PeculiarChangeling

Chapter 4 Daniel had a moment to stagger and gape at the room around him, following the chaos of his little display. Everyone had seen him lose control of the power, and even now papers were fluttering down from the ceiling of the testing chamber. More to the point, everyone had seen his underpants. It barely even registered that the mess was being cleaned up, he was focused on deciding how to respond to his exposure. By the entrance, Professor Blackburn had out a wand and was guiding all the papers back into stacks, but he had to choose then and there: Try and gaslight the room into thinking they hadn’t just seen what they thought they saw up his skirt, or come clean. He wasn’t that good of a liar. When he stood, he found himself looking up into the eyes of one particularly angry Rachel Haligtree. Speaking with slow, punctuated emphasis, she snapped, “What. The hell. Was that?” “Fine,” he said, dusting himself off, glancing back at the boulder behind him. His testing was over. He’d be in or he wouldn’t be. “You caught me. I’m a guy.” She blinked. “You’re–excuse me?” Hesitating, Daniel said, “Well, you saw my…er…” “I’m not talking about your junk, I’m talking about this!” She waved a hand at the chamber, at the other people. “You disrupted the entire test, and–you’re a guy?” “Well–” he started. Fortunately, or perhaps not, Velma Blackburn stepped in, looking down at him through horn-rimmed glasses. “Perhaps a bit more control would have been advisable,” she conceded, “But this young lady didn’t break the rules–our training wards failed, that isn’t her doing.” Fuming, Rachel said, “Okay, but he just said that he is a man.” Velma blinked. “He…” “Yeah,” Rachel confirmed. “He.” “Well,” Daniel said. “You can run my numbers instantly, right? Did he pass?” “Danielle,” Velma began. “Er–” “Daniel,” he corrected. “Daniel, this is a school for witches. Not warlocks. What are you doing here?” Velma arched an eyebrow at him–perplexed, not upset. “I needed a little education in control before any warlock school would let me in,” Daniel admitted. It was embarrassing, sure, but who cared? He was in, or he wasn’t; if his stunt had failed, he wouldn’t be able to pull it again somewhere else. “Did. I. Pass?” “I suppose, but–” “Great,” Daniel said, smoothing out his dress, already planning to go wipe off the makeup so he’d look his boy-self again. “Awesome. I’ll look forward to studying under you, Professor Blackstone.” “Ahem,” Velma said, simply. “Perhaps this needs judgment from the Dean.” “Allow me, ma’am,” Rachel replied. In an instant, her own wand was out, a colorful rod with a long piece of lace ribbon on one end and gemstones along the other. With a flick, Daniel shot up into the air, hoisted by levitation magic with infinitely more refinement and control than his own. Only, she hadn’t cast it on him. Rachel’s spell seized the back of his tighty-whities, pulling him in the air with a particularly intense wedgie. He winced and his legs flailed, kicking to try and push off the floor and release some of the weight. “HEY!” “I’ve got him,” Rachel said. “Don’t worry about this, you can focus on the testing, ma’am.” With one more flick, she lifted him up some ten feet so that he dangled above everyone’s heads, underwear straining to support the whole weight of his body. A few of the other testees giggled, more pointed. All eyes had already been on him from the crisis, but now he’d been turned into a spectacle, floating in the air, red faced and angry. With his dress down, nobody could see that he was being held aloft by wedgie power, but they could see his inability to fight back from the spell. Daniel’s face burned, half with embarrassment, half with discomfort as the fabric chafed between his cheeks and compressed his balls into his body. “Put me down!” "I thought warlocks outclassed us witches in duels," Rachel replied, rolling her eyes. "I didn't know you boys got out of binding spells just by begging." Screwing up his face with anger and annoyance, Daniel flicked his wand and tried to dispel the magic, but Rachel’s levitation persisted. On his second attempt, the magic recoiled, sparking in his hand–he dropped his wand towards the floor, and Rachel snatched it out of the air. “Come along,” she said, waving a hand. The levitation began to carry him forward, over the heads of the other applicants, floating right out of the testing hall and down a corridor towards the faculty offices. Daniel kicked and squirmed, the underwear burning between his legs. “I’ll have you expelled for this!” “You assume anyone cares what a little boy who plays dress-up thinks,” Rachel replied. “Why did you come here? Just as a joke? To have a laugh at us?” “Because I wanted to enroll,” he snapped, reaching down to try and lift himself up out of the undies, to relieve some of the weight. Pushing both hands around his dress to get at the waistband, he accomplished his goal, but in doing so his center of balance shifted. He began to rock forward in the air, tipping with nothing to hold onto, until he fell forward and down to the ground–with his underwear still suspended ten feet up. Naked from the waist down–save for his sneakers–Daniel flushed bright red and pulled his dress down to cover himself. “Oh, wow,” Rachel commented. “Okay, let’s try–” With another flick of her wrist, she grabbed him by the ankle, flipped him up, and sent him into the air once again–upside down, his dress flipping up to cover his body and leave him exposed to the air. “Put me DOWN!” Daniel screamed, trying