clammy, as though it’d been exposed to air for a while. Five full minutes had passed–apparently, some time had been needed to retrieve the tape. Petulantly, Ai refuses to play the game. Knowing what will happen, she rips the tape free and yanks at the diaper beneath. … Ai yelps as she comes to her senses. Things have changed. Her diaper is back–of course–but if it’s held in place with tape, she can’t see, because it’s beneath a ruffled pink onesie that zips up behind her back. Her hands are no longer the tool they’d been before, either–canvas mittens are pulled over them, so while she can bat things around and probably pick objects up in awkward fists, she couldn’t squeeze a zipper or get her fingers under her diaper’s tapes. More acute, more distressing, she feels a solid weight in her bottom–cold, solid metal from a particularly heavy butt plug. Twenty minutes have passed, and the countdown continues. Five hours thirty-four minutes, something-something seconds, she doesn’t care about the precise count. Though there’s nothing written in the room, no notes left for her, she gets the message. If she continues to throw a tantrum and refuses to play the game presented to her, it will only get worse. Right now, she has to deal with a distracting, intrusive plug and no more hands. If she disobeys again, she might find herself back in the straightjacket, or some other torture. Who knows what other obscenities her audience would want done to her? So, though she wants to continue to abstain from her captor’s game, she crouches in front of the TV. Looking at the black glass, at her reflection, she–– Note: Ai does not lose time here, and fully perceives things for a moment. What she sees, however, is withheld from her audience. –”What the fuck?” she yelps, stumbling back, landing on her butt–pushing the plug into her, reminding her of its constant presence. She’s shaken, but she has to keep pressing on. Crawling forward, she presses the power button on the TV, then rewinds the VHS player to the start. The nostalgic whir of reversing tape calms her down a bit, and by the time it resets, her heart has stopped pounding. When it plays, her pulse skyrockets again. A woman with vaguely Southeast Asian features stares into the camera, wavy dark hair rippling over her shoulders and a confident smirk plastered on her lips, her eyes seeming to follow Ai. Ai recognizes the face, but doesn’t understand how she’s seeing it here. “In case you’re too little to properly understand the rules,” the woman says, “I’ve decided to give you this little explainer. If you can complete the worksheets, each one will give you a letter–you do know your letters, don’t you, sweetie?” The woman paused for a moment, to let her leering condescension hit with full impact. Ai just watches wide-eyed, confusion and fear clouding her thoughts. “Well–if you get all the letters, it’ll tell you the combination to the door. Get the door open before your time is up, and you can have a grown up dinner, a diaper change, and you can sleep in a grown up bed tonight. But, if you don’t, you’ll be fed through a bottle and you’ll be sleeping in the kennel behind you. And since I expect the special medicine in the bottle will make your tummy very upset, you’ll be wishing for a diaper change all night, but you won’t get one. You’ll be trapped.” Sneering, the woman on the video reaches forward towards something, and then the video ends. Ai just looks at the black screen for a moment, at her reflection, until the black void of video turns to a blue ‘no signal’ screen. She looks at the worksheets for a moment, but her gaze can’t focus, and she starts to panic. It doesn’t make sense. She saw a detail she wasn’t supposed to see, and the discontinuity has broken her ability to play along. Ai stands, and though her hands are bound by mitts and her onesie keeps her diaper in place, it’s not enough. She can still refuse to play–getting her hands under the hem of the onesie, she yanks at it, tearing the fabric free. Maybe next time they’ll seal her in kevlar or tie her hands behind her back, she doesn’t care, she exposes her diaper–it’s a new diaper, apparently, there’s no tape and the patterns are different–and rips it away.

Thank you! I really loved the angle of going with feminization without it being a forced or negative thing. He's just a boy who looks really cute with long hair, bows, and little skirts! 🥰 Thank you!!! Chapter Ten “Congratulations, I’m so, so happy for you!” Michelle preened as Candace delivered both the compliment and a pair of gifts. This was it, the moment she’d been waiting for, the moment when her spell, her plans, her life were perfected. Her Little Shower. She’d been to more showers than she could count, but this one was hers, her moment to shine, her moment to get the gifts, and most important of all, her moment to show off her wonderful, perfect Little to the world. On the other hand, Candace’s smile seemed a little forced. “Thank you,” Michelle said, looking at the two boxes she’d been given. “And where’s your Little one?” “He’s in time-out today,” Candace sighed, shaking her head. “He threw another tantrum when I picked out his outfit, so I told him he could either be a good boy or stay in his room and skip the party. Be prepared, Michelle–Littles are cute from the outside, but once you have one, they’re such a handful.” Michelle smirked as she opened the box to find a digital baby monitor with a built-in screen–the same make and model that she’d gotten for her friend only a couple weeks prior. “That’s so thoughtful,” she said, holding it up for Jamie to see. “Baby, look at what Candace got us!” Jamie sat on the other side of the room, buckled into an appropriately sized high chair that Michelle had splurged to get. She’d made him up special for the day, braiding his beautiful hair into pigtails and dressing him in a short, pink, lace-hemmed dress. It was short enough that, sitting in the high chair, anyone who looked at him from the front would see his soggy unicorn-print diapers swollen and drooping between his thighs, an extremely public display of how little control he had. The best part was, Jamie