to push up his dress to cover his exposed dick. “No,” Rachel said, simply. With another flick, then, she eliminated the dress as well–the fabric simply vanished, disintegrated into nothing. He was, momentarily, surprised. That sort of destructive evocation took a lot of precision and control. Rachel was scary for a witch. If he could learn that, he’d be a shoe-in at any warlock school in the world. Then, the reality of being completely naked in a hallway full of girls his age hit him, and he kicked in the air, spinning to try and face Rachel. His only reprieve from humiliation was that they weren’t still in the grand hall surrounded by the absolute throng of test-taking girls–only a few passing girls saw him in his half-naked state. Finally managing to kick at the air enough to turn and look at Rachel, he demanded, “What’s your problem?” “My problem is you, trying to undermine the integrity of Alphabeta with your stupid trick,” Rachel shot back. “You do not belong here. You should not have come here, and unless you promise to turn around and leave as soon as I give your big-boy undies back, I have zero reason to be nice to you.” Daniel might have stood up for himself more, but it was hard to build self-confidence without anything to make him decent. Rather than continue the argument, he just glared, blushed, and tried to think up a counterspell he could cast without his wand. Her expression declaring victory, Rachel paraded him down the halls, smirking proudly at his humiliation. In less than a minute, she had him at an important looking set of double doors, which led into an equally important looking office, helmed by–of course–a woman who radiated a sense of paramount authority. The dean looked like every bit of the scholarly witch–half moon glasses, classic black robes, and a black, pointed hat. She glanced up, raising a single eyebrow at the spectacle marching up to her desk. “Can I help you?” she asked. On her desk, a nameplate read, ‘Dr. Penelope Madrigal’. “Rachel–put the girl down.” Rachel dropped him in a heap on the ground. “Ma’am, this boy–” “Rachel Haligtree,” the dean snapped, shooting a stern look at the prefect. “Leave us. I will handle this.” Rachel, gaping, still gave deference to this woman’s authority. Scoffing, she turned and walked away, shutting the doors behind her. The dean looked at him calmly. “What is your name, child?” “Daniel Aster,” he said, simply, getting to his feet and brushing himself off. He’d lost his purse at some point, and Rachel had gotten every bit of his clothes, leaving him truly naked. In front of the dean’s consummate professional gaze, though, he felt a bit less like the subject of an indignity, and managed to stick out his chin in defiance of Rachel’s humiliations. “I just passed the entrance exams, so I’ll be in your upcoming student body.” She looked between his legs, then up at him. “And what happened to your clothes, young lady?” “I–Rachel disintegrated them, the prefect,” Daniel said, uncertainly. “She got up in my face and said I didn’t belong.” “I see,” Dr. Madrigal sighed, reaching for a feather pen on her desk. Daniel had to do a double take at the object, realizing from its runic inscriptions that it wasn’t a pen at all, but a wand. Conjuring a simple gown, she said, “I’m sorry, Miss Aster. I’ll of course ensure this is dealt with; Alphabeta is an institution that prides itself on accepting all–” “I’m not a Miss,” Daniel cut in, taking the gown. “Mrs.?” the dean asked, curiously. “Or do you prefer ‘Ms.’?” “Mister, if you please.” He dressed himself, glad to have a bit of modesty. “I’m a man.” Dr. Madrigal blinked a couple times, absorbing that information, recalibrating her appraisal of the situation. “I… see.” “I went over your rules exhaustively,” Daniel continued, pacing a little as he talked. “Strictly speaking, there’s nothing in the charter that explicitly prohibits male students–the only rules have to do with the entrance exams. Once you’ve passed, you’re enrolled, and that’s all there is to it. I passed. I’m going to be a student. I had to fudge some of my paperwork to get on the exam, but that doesn’t matter once the exam’s over.” The dean leaned forward, tapping something on her desk. “Rachel Haligtree, please come back to my office.” She eyed Daniel again. “Let’s say you didn’t miss something, that you really can bypass five hundred years of tradition on a loophole–why, exactly, are you here?” He gave her as confident a smile as he could muster. “Because, I need an education. Who are you to deny me that?” Her face hardened, but before she could say anything else, Rachel pushed in the door. “Miss Haligtree, did you destroy this boy’s clothes?” she asked. “Yes ma’am,” Rachel replied. “And I’d do it again.” “If what he tells me is correct, he’s a student here,” the dean said. “And you know you aren’t supposed to discipline students, except for those kept under your wing.” Rachel hesitated, swallowing her anger so hard it looked like she might choke. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” “It’s alright,” Dr. Madrigal leaned forward, using her wand as an actual pen. A document apparated under it as she wrote something out, as though her writing dictated the appearance of forms and not the other way around. “I’m assigning Aster to your wing. He’s shown a propensity for skirting discipline, rules, and order, so I expect you’ll keep a very close eye on him and dispense discipline accordingly.” Daniel blinked in surprise, glancing back nervously at Rachel. “Is there a problem, Mister Aster?” the dean asked. “Or did you think you’d get to choose your own wing and get to be team captain in the Voxavin league?” “No, it’s fine.” Daniel swallowed. “More than fine. Totally fair.” “Be sure to put in your sizes for your uniform,” the dean added. “We’ve got a dress code here, and running naked through the halls hardly complies.” “I… yes, ma’am,” Daniel said. “Are we good?” She glanced at him over her half-moon spectacles, considered for a moment, and nodded. “You’re dismissed. Welcome to Alphabeta University.” ... I haven't given my editor a shout-out in a while, so: Thanks to my awesome editor, Ezi, for helping me get this story to sparkle! It wouldn't be half as good without you. (And thanks to my subscribers for helping me pay her!) Support the author: https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

Chapter 3 Alphabeta’s testing hall put most universities to shame. Built in a multipurpose space that could’ve served for recitals, speeches, or even spectator sports with the right equipment. It had been lined with rows of tables to one side of the room, and long rune-scribed mats laid out on the other side, surrounded with personal shields so that spells could be thrown back and forth without risk of collateral damage. Girls were doing spells on those mats: Creating lights, conjuring shapes, lifting stones. Displaying their skills. A teacher by the entrance called out, her voice amplified so that everyone could hear her clearly, though nobody would find her voice uncomfortably loud. “Applicants to the right–find an open seat and sit down. You will not look up from your test until you’ve completed it. Once it’s done, bring your test to me, then head over to an open practice mat for practical demonstrations of ability.” Here, Daniel knew he’d shine. Swaggering to one of the open seats, he sat before the slightly-enchanted paper and picked up the #2 pencil provided. Multiple choice bubbles were so easy as to be laughable, and he blew through them one after the other. Questions about magical theory, basics that Daniel didn’t even need to consider–for many of the questions, he didn’t even need to look at the multiple choice options, he just knew the right answer immediately. Smirking as he got past the first page in minutes, he wondered how the nearby girls were doing–surely they found this as much of a joke as he did. Turning his head–No. His eyes remained on the next page of his test. (Hey, why can’t I–) Turning his head–No. His gaze stayed locked on the paper. (They enchanted us?) Straining, Daniel turned his head–No. He simply could not look up from the multiple choice questionnaire, no matter how much effort he poured into the attempt. Cheating wasn’t simply forbidden–it was impossible, robbing his autonomy away. (Note to self–figure out what this sort of spell is called. Figure out how to get around it.) Daniel wondered what’d happen if he found a loophole in their magic and managed to cheat. Would they give it a pass, because it demonstrated more skill and magical power than simply answering the questions normally? Then again, what good would cheating be if he could bypass spells created by the teachers? Flipping to the next page, he grinned. (Rune diagrams–they must have heard I was coming.) This was no test, it was a game. He knew runes better than the alphabet, and quickly identified the purpose of each diagram, flipping from page to page. Potions knowledge took a bit more effort, but not much–who could forget what amounted to memory puzzles and shopping lists? With every question, his confidence grew. He finished up before the girls sitting around him, most of whom had sat down before he walked into the room–and, once he stood up and his answers had been locked in, he was able to glance at their tests. (Wow, really? They’re getting answers wrong? This is…like… grade school stuff.) Walking back to the teacher by the door, he brought his test back to the teacher organizing this section. Holding out the sheaf of papers triumphantly, he said, “Here’s my test.” “That was fast, Miss…?” She took the stack and glanced through horn-rimmed spectacles at the top of the first paper. Finding his name printed there, she read out, “Aster.” “It wasn’t hard,” he replied, keeping a straight face–even dressed as a girl, he’d been caught off guard by the ‘Miss’. “I didn’t see any reason to slow down when I knew all the answers.” “The fastest results aren’t always the best,” she pointed out, thumbing through to check a few things before setting aside the stack. Daniel nearly ran his mouth: ‘In a duel, it’s the quicker warlock who wins, not the one who sits down to hem and haw over the details.’ He caught himself, just barely too late to keep from speaking entirely. “In a d…” (Witches don’t duel.) She raised an eyebrow at him. “Hmm?” “In a day or two,” he said, mouth running ahead of his thoughts, just filling the air. “Will we…know our test results?” She exhaled through her nose. “Ms. Aster, we don’t need to wait that long. I’ll have the results as soon as the last test is done.” Holding up his test, she added, “In fact, I’ve already graded this paper, and you did remarkably well–if you can handle yourself this well with practical magic, I am fully confident I’ll see you in my class.” “I’m sure I will.” He smiled, and–hoping to sell it a bit–gave a slight curtsy. Her expression flattened by degrees, a shade cooler than it’d been before his attempt at femininity. (Crap, crap–) “Don’t expect your confidence to get you through my lessons,” she