didn’t care. Michelle had explained to him that she wanted the short dress, so she’d be able to tell when he needed a change easily, and he’d thanked her. Michelle had finished the paperwork a week ago to make Jamie officially hers, but she’d only received her copy of his adoption certificate the night before. His employer–his former employer–had Littling insurance for any employees who regressed on the job, and she’d used the payout to furnish his nursery and get him fully moved in. He was hers, in their hearts and in the eyes of the law. “What is it?” Jamie asked, sitting up slightly and leaning forward. While he did, she saw his face screw up a little bit–Jamie didn’t seem to be aware that he was filling his diaper, but Michelle knew. “It’s a baby monitor,” she called, half for the room to hear, half for him. “That way, Mommy can keep an eye on you all the time, even when she’s not in the room!” “That’s so smart!” he declared, nodding excitedly. “Thank you, Candy!” Looking jealous, Candace said, “I will admit–he’s cuter as your Little than he ever was as my coworker.” Michelle thought she caught an unstated thought: Why didn’t I take him while I had the chance? All of Michelle’s friends had come to the shower, and most of Jamie’s, too. Most were supportive, though she caught a few snide remarks here and there. Thankfully, Jamie seemed too oblivious to notice–when one of his old coworkers asked if he ‘really needed someone to change his diapers?’ He replied, “Of course! That’s why I have my Mommy.” The teasing comments hadn’t lasted long, once it became obvious Jamie really didn’t care–he had Michelle, and as long as she cared for him, he’d be happy. Turning to nod to one of her other friends, Michelle mouthed the word ‘cake’, and waited for a nod before addressing Jamie properly. “I got you a little surprise, too, baby!” “Oh?” he asked, kicking his legs excitedly. His cheeks were a bit pink, and he was rocking in his high chair, grinding his recently-used diaper against the wooden seat. Michelle didn’t know if her regression curse was responsible for making him this excitable, or if he’d always had this much of a hair trigger and she’d just found the right buttons to push, but she didn’t care. Jamie loved his diapers almost as much as he loved her, and if he was happy, she was happy too. She’d change him soon, but she wanted to give him his present first. Glancing to see that her friend was walking up with the cake, Michelle explained, “It’s from a special bakery–this cake is all yours, you don’t even have to share.” Eyes widening with even more excitement, Jamie sat forward and nodded. “Oooh, okay!” “It’s a smash cake,” Michelle added. “So you have to do what it says, and smash it!” Nodding excitedly, Jamie sat at the edge of the seat, watching with anticipation as the cake was carried forward. It was made of more than a dozen layers, each of a different pastel color, in the shape of a cone that tapered sharply up, and a little figure made from fondant sat at the top. “Ooooh!” Jamie exclaimed, eyes sparkling with glee. Michelle had picked it out especially, getting a cake that looked like the cover of Wowee, the Places You’ll See, by Professor Pleasant. Jamie’s favorite author–even before he’d been regressed. The cake was placed on his high chair, and Jamie’s eyes widened, looking to Michelle for reassurance, as though to ask, ‘it’s really for me?’ She nodded. “Go ahead, baby–it’s all yours.” Raising both hands, Jamie splattered the cake, showering his dress and face with crumbs and frosting. That was okay–the dress was stain resistant, picked out for just this reason. Several partygoers laughed, and most wore appreciative smiles at the show. Smash cakes weren’t just fun for the Little, there was something entertaining about just watching Jamie’s pure delight. His hands were immediately coated with bits of the dessert, and Jamie shamelessly began to lick his fingers clean. Adorable, precious Jamie, licking frosting off his fingers at a Little Shower, just like he’d been when she first met him. “You have as much of that cake as you want, sweetheart,” Michelle said, “And then we’ll get your tushy changed, okay?” Eyes widening a little, Jamie’s face shone with adorable indecision–he had four frosting-coated fingers stuffed into his mouth, but at the promise of a change, he suddenly had two wonderful things in front of him. He wriggled, and Michelle caught when his eyes rolled back in arousal, but he still wanted the cake, too. Giggling, Michelle said, “Do you want a diaper change and then your cake, silly boy?” Wriggling, he nodded, two fingers still in his mouth as he said, “Yeth pweath!” Michelle reached forward to pull away the high chair tray, turning to address the room. “Don’t worry, this little stinker will get back to his cake very soon.” Helping Jamie to stand, she asked, “Do you want to go somewhere private?” “Dun’ care,” he said, focused on licking his remaining fingers clean, getting as much frosting as possible. Swelling with excitement, Michelle laid him down right there in front of everyone. His first public change, and her first time getting to show everyone just how much Jamie loved her. Kneeling over him, Michelle smiled at her Little, her baby boy. “I’m so glad you’re mine.” He nodded. “I love you, Mommy. I’m so glad you can take care of me!” Wriggling, he raised his hips, squirming in his full diaper, thrusting against the air. Shameless. Perfect. “I love you too,” she said, brushing his hair back from his face. “My baby.” Sitting up slightly, Jamie raised his head, indicating that he wanted to whisper his next words. Michelle obliged, and leaned in, listening to what he said. “Promise that you’d still love me even if I stopped being a grown up?” He looked so sweet, cake smeared over his face, pink princess dress pulled up to expose his dirty diaper, lying on the floor in front of all his former coworkers and friends while awaiting a diaper change, that Michelle didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d long since lost his maturity. Instead, she just leaned in, kissing him on the lips. “Of course, baby. You’re mine no matter what.” The End ... And that's the story. Thank you all for reading. ❤️ I hope you liked it! (Please leave a comment if you did! Every comment makes my day a little brighter.) Please consider donating a couple dollars a month to support my writing - every bit adds up to go a long ways, and I wouldn't be able to write stories like this without the incredible generosity of my readers. ❤️ https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