added. “If you expect to breeze through this easily in my class, you’ll be sorely disappointed.” (Oh, she just thinks I’m cocky.) “I won’t. May I ask your name?” “Once you’re enrolled, Professor Blackburn,” she said. “Until then, I prefer non-students simply call me Velma.” He smiled. (Once I’m enrolled. Even the teachers know I belong at a school like this.) (Eh…not exactly like this, but certainly at a magic school.) “Thank you, Velma,” he said, turning to walk to the practice mats. Time for some practical magic. He stepped into the ring, and felt the slight pop of magic sealing around him, weighing on his ears like a pressurized airplane cabin at high altitude. Everything around fell silent–it was just him and the sound of his breath, with slightly aching ears from the pressure. Another student, a blonde girl about his height with a bandaid over her nose looked distraught and slightly pained as the magic sealed her into her own private bubble. He caught her gaze, smiled, and gestured to his face. Reaching up, he squeezed on his nostrils and blew until his ears popped. She mimicked him, expression melting to relief, and gave him a thumbs up in response. He smiled, waiting for instruction. A second passed. He shivered–he hadn’t accounted for the dress being this drafty, he was used to pants that kept his legs comfortably warm. His dress came down pretty far, but a gentle shifting of air in the room still sent cold tendrils up his bare legs. After a few more moments, glowing letters formed in front of him, hovering in the air. ‘Follow instructions accurately, quickly, and efficiently.’ “Okay, which instructions?” Then he answered his own joke. “Yup, that’s correct, the witch instructions.” The letters shifted. ‘Conjure light.’ Light spells were easy peasy, and about what he’d expected from a witch’s school–there wouldn’t be any fast, complicated evocations. Reaching into his purse, he took out his wand, flicked it in the air, and flexed his power. It felt like tensing muscles somewhere deep in his chest, except for a lack of physical strain on any part of his body–the more he tensed, the more power he unleashed, and here it took just a little burst of power for the desired effect. He created a little mote of werelight. The letters flashed green. ‘Dismiss light.’ He did so, releasing the tension he’d held over his heart. Robbed of its fuel, the light winked out like a lightbulb and the letters flashed green again. Again, simple. ‘Instructions understood. Proceeding to testing.’ “Uh…oh. That was just to make sure I…understood…” The letters had already begun to reform. ‘Create a physical construct four feet wide and six feet tall, capable of withstanding fifty Newtons of force.’ “Uh…uh…” The girl next to him was already working on it, already building a barrier. He had to stop and think, focusing on how much power he needed to stop that much force. “Cavilion Elementus?” he flexed his power to try and release just enough energy for the result he wanted, but it was like going to pick up an object without knowing how heavy it’d be, and he had no way of fixing after the fact if he overcompensated. Sending out power, he flicked his wand through the air. A slightly shimmering shield formed in front of him, then shattered. The instruction letters flashed red, highlighting the end, ‘Capable of withstanding fifty Newtons of force.’ He scowled–he’d been trying to avoid wasting power, but he’d undershot. He tried again, figuring out the exact level of magic power needed to pass by gut feel–a bit of trial and error based on the failed attempt, and a bit of superstitious guessing. “Cavilion Maximus!” This time it worked, but when the letters flashed green, they seemed…duller. No shiny success for him, just an adequate result. Another set of instructions formed, asking him to manipulate flame. Trying to whip out the magic, he sent a gout of fire that burned a brief hole in the letters, stopping against the edge of the invisible seal that penned in his practice mat. He tried again, slower–when he stopped and focused on exactly what he needed to do, he did better. It went like that. His hastily conjured magic worked one in four times, but more often than not he had to try again, reworking the power needed on the fly. None of the spells were particularly complicated or immensely difficult, but they were tricky and specific–he didn’t want to take an hour on each one to work out exactly how much energy he should send out, not when speed was being accounted for, but instead he kept flubbing it, using far too much or far too little power. The girl with the band aid on her nose finished up. When she left, she gestured to her ears and beamed at him, calling out words he couldn’t hear. He smiled weakly. (She’s done already?) Another girl took up that spot. That girl left, too, replaced by yet another would-be student. Aware how long he was taking, aware of every mistake, Daniel tried to get closer to finishing. He put himself more into every spell, but it didn’t help–that just meant his mistakes were more dramatic. Thirty spells in total passed, and by the end, sweat had begun to drip down the back of his neck. He remembered Velma’s words: “If you can handle yourself this well with practical magic.” (“If.”) Clearly, he couldn’t. His practical magic sucked so much that even these witches were doing laps around him. He needed to turn things around, and he couldn’t, because there were no spells left to test him on–save for one. The letters reformed. ‘Lift the stone. It will grow heavier over time. Keep it suspended for as long as you can.’ A test of strength and nothing else. Okay. If he couldn’t be precise, he could at least be strong. He wasn’t sure how long the girls around him had lasted, he just knew he had to make it longer, to show off enough raw power to stand out from the pack. A pebble appeared, popping into existence in front of him. He took a breath, focused on what he wanted to do, flexed the psychic muscles in his chest, and lifted the stone, hovering at a point a few feet off the ground. Levitation had its difficult parts, but this wasn’t one of them. Moving things around precisely? Daniel struggled there; it took too many precise releases of power to control direction and thrust. Quickly? Even harder–take all the issues of precision and put them on a time crunch. But just holding the rock in place in the air didn’t take precision, just focus and power. Daniel didn’t feel the effort at first, but as seconds passed, the stone began to grow, swelling out with his breath. Inhale, nothing. Exhale, and it expanded, like a balloon drawing on his own magic. He reached into himself, to the deep well of power somewhere in his belly, anchoring himself to the magic. The rock swelled past the size of a basketball, then a beach ball. He braced himself, spreading his legs into a solid stance he’d seen in a kung-fu movie, reaching deeper. (I’m strong enough to lift the rock,) he told himself. (This is true. This is the way things are. My will overpowers reality. I am strong enough to lift the rock.) He had to believe it–if he didn’t believe it, deep in his core, the magic would fail. Truth was no mere social construct, for the purposes of magic, truth carried weight. In order to lift the rock, he needed to believe he was strong enough to lift it, and that belief had to be founded in truth. The paradox would make him go cross eyed if he thought about it too much, so he didn’t think about it. Fully a boulder now, the rock grew larger, and larger. He had begun to sweat so much it justified his choice of premium setting powder. Breathing deeply, Daniel lowered his hands down almost to his knees and lifted them up, as though pushing the rock with his palms. Levitation magic boiled the air, and he saw sparks of light shimmer around him. (I am strong enough. I can lift anything.) Power flowed from him. He could do this. He would do this. He’d show the school that, for all he lacked, he had the might of great warlocks of old, and the will to use it. The rock grew bigger, so big it pressed against the shimmering shield surrounding his testing platform, sending up motes of angry light as the barrier struggled to contain his spells, to keep it from spilling out into the testing hall at large. (Is this enough? Am I even doing well?) It wobbled, threatening to fall out of the air. (What if this is expected, too? What if I’m kidding myself, if every girl here can lift these boulders and I’m a joke for telling myself this is impressive?) It started to sink, dropping, nearly touching the ground. He sucked in his air, throwing out more power. (No–no. Hold on. I’ve seen them testing. I haven’t watched, but I’ve seen–other girls lifted rocks. None had one this big.) Exhaling, Daniel Aster laughed, recognizing what he should have realized before: He’d proven enough already. If they wanted to confirm strength, he’d done it; no girl in the class had lifted anything bigger than this. He’d seen some fairly large rocks, but his boulder had grown to the size of a small car, bigger even. “YES!” he said, triumph coursing through him. He was strong enough. He knew it. The rock lifted, higher, and so did he, levitation energy flowing in every direction. His feet lifted off the ground, floating up in tandem with his stone, knowing that he would pass this test with flying colors. Then, without warning, the magical barrier penning in his training pad burst. Sparks shot up, and all his strength lashed out into the room beyond. Levitation energy that he’d stopped trying to focus, relying on the training pad to keep it contained, now shot out untamed in every direction. Tests shot into the air, papers fluttering like birds, and half the girls in the room–everyone not currently inside a training circle of their own–staggered for a moment as the magic lifted them up off the ground. All eyes turned to him, floating several feet off the ground and cackling like a madman. He realized, only then, that his dress hem had flown up along with the rest of him, and his tighty whities were showing. “Uh–” he started. The power left him, and he fell back down in a heap. (Well…shit.) ... I've got a little story to tell! I started writing Diaper U well over a year ago, as an exclusive story. At the time, I was doing it without an outline - no real plan, just vibes. It, frankly, wasn't very good. The story rambled and lacked direction. Worse, it rushed, trying too hard to get to 'the good stuff' without any buildup. There were some scenes I liked, and some concepts, but overall, it just wasn't up to scratch. So, I restarted it. I wrote an outline, stole all the best bits from what I'd already written, and began again from scratch. The chapter you just read loosely correlates to the original Chapter One. I'm really grateful that my supporters were on board with the change - being able to go back and fix things, to make my stories as good as possible, is something I'm glad I can do. If you want to help support my writing - mistakes and all, corrections to be added - I'd really appreciate it. ❤️ It's just a couple bucks a month, and it makes a huge difference for me. https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