Chapter 9 Jamie walked hand in hand with his Mommy, strolling together through the park. It was a beautiful day, with perfect weather for their date–sunny and bright, warm with a gentle breeze to keep things from becoming overpowering or sweaty. A lot had changed since their first date only two days prior, but nothing important. Jamie wore the diapers that Mommy had changed him into, and the pale purple onesie and matching purple skirtall she’d picked out that she could easily lift up to expose his diaper–because a big boy wouldn’t keep his Mommy from checking him, he’d make it as easy for her as possible. He kept her hand in his so he wouldn’t get lost, and trusted her to know where they were going as well. All this felt like second nature, he had no trouble with the amount of faith he had to give her. She was his Mommy, and if he couldn’t trust his Mommy, who could he trust? As he sipped lemonade from a sturdy plastic cup with a built in sippy straw, Jamie beamed. He’d found the best woman in the world, and she somehow was okay with him, even half-cursed and at risk of turning into a Little. Walking down the park path, they passed another couple–an older man with salt and pepper hair, leading along his own Little, a woman of similar age with enormous smile lines around her eyes and a visibly sagging diaper beneath a short dress. He nodded at Michelle, smiling in an appreciative way. “You know, I’d been thinking,” Michelle said, coming to a stop near a large, leafy oak tree with canopy branches that cast the section of the park in shade. Stepping to the side, she set down her picnic basket, releasing Jamie’s hand for a moment. “Mhmm?” Jamie asked, biting his lip as Mommy let go. He bent his knees slightly, watching her remove the large blanket from the basket and unfurl it with a flourish. “Well–you’ve been spending a lot of time at my apartment,” Michelle explained, setting out cling-wrapped sandwiches and a few bottles with drinks–a sports bottle for her, and a baby bottle for him. “And, it’s much easier if I’m around to help you all the time, isn’t it?” He nodded, relief and comforting warmth spreading over him. “Mm–um, mhmm, yes,” he said, a slight grunt escaping his lips as he answered. Mommy giggled, putting a hand to her mouth to stifle the laughter. “Well, I’ve got a guest bedroom that’s not doing anything, and I’d like it very much if you’d move in with me.” Eyes widening, Jamie ran forward, arms spread wide. Mommy was caught off guard and almost stumbled back as he grabbed her in a tight hug, squeezing with unbridled enthusiasm and excitement. “You promise?” Returning the embrace, Mommy squeezed him back, her warm smile radiating pleasure. “I take it that’s a yes, cutie pie?” He nodded a few times, thrilled. He’d get to live with Mommy? All the time? That was amazing, of course he’d say yes! “We’ll need to start on some paperwork, as well, to help with the transition,” she continued, pulling away. “Is it alright if you let Mommy handle all that? I just want to make sure you don’t have to worry your little head about it.” He nodded again, making a face–paperwork was dumb, and he was more than happy to let someone else do that. Smiling further, Mommy pulled away, taking Jamie by the shoulders. “Of course, I’ll need your help decorating your room–can you pick out paint colors for Mommy?” Jamie bounced in excitement, showing his excitement with his whole body. “Yes please!” “I know a sleep charm we can hang over your crib, to make sure you always get lots of rest,” Mommy continued, tapping a finger to her lip, “And–oh, I’m silly. Do you want your crib to have wooden bars, or a mesh instead? Bars are a classic, but I want you to like it.” Jamie giggled. “Bars! Can I paint them?” She nodded, smiling broadly. “Now, there’s something else I need to do before we eat.” He tilted his head, but Mommy just turned him around so that she was behind him, then reached low and pulled up the hem of his skirtalls, pressing a hand into the seat of his diaper through the onesie. He moaned involuntarily, feeling it smush under her touch. “That’s what I thought,” Mommy said knowingly. “Someone’s a little mush tush today, aren’t you?” Nodding, Jamie shifted from foot to foot, excitement building. He loved when Mommy mentioned his diapers–especially when she touched them, and eagerness made him buzz with pleasure and anticipation. “Well then,” Mommy said, reaching around his body to squeeze the front of his diaper. He gasped, squirming his body against hers. “There’s a changing room over there, why don’t we go get your bottom changed before we eat?” Blushing and nodding, Jamie hopped up and down in excitement. “Yes please, Mommy!” This was the best–diaper changes were as good as grown-up time. Better, even, and lately he’d been getting several changes a day. In secret, he’d even been trying to drink as much as possible, just so there’d be more opportunities to get up on the changing table–but, though Mommy smirked every time he asked for her to refill his sippy cups, he doubted she’d realized what he was doing. He expected Mommy to pull away just then, but her hand lingered on the front of his diaper, and she shifted her posture, so that her leg pushed into the mucky back. In the same motion, she ran her fingers in little circles on the front, rubbing him through the soggy padding. Eyes widening, Jamie moaned, leaning forward and shuddering as pleasure overwhelmed him. Mommy’s touch was magic–just a little pressure in the right places, and he’d find himself squirting into his diaper, overcome by satisfaction. “Good boy,” Mommy praised in his ear, as he sank back into her body. She lowered his skirt, kissing the back of his head. “Now, let’s go get you changed, okay?” Taking his hand, Michelle led Jamie to the changing station, just another Mommy and her Little out for a day at the park. ... Hey there! If you're the kind of person who reads stuff when it comes out, and would describe yourself as a fan of my writing, and would be interested in joining a lil beta reader team, please lemme know! https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