Part Four Mikaela savored every moment of triumph and every ounce of the horror and humiliation that wafted off of her little cricket. She had planned this out, waiting for just the right moment to unveil the new rules. Patience had been key, not only did she have to wait until her little cricket had grown used to the new status quo, she also had to wait until Beth ran through her remaining stash of diapers. It hadn’t taken long. Since Mikaela insisted Beth keep her diapers fresh and changed regularly, she’d gone through what she had left in less than a week. And, just like Mikaela had expected, she was so used to her automated shipment of new diapers that she didn’t even notice. It didn’t help that Mikaela insisted on staying tidy, which meant that–instead of piling up in the corner–her diapers were hidden from view most of the time, in a dresser drawer. From Beth’s perspective, she had diapers left, and the exact count didn’t matter… Until just a few minutes before her new mandatory bedtime, Mikaela watched through a crack in the bedroom door as Beth crouched down and began to push. (Excellent,) Mikaela thought to herself, smirking as she watched her little cricket fill up her last diaper. This had been a ploy of hers–use her diaper just before bedtime, then drag out the change, winning a few minutes of extra freedom before she was inevitably put to bed. Mikaela couldn’t have set it up better if she’d tried. Waddling out of her bedroom, legs splayed slightly to accommodate the extra bulk and weight, Beth glowered at Mikaela. Wearing only a baggy T-shirt and a saggy diaper, she looked as adorably helpless as Mikaela could ever have hoped. “I need to change before bed.” Mikaela raised an eyebrow. “Ahem.” Rolling her eyes, Beth repeated, “I need to change before bed, Nanny.” “Alright,” Mikaela replied, nodding, pretending not to know what Beth would soon discover. She toddled to the dresser in the living room, pulled open the drawer, and reached inside to– “Erm…” Beth mumbled, frowning. She crouched, and Mikaela got a whiff of her latest ‘accident’–smelly, noticeable, but not overpowering. (Wonderful.) She watched Beth try every drawer, before spinning to face Mikaela. “Where are they?” “Where are what?” Mikaela asked. “My diapers,” she insisted. “Where are my diapers?” Mikaela drew her lips into a line, waiting to be asked properly. “Where are my diapers, Nanny?” (Better.) As though she’d only just heard the question, Mikaela tilted her head. “Oh, did you use them all? Well, I suppose you should have ordered more.” “You aren’t letting me buy stuff.” Petulance radiated off Beth so strongly that it could’ve been used to calibrate a mood ring. “And, whatever, I need to change.” Mikaela knew Beth would have stayed in a dirty diaper for hours if she’d been left alone, but she didn’t bring up the point. “You didn’t ask to buy new diapers. Did you even notice they were missing?” “Yes,” Beth lied. “Whatever. I’ll order some, pay for overnight shipping–it’s fine, I’ll just wear panties tonight.” “And ruin your sheets? I don’t think so.” Standing, Mikaela said, “If you could be trusted without a diaper, you wouldn’t have to wear them all the time, but if you want to start potty training, well–be my guest.” Beth threw up her hands, acutely ignoring the threat of potty training. “So, what. You’re going to make me stay in this diaper until new ones show up?” Despite her exasperation, Mikaela caught a hint of excitement–as though Beth wanted to be trapped in her diaper. Mikaela genuinely considered it, but only for a heartbeat. “No. I’ve got something for you, little Beth, it will take care of this problem.” Turning, Mikaela knelt, retrieving her purse, making a show out of the small movement, so that Beth would be tempted to try and see. “You got diapers for me?” Beth asked. Mikaela shook her head, instead taking out a small paper booklet. She held it in her palm, half concealed, building the anticipation a little longer. “What is it?” Beth began, annoyance fighting with curiosity. “Nanny?” With that last word, unprompted, Mikaela decided the girl had been teased long enough and turned, holding it out. About five inches long and a couple tall, there was no mistaking what she’d given Beth. “What’s this?” she asked, as though she couldn’t read the text clearly, as though she held a foreign object in her hand. “This,” Mikaela announced, looking down at the paper booklet, “is your checkbook.” Beth looked up at her, baffled. “Why do I need a checkbook?” “So that I can keep track of your spending, of course,” Mikaela replied. “I’ve decided to let you have control of your money again–so long as all purchases are made with this. I set your name on the account as ‘Beth Brown’. I know it’s not as generic as your other names, but I thought the acronym suited you.” Beth looked down, then back up, fuming. “I can’t buy things with this.” “I think you’ll find that you can,” Mikaela replied. “Most stores still accept checks. And–wouldn’t you know–we’re not too far from a twenty four hour pharmacy. Let’s go break that in, shall we?” Beth’s eyes widened. “Hold on…” Mikaela grinned, savoring her fear. “I’m not asking, I’m telling. If you try to argue any more, I’ll free your piggies, one by one.” That finally pushed her into obedience, of a sort. “Fine, okay. I’ll write the check, who am I making it out to?” Shaking her head, Mikaela instead walked past