The magic effectively does what Michelle explained - the more immaturely he acts, the more he regresses - though she didn't mention that it also causes immature acts to feel really good, incentivizing him to do them more often. ... Chapter 8 Jamie suckled absently on the large rubber bulb of his pacifier, content. He had his legs up, lying back on Michelle’s bed, and smiled while she ran a warm baby wipe over his skin, cleaning up the muck he’d pushed into his diaper there during their grown-up time. She’d already gotten dressed, putting her clothes back on while he laid on the bed, half snoozing, exhausted and deliriously happy. He’d made the right choice in coming to Michelle. She knew how to look after him, how to keep him a grown up. They’d just had a grown-up experience, after all–Littles didn’t have ess-ee-ex, so their time together, him eating her out while he messed himself and spurted into his diaper? That had to have bought him quite a bit of maturity. “I’ll have to go get you more diapers soon,” Michelle told him, humming softly as she sprinkled powder over his parts. Despite the recent orgasm, he still grew hard at her touch, standing up an inch tall under her fingers. “I think the pharmacy nearby has a few diaper options in your size–would you prefer bunnies or unicorns?” He raised an eyebrow at her–was that a trick question? “Whi’ duh…” he began, though he trailed off when she giggled. “Take your paci out, silly boy,” she chided, though the correction was gentle. He removed it, asking again, “Which is more grown up?” “Oh, well,” Michelle said, tapping a finger on her chin. “That’s a good question–maybe we should go with princesses, just to be safe?” He nodded seriously. “That’s smart!” “Princess Pampers it is,” Michelle declared, folding the new diaper up between his legs. Even over his erection, she had no trouble taping it down–he barely made a bump. “Wait here while I get you some new clothes, okay?” He nodded, lowering his legs, caught off guard by how comfortable he felt with Michelle. She really was perfect–caring, attentive, the smartest grown up he knew. She’d done everything she could to keep Jamie safe from the curse that threatened to regress him into a Little, and more than that, she’d done it without ever making him feel bad for the regression that’d already happened. She returned from her closet a moment later, holding up a pair of duck-print footie pajamas. The white fabric had bright yellow rubber ducks printed haphazardly all over the material, and three shiny buttons held a diaper flap in place, ensuring easy changes. “This should fit you just right,” she assured him, lifting the garment discerningly, as though eyeballing the size against his form. Jamie’s brow furrowed. That seemed…off, somehow. “Erm…hold on,” he started. “It’s on the back,” Michelle interjected, before he could form the question properly. He turned his head to the side, more confused than ever. “Huh?” She turned it around, emphasizing the zipper. “The zip-up, it’s on the back,” she explained. “You were going to ask how you’d put it on, right?” (Was I?) He concentrated, trying to think what his objection was. But…it had to be the zipper, Michelle knew what he was going to think before he thought it. “Okay,” he mumbled, nodding. “Sit up,” she instructed, crouching to help guide his legs into the footie PJs. “It’s pretty late out, and I’m not sure if you should try to go out alone–you shouldn’t cross the street without a grown up to hold your hand.” He sat up, slipped his legs in, leaning forward so she could shimmy the pajamas over his diaper. “‘S not safe,” he agreed. “But I’d look both ways.” “Such a smarty pants,” she praised, ruffling his hair a little as she pulled the pajamas up, gentle as she pulled his hand through one sleeve at a time, before finishing by clipping his pacifier to the front. “But just to be extra safe, why don’t you spend the night here? I’ll need to change your diaper in the morning anyway, so that’ll be a lot nicer and easier, won’t it?” The flannel PJs were warm and cozy, like a blanket wrapped around his whole body. And she had a point–why go home, just to come back in the morning to get diaper help from a grown up? “I oughtta stay,” he agreed, nodding. “Such a smart boy.” She took his cheek in her hand, turning his head to look at her. “I’m so proud of you, Jamie–you’re doing better than I ever imagined.” He beamed at her adulation. “Thanks, Mommy!” Instantly, he flushed, clapping both hands over his mouth. Had he just– Michelle’s eyes widened in surprise, and she raised a few fingers to her mouth. “Oh, Jamie…” “I–” he started, shaking his head. It was only their first date, they didn’t really even know each other! Sure, she was smart, and pretty, and wonderful, but everyone knew you didn’t break out the M word that quickly. “I’m sorry, it just–” Michelle’s eyes sparkled, a little wet. Was she crying? “I didn’t mean to make you sad!” he said quickly. “I’m sorry, just–” Grabbing him, Michelle pulled Jamie into a tight hug, arms wrapped around him in a possessive squeeze. “Oh, Jamie, my sweet little boy,” she said, petting his head, fingers lacing into his hair, holding his head tightly. “Please, don’t apologize. I’m happy for you to call me Mommy.” He was shocked–he’d moved too fast, and it had just blurted out, but…she was happy? But she’d been teary eyed, so… It didn’t make sense. But, he realized, it didn’t need to make sense, at least not to him. Michelle understood, and she was smarter than him. Squeezing her back, resting his head against her breasts, he nodded. “Okay, Mommy.” They held each other like that, in a tight embrace, for several long moments. It was Jamie that pulled away first–not because he wanted