her, into Beth’s bedroom. Taking a pair of sweatpants from her dresser, she turned, holding them up critically. “I think these will cover up your diaper well enough.” The girl’s eyes widened. “I’m not–you’re not sending me to go get them myself, are you?” “Of course not,” Mikaela replied, giving her a moment of relief before bursting it. “We’re going together.” “I–I’m messy,” Beth stammered. “No, ‘Messy’ is the state of your bedroom before you clean it,” Mikaela corrected. “Your diaper is poopy, and that’s why you need fresh ones.” “You’re not going to expose people to that, are you?” Beth asked. “That’s–it’s–” Snickering, Mikaela walked over to her, crouching to hold open the legs of the sweatpants. “You can’t even say it, you know your excuse isn’t going to cut it.” Brow furrowing, Beth stepped into the pants. Mikaela pulled the drawstring tight over her mushy diaper, running a finger through the waistband so that it didn’t catch or fold anywhere. The girl just whispered under her breath, looking for all the world like a moody teenager. “What was that?” Mikaela asked, standing to look at her. “Use your words, Beth.” Beth fought to avoid eye contact, keeping her gaze down. It was adorable. “I hate you so much.” “One more try,” Mikaela insisted. “Remember the rules.” Fuming, hands balling into fists, Beth finally got it right, looking up so she could glare her anger right into Mikaela’s eyes. “I hate you so much, Nanny.” Mikaela beamed, her face full of sunshine and warmth. “There’s a good girl.” … Elizabeth calculated her revenge upon Nanny as the two of them walked–hand in hand–across the street to the pharmacy. The intruder, her competitor, had been a thorn in Elizabeth’s side since her arrival. She simply had no leverage–Nanny had no online accounts to exploit, no dirt trail to follow, nothing. In a physical contest, Nanny won, and in a digital battle, Elizabeth had no ammunition. She’d tried everything. Recovering her accounts was impossible–Nanny had control of all her electronics, and insisted on supervising all her ‘screen time’. She slept in the living room, and had put locks on Elizabeth’s door and windows, with the asserted logic that Elizabeth had nowhere she needed to go–it’s not like she needed to use the bathroom late at night, did she? She couldn’t ask her peers for help, she couldn’t reclaim her finances, all she could do was play along with Nanny’s game and watch for an opportunity. And now…this. Elizabeth didn’t shop. She had things delivered to her–under false names, of course–or packages delivered by courier. But now, as the pharmacy’s door chimed and they stepped in, she was expected to– “Go on, sweetie,” Nanny coaxed. “Go pick out the kind that you like.” (Oh god,) Elizabeth fumed. (Just say it so the whole store can hear, why don’t you?) In truth, the whole store probably had heard–only one person was working, a guy in his forties who smirked as they walked in. Elizabeth didn’t know if he detected the obvious bulge beneath her sweatpants, or if he could smell the accident she’d had just a little while earlier, but he saw her pout and that was enough for him to snicker. Elizabeth looked his way, memorizing his face, putting him on her revenge list. Once she was free of her Nanny, she’d also take out her anger on anyone who’d enjoyed her suffering. She could just imagine the cashier, dressed up like a cow… no, a calf, stuck on all fours, forced to drink bottles of milk while he filled up a diaper, begging for her mercy– “Come on, now,” Nanny proclaimed. “We need to get you changed, don’t dilly dally.” Knocked out of her fantasy, Elizabeth straightened. She fully believed that if she waited any longer, Nanny would just shout the truth in detail; she'd already practically announced that Beth was in a diaper. Waddling, trying to keep from squelching her diaper too much lest it blow out or leak, Beth beelined towards the incontinence aisle. Of course they didn’t have her favorite brands. No Behindz, nothing remotely cutesy, nothing with adorable designs for adults–most of the options were various flavors of medical diapers, ranging from ‘tasteless sack of elastic’ to ‘would leak within ten feet of a water molecule’. She’d only have a remotely cute option if she tried squeezing into the largest size of pull-ups available. She weighed that option for a moment, debating which would be better. She had to deal with the constant awareness that, whatever she picked, she’d have to waddle up to the register and buy it. (I wonder if I can act like these are for someone else?) “Do you like the princesses?” Nanny asked, pointing at one of the Pull-up packages that she’d been eyeing. Brow furrowing, Elizabeth snatched a basic-but-effective package of SouthCoast Superiors. “No.” “Alright, well,” Nanny said, reaching for the princess pull-ups. “Let’s get both, just in case you change your mind.” Stacking the new package on top of the SouthCoast diapers in Elizabeth’s arms, she smiled with so much condescension that Elizabeth could see it rolling off her in waves. She hesitated a second longer. Maybe she could shop longer, to put off the inevitable checkout? But, if she did that, Nanny might keep adding things to the purchase. At least for now it was just diapers, if she wandered into the baby aisle she might throw in a pacifier, just to grind it in a little harder how helpless Elizabeth had become. “He’s going to notice,” Elizabeth muttered, half in protest, half in pleading. “Be quick, and maybe he won’t,” Nanny replied, without a shred of mercy. Already