to end the hug, but because between the flannel and Michelle’s body, he was getting a little hot. Reaching down, Michelle zipped up his pajamas, buttoning a little flap down over the zipper cover. “If you need to take this off, just let me know, okay? Mommy can get the zip for you.” He nodded happily, glad to have her to handle those problems for him. She stood back, admiring him, a smile spread across her face so warm and gentle that she seemed almost to glow. “You’re so cute,” she said, eyes widening as she had an idea. “Hold still!” He frowned, uncertain, wondering what she was up to. She hurried to her dresser, producing a brush and a small object that she kept hidden in her palm. Returning to the bed, she sat down next to Jamie, patting her lap with her half-closed hand. “Up,” she instructed, and with her arm she helped guide Jamie to sit on her lap. Humming into his ear, she raised the brush, running it through his long hair, pulling out all the tangles and smoothing out the mess. “What did you get?” he asked her, trying to turn his head to look, but Mommy turned his head and kept his eyes forward. “I’ll show you,” she promised, first raising a hand to his head. Jamie felt a little tug on his hair, not hard enough to hurt, just a bit of pressure, before she reached down and raised his pacifier, plopping it between his lips. Automatically, he suckled down, feeling the ambient bliss that the soother always gave. Leaning to the side, Michelle scooped her phone up off the dresser, raising it and turning on the camera in selfie mode. She lifted the device, and showed them off together–her in her typical adult clothes, him in his adorable footie PJs, diaper bulging obviously around the midsection, pacifier planted between his lips, and a matching yellow bow pinned onto his long, silky hair. He looked cuter than he’d ever realized, with a face more slender and soft than he had remembered–it had to be a photo filter, something Mommy had installed, but he liked how it made him look. Beaming, Michelle captured the picture, saving their moment together forever. ... Support the author! Not only do you get early access to my writing, you get early access to the next chapter of Under Lock & Key, the comic book I'm co-creating with Hofbondage! The first three pages are already up on my platforms and page four comes out tomorrow. ^^ https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

Everyone in this setting is 'Normal' size, in that they fall into the same range that people in the real world fall into. Unlike the DD, being Little here isn't about size/genetics, it's just a mental state and social class. ... Chapter Seven Jamie toppled as Michelle pushed him onto the bed, legs feeling unsteady–it felt as though the pee that had soaked in and made his diaper sag had imbalanced his whole body, even though the pull-up couldn’t possibly be that full. Regardless, he fell back and landed on the mattress, and though he expected her to start changing him, he didn’t expect her to be quite so enthusiastic about it. She followed him onto the bed, pulling the straps off his shortalls, straddling his knees as she pulled the garment down off his body, so that only his onesie and pull-up remained. “Be a good boy and lie still for me,” she instructed, moving to discard the shortalls completely. Jamie nodded, and felt silly for doing so–he didn’t need to agree, that was like agreeing to breathe. He would simply do whatever Michelle told him to do; she knew what would keep him safe, what the grown-up choices would be, and he’d be better off following her instructions than trying to think for himself. The snaps on his onesie came free, and Michelle’s hand slid up the front of his fully saturated pull-up, groping the crotch of his diaper. He was burning with desire, but to his surprise, he hadn’t grown hard enough to make the diaper tent out, only bulging it a little. Jamie could absolutely feel Michelle’s fingers stroke over the soggy garment, but he didn’t know if she could feel him back. Still, it didn’t matter–Michelle pulled her hand back and slid off the bed, though he would have been fine for her to leave it there forever if it meant the dizzying pleasure stayed firmly in his thoughts. Instead, though, she began to change his pull-up, ripping the sides so that it could be removed just like a thoroughly saturated Little diaper. The baby wipes she produced were warm, pre-heated for his comfort, and she worked delicately to clean all the stale urine from his skin. She didn’t tease or make fun, and instead only said, “See, I’m so proud of you–aren’t you glad you weren’t trying to wear silly grown up underwear? Isn’t this nicer than icky, cold pants and a huge stain to clean up?” He nodded, though his attention was split by sensation as she sprinkled baby powder between his legs, rubbing it in with her hand. Fingers stroked up his cock, massaging in the perfumed powder, and he felt tiny and blissful, eyes rolling back in his head. Michelle wadded up his old diaper and discarded it. Jamie didn’t see where, and he didn’t care, that wasn’t his problem to worry about. He expected a new pull-up, or maybe a new diaper, but instead, Michelle leaned over him again. “I need to do something before I put your diaper on,” she explained, hands on his thighs. “It’s important.” He nodded. “Mhmm.” He’d do it–but what was it? A hint of skepticism washed over him, dampening his arousal. Jamie hadn’t done this before, but he felt fairly certain that she should have put a fresh diaper on him immediately. “Roll over, and get on your hands and knees,” Michelle instructed. “Okay? Be good for me, and this will help you keep your grown-up thoughts.” That explained it–this wasn’t normal, it was to help him stay a grown up. Placated, Jamie did as he was told, eyes down on the bed as he raised his naked bottom into the air. Looking between his legs, he saw himself, confirming what he’d felt–his cock looked smaller than he remembered. In fact, his whole body seemed different–was he a little more slender at the waist? Had his hips swelled a bit, giving him more overt curves? He frowned, brow furrowing, trying to decide if the changes to his body were simply a trick of perspective. He normally saw himself in a mirror, not while kneeling, looking down at his half naked body. Before he could question it further, he felt the bed shift, one side pressing down as Michelle crawled onto the mattress behind him. He felt naked skin against his back, and Michelle’s fingers laced with his shaggy hair, pulling his head back so she could whisper in his ear. “A good, grown-up boy would let me use him,” she whispered. “However I want. Are you going to be good for me?” Jamie nodded diligently, but this felt wrong. He wanted–he needed something, but– Michelle anticipated his need and reached around his face, pressing his pacifier between his lips. He sucked down on the bulb, moaning in relief as he felt it calm him. Then, from behind, he felt pressure against his bottom–not the need to go, but instead a hard force, slick and firm, pushing inside him. Eyes widening, he looked down again, watching between his legs as Michelle pressed her hips against his thighs, pushing the strap-on into him, filling him up. He couldn’t help himself–he moaned, shuddering as she pulled back and thrust again, a little faster this time, sliding in and out of his bottom with an escalating rhythm. (Yes,) Jamie thought, as Michelle accelerated, pounding into him, one hand still laced in his hair. (Yes, I–I’m a good boy, I’ll do what M–m–) “Mmphhh…” he moaned, his own parts quivering, ready to burst from the pleasure as Michelle filled him, using him for herself, driving the strap-on into his G-spot over and over again. But, again, she knew his body better than he knew it himself, and before he could spurt onto her mattress, overwhelmed by the burning need to cum, she stopped, retreating, pulling out of him. “Such a good boy,” she purred. “There you go…” “Buh…” he stammered, pacifier dangling between his lips. “I…I wanna…” “You want to make me feel good now, right?” she finished, planting the words in his mouth and the thought in his brain. “To thank me for using you?” Helpless to think for himself, Jamie nodded–Michelle was right. “Then we should get you in your diaper, before you have a little accident,” Michelle cooed, shimmying out of the strap and setting it aside, along with her panties, leaving her as naked below the waist as he was. Jamie was as hard as he could be when he rolled onto his back–which wasn’t all that impressive, though Michelle didn’t seem to care about his diminishing manhood. She was clearly wet, dripping with arousal that seemed as intense as himself. That reassured him–he had to be mature, he had to be grown up, that’s why she was so interested. She had a diaper ready, though, and slid it under his hips, folding it… (Where did she get all this from? Did she already have it in here? Why…dhuuh…) His questioning thoughts were rendered into putty as she pushed the fresh diaper down over him. This was no pull-up, it was fluffy and snug, playful monkeys and jungle friends decorating the exterior. Feeling the thick, comforting padding press down over him, Jamie began to drool around his pacifier, mind sinking in a soup of pleasure. Two large tapes secured the diaper down, and Michelle ran her hand up the front one more time, satisfied in her handiwork. “Now,” she instructed, crawling up onto the bed, hooking a finger into the pacifier’s handle once again and pulling it free. “Are you going to be a good boy?” His nod came automatically. Of course. He was a good boy. She spread her legs, showing off her waiting sex. “Then show me how you use your mouth, and make me feel good.” Jamie required no further instruction. Crawling forward on the bed, freshly diapered bottom sashaying in the air as he approached, he dipped his head between her thighs and showed Michelle that he knew exactly how to demonstrate his maturity. She gasped as his tongue ran across her clit, and Jamie worked himself harder. She reached down, fingers lacing once again through his long, lush hair, and she pulled down–unnecessary, because Jamie had no thoughts of pulling away, but her need filled him with satisfaction more deep than he could remember. He wanted to make her feel good. He needed to make her feel good. She’d cared for him, she’d changed his diaper, she’d used his bottom and helped him, and now he could show her how much he cared for her in return. This was right. This was what he was for. Making M…m… “Yes,” Michelle gasped, back arched in ecstasy. “Use your diaper for me–show me how obedient you–” Her words trailed off as she rode into the beginnings an intense climax, but Jamie didn’t need to be prodded further. As soon as she’d said, ‘for me’, he’d strained to obey, scrunching up his face, grunting, pushing out the last dregs of his potty training to show his obedience. His bowels emptied, at first because he strained with effort, then because he could no longer stop them–his willful release turned to an uncontrollable wave, the seat of his diaper crinkling as it bulged to contain his fleeting maturity. As he felt the mush swell against his skin, packing into the diaper without a trace of control or shame, he felt an intense wave of pleasure wash down his body, and he clung to Michelle’s thighs for support. She screamed in satisfaction, and Jamie felt sheer bliss as he shuddered and groaned, forgetting himself, forgetting everything except for the ecstasy of his diaper, the comfort of Michelle’s touch, spurting at the mind-melting pleasure that came to him from his diaper. Sweaty, endorphins washing into the two of them, they collapsed into each other, exhausted in the way that only joy could bring. ... Audiobooks are a lot of work to make, and represent a huge investment of time and money - it's the kind of thing that's only really possible with a lot of community support. The kickstarter for The Baby Bet is starting to lag - I'd really like to see this this audiobook get made, and if you feel the same, please consider tossing in a contribution! https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/peculiarchangeling/the-baby-bet-coming-to-audio

Chapter Six Michelle felt giddy as she waited on the step of the brownstone apartment building. She hadn’t allowed herself to believe that this plan would really work, let alone that she’d have Jamie in her arms in just a few days, but now–suddenly–it seemed possible. He’d asked her for a diaper change. Jamie had asked her for a diaper change. Maybe she’d been a bit too hasty, all but admitting she’d followed him home and had been waiting in hopes that he’d call her for that very reason, but she couldn’t wait. She needed to see– Jamie opened the door, and something inside Michelle melted. He was just so…adorable. Helpless. Wonderful. Perfect. He stood in the doorway, legs splayed more deliberately than when it’d just been a crinkly pull-up between them. He carried the faintest odor of stale pee, but that didn’t matter, she knew even without being told: Jamie had the awkward waddle of a Little with an over-soaked diaper, one who knew they’d leak if they weren’t careful about managing the squelch between their thighs. His face, though, was what made her heart soar. Big brown eyes pleading, afraid, in need of a strong, caring hand to come tell him everything would be okay. His hair fell around his shoulders, and he’d begun twirling a strand around his index finger, shyly avoiding eye contact. “Let’s get you home,” Michelle said, offering him her hand. “Okay? I’ve got diapers for you there.” He nodded shyly, hand drifting up to his mouth, then he caught himself. Reaching into the pocket of his shortalls, he took out the pink pacifier she’d planted there and plopped it between his lips, suckling with a little more confidence. (Oh, hell,) Michelle thought, feeling her own panties get wet–but not for any lack of potty training. (I need this boy.) Helping Jamie into the passenger seat–she wasn’t quite ready to get an adult booster for the back yet, he might realize that was wrong–she leaned over, buckling him in. Impulsively, she gave him a little peck on the forehead before pulling away, leaving a tiny lipstick mark above his eyebrows. “You did the right thing by asking me for help,” she promised him, looking Jamie in the eyes. “I’m proud of you.” He looked like he might start to sniffle and cry, but Jamie just squirmed and nodded, clearly uncomfortable with how his diaper felt when it squelched beneath his weight. They’d need to fix that–Michelle wanted him to know that used diapers were a good thing, that they were a chance for Mommy to take care of him. No more negative associations, just happy thoughts. Then again, as she leaned over him, she caught a faint whiff of sex, a chlorine odor that told her Jamie had already enjoyed a few happy thoughts in his diaper. He was further along than she’d ever imagined. Walking around her car, she got in and began to drive. She felt every red light, every stop sign–she yearned to get him home, and every second that kept her away from the Little boy she’d claimed as hers was infuriating. When she got to her space in the parking garage, she all but dragged Jamie out of his seat, fingers lacing around one of the straps of his shortalls. (I should get a lead for him,) she thought, passion driving her as she led the waddling young man to the elevator. This time, as she prepared to take him up to her floor, she got her wish. One of her neighbors waited in the chamber full of elevator doors, and when Michelle walked in, the older woman glanced over at her. “Good afternoon, Michelle,” the neighbor said, her eyes sizing Jamie up. “Who’s your…friend?” Jamie shuffled his feet, looking down at his shoes and avoiding eye contact. “Don’t mind him,” Michelle said, brimming with joy as she quietly called attention to Jamie. “He’s just shy because he…well, he needs my help a little.” She pulled him a little closer, protective, and Jamie reached out with his hand, fingers lacing with hers. He wanted to hold her hand! Michelle had to stifle a squeal of joy as she got onto the elevator with him, riding up to their floor with the older neighbor. Michelle didn’t even say goodbye, too focused on her goal, leading Jamie by the hand to her apartment. The door opened, and shut, and they were alone together. She couldn’t wait any more. Turning to face him, Michelle let her passions out, lifting Jamie’s hand in hers and pinning it against the wall and over his head. She used her other hand to grope the front of his shortalls, feeling his diaper squish beneath her fingertips, feeling him grow hard beneath the soggy padding and layers of fabric. “You were such a good boy,” she said, face moving up to his. “Remembering to use your diapers, remembering to call me for help–but is that all you wanted my help with?” Jamie trembled at her touch, and he shook his head, the handle on his pacifier rattling. She felt his hips move, pressing himself into her hand harder, succumbing to her advances. Leaning in, Michelle kissed the front of Jamie’s pacifier, then she reached up and fished the crook of her finger under its handle, pulling it free so she could kiss him on the lips. Their bodies were warm and desperate, each of them trembling together with anticipation and need. “Will you let me take care of you?” Michelle asked, whispering against his lips. All this boy had to do was ask, and she’d do anything to keep him. He nodded. “Yes–please.” Michelle didn’t know what exactly he thought of all this–whether her hex had left him confused, whether he was eager for any sex regardless of context, or if her wishes had come true and he’d already begun to feel the link between her care, his diapers, and fundamental pleasure, but for now, none of that mattered. She’d waited long enough, and she knew she had him. Now it was time to play with her Little boy. ... Support is just a couple bucks a month to get early access to all my writing - which, at the moment, includes the conclusion to this story, (four more chapters,) a three-part femdom punishment story, and more! https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

It's also nice to have it happen automatically and on a schedule - I know for me, it's easy to just forget to donate for a while. If I could just chip in 5$ a month consistently, I'd be happy to set that up.

A baby girl, or a sissy boy will do Chapter 5 Jamie took slow, heavy breaths, his senses returning to him as the post-orgasmic high dissipated. Uncertainty faded, and after a long moment of recovery, he took stock and realized how much trouble he’d landed in. He’d been smart to wear his pull-up, sure, but now he’d found himself with a new problem: As he lay there, panting for air, he found a new warmth trickling into his pull-up. He was having another accident, and this one had come without warning. Jamie hadn’t intended to go–it had just happened, and he’d only realized after the fact. That meant he’d slipped further, that his curse had found some other ‘immature’ behavior to feed upon. Suckling his pacifier for comfort, Jamie fought the tears that threatened to well up in his eyes. (Michelle promised you’d be okay–you just need to figure out what went wrong, so you don’t do it again!) It worried him that he’d made another mistake without thinking. He’d been so vigilant, and he’d still failed. His best just wasn’t enough. Was it that he tried to make himself feel good? Did self-pleasure count as an immature behavior, and he should’ve waited and done that with Michelle? His eyes widened and he sat up straighter, surprised at himself–already, he was thinking about Michelle as someone he could be intimate with. They’d only known each other for one date, and he’d spent half that date panicking about wet pants and Little clothes. Yet, when he thought about having grown-up fun time, he couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone but Michelle. Squirming, he tried to think, but the heat in his diaper distracted him as it squelched against his parts. That would need to be taken care of–a grown up wouldn’t just sit around in a soggy pull-up. (Would they?) Pursing his lips, he took out his phone. The keyboard made him feel dizzy–the buttons were so small, and all right next to each other, but he managed to type out his search, hunting one key at a time until he found the letters he needed. Do adults change their diapers right away? The query brought up a few suggested articles, mostly directed at new caregivers for Littles. Is your Little one bigger than you expected? Here’s how to change those big accidents! Diaper Rash on your little’s bum? Five tips for preventing discomfort for your special one. This One Weird Trick Diaper Companies Don’t Want You To Know! Squinting at the words, Jamie found no direct answers, but one thing seemed obvious: Nobody was talking about how to change your diapers, it was all about how to change someone else’s. Put another way: Grown ups didn’t change their own diapers, they got another grown up to help. Proud of himself for making the deduction, he got to his feet. Now he just needed someone to help him, but he wasn’t sure who. His parents lived a few hours away–too far. Were any of his work friends close enough that he’d ask them to wipe his bottom? That seemed like too much of a favor, and besides, he didn’t want anyone to gossip around the curse. If HR found out he was regressing, he could be in hot water at work–better to keep things private. While he pondered who to ask, his phone chimed again. He lifted the screen, smiling behind his pacifier shield as he read ‘Michelle ❤️ ❤️ <3’ next to the text. ‘Did you get home alright?’ Blushing, he tried to peck away at the keyboard to respond, but he was having trouble with letters, and a few words took him almost a minute to type out. Grumbling to himself, he tapped the button to call her instead. “Jamie?” Michelle picked up almost immediately, concern in her tone. “Are you alright?” “Michewwe,” Jamie began, but realized he’d never taken the pacifier out. He spat it into his hand and tried again. “Michelle, I…made it home, but the curse is getting worse.” “Oh no,” Michelle said, with a tone that said, I’m sympathizing with you, rather than, I’m worried. “Tell me what happened.” “I got off the bus, and…” he began, blushing as he tried to explain without going into detail. “Um…when I got back to my apartment…it doesn’t matter, I just need to make sure to behave.” “Jamie.” Michelle’s tone wasn’t upset, but it sounded a degree more firm than it had before. “Did you have another accident?” Her words were so direct, he answered without thinking. “Yes. I…how’d you know?” “I can always tell, sweetie,” she said. “That’s nothing to be ashamed about. You couldn’t help it–but aren’t you glad you were wearing your diaper?” “They’re just pull-ups,” he fussed, pacing across the floor. “Not real diapers.” “Okay,” she said, with a giggle that suggested she didn’t really agree. “Do you have a grown up to help you clean up?” (She’s so smart,) Jamie thought, shaking his head as he held the phone. “No…I don’t know who to ask.” Another stifled giggle, barely audible over the line. “Do you want me to come help you, Jamie?” He flushed. “I…are you sure?” “I promise I don’t mind.” He nodded a few times, remembering a second later that he had to speak to be heard. “Yes, please.” “I’ll be there soon,” she promised. “Just wait for me, okay baby?” “Thank you.” Jamie sighed in relief, glad to have that problem taken care of. “You’re so nice, Michelle.” “Awww,” she said. “You’re the sweetest. Goodbye, Jamie!” “Bye bye, Michelle!” He hung up, satisfied with how that’d gone. Michelle really didn’t seem to be phased by anything–she was sweet, and nice, and smart, and managed to be ready for everything. He wasn’t sure what to do while he waited, so he put his pacifier back in and just stood there, uncertain what to do. It wouldn’t be long before– His phone chirped again, another message from Michelle. ‘I’m outside!’ He blinked–that was fast! Texting her back, he spent twenty seconds finding the letters for ‘Omw’, then waddled out his apartment door, hurrying to let her in. ... This story was brought to you by one of my awesome readers! My ability to create fiction like this is supported entirely by fans like you, without whom I wouldn't have enough time to write because I'd have to be working a second job. If you'd like to join these awesome people, (and get early access, commission discounts, and exclusive stories,) you can do so here: https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

Have you considered setting up something like a Subscribestar page to help keep the income and donations consistent? Anyway - it looks like we needed 23 dollars, so I tossed in 23 dollars