blushing, Elizabeth forced herself to march to the corner, telling herself that the crinkle beneath her sweatpants wasn’t too obvious. Seeing an opportunity, she pivoted, moving instead to the self checkout–maybe this wouldn’t be too bad. Since Nanny didn’t stop her, she set the packages down, scanning both over the little barcode reader. She wouldn’t have to interact with the cashier at all, she just had to check out and… Pay. ‘Please insert card, or select method of payment’. The digital display mocked her, showing only three options, cash, credit, or debit. She couldn’t pay by check. She hesitated, staring despondently at the words on the screen. Maybe– “Can I help you ladies?” the cashier asked, stepping up to them. Nanny offered no help–she stood back, letting Elizabeth take all his focus. “I…” she started, blurting out an excuse. “Do you think these will be good for my grandma?” As if her excuse wasn’t pathetic enough, Nanny tittered softly behind Elizabeth, holding up her hand to her mouth. The cashier just smiled in a knowing way and nodded. “I’m sure.” Finally cutting in, Nanny said, “She has to pay with a check.” “Oh, well that’s no problem–come right on over, I’ll get you rung up at my register,” he replied. Closing her eyes for a moment, Elizabeth inhaled, fully aware that a vague aura of stink followed her. He knew the diapers were for her–he didn’t have to know she’d used them. “Come on, sweetie,” Nanny coaxed, taking Elizabeth’s hand and pulling her gently towards the register, holding one pack of diapers. Elizabeth grabbed the pull-ups, waddling behind, fumbling at the hem of her sweats so that they wouldn’t sag. The cashier rang up both packages quickly and professionally, making conversation as he did. “Are you two ladies having a good night?” “Good enough, other than our little emergency,” Nanny said, smiling innocently. “Well, that’s why we’re open late.” Looking at the display on his register, the cashier read out, “That’ll be forty two sixty nine.” “Alright,” Elizabeth said, shuffling from foot to foot, aware she had to move quickly if she wanted to get out before the smell could build. Reaching in her pocket, she took out the– the– The checkbook. “Erm…” she started. “I don’t–” “Write the amount here,” Nanny stepped in, pointing. “And here, but with letters instead of numbers. Then you write the name of the store here, the date up here, and at the bottom you’ll sign your name.” Flushing, Elizabeth began, aware of every pen stroke, fingers shaking with humiliation and rage. She was a wizard of the economy, able to infiltrate accounts with ease, she had more money than several countries stashed away in her crypto wallets and sockpuppet accounts, and here she was, writing a fucking check to pay for– “Oh, and be sure to fill out the subject line,” Nanny added. “You can just put ‘Diapers’, we’ll remember the other details.” (I am going to kill you,) Elizabeth thought, signing ‘Beth Brown’. (Or, no, better–I’m going to tie you up, and put you in a little box, and I’m going to ship that box to myself, and when it arrives, I’m going to smash it with a–) “Hoo boy,” the cashier said, nose wrinkling. “You weren’t kidding about it being an emergency, were you?” Elizabeth’s rage shattered, and she melted, hand barely gripping the pen as she finished writing ‘diapers’ in the subject line. “Sorry about that,” Nanny told him, tearing the check free, leaving a watermark version on the contact paper beneath. “She didn’t realize she was down to her last one, and I don’t know what she likes.” He shrugged, accepting the check. “It’s fine, that’s why we’re here.” Barely able to form a coherent angry thought, Elizabeth just stood there, fingers numb, as she was handed a receipt and two shopping bags. The plastic bags were so thin that she could easily read the labels, and so would everyone they passed on the sidewalk when they walked home. “You two have a nice night now, okay?” the cashier replied. Nanny nudged her. “Say thank you, Beth.” “Thank you,” Beth mumbled weakly. Nanny took one of the bags so that she could grip her hand, leading her to the exit. Before they could leave, she paused, saying in a breathy tone, “Oh, Beth.” “What, Nanny?” Beth started, only realizing what she’d said aloud after she’d already said it. Stepping behind her, Nanny reached down, pulling at the waistband of the sweats, adjusting them…so that they properly covered her diaper. “You tucked your shirt into your diaper, sweetie, everyone could see.” “I…” (But…) (That means…) She’d never stood a chance of hiding it. The cashier had noticed the moment she turned her back to him. Once they were on the street, Nanny changed her tone–she didn’t need to act cutesie in front of the cashier. “You did very well, Beth. I’m proud of you–maybe if you prove you can be trusted shopping like this more often, I’ll let you go out on your own occasionally.” Despite herself, Beth smiled at the praise, unable to keep her face in control. It was only after a couple seconds she managed to fight a scowl back into place, her true emotions regaining control. “Can we just go home and I’ll change now?” Nanny frowned to the side, tapping a finger to her lips as she pretended to think it over. “No.” “What?” Beth demanded, stamping a foot on the sidewalk–she didn’t care, she’d done all this, she deserved to get what she wanted, right? Nanny shook her head disapprovingly. “It’s past your bedtime, so I’m going to make you wait until morning for a change. Next time, maybe you’ll learn to change sooner.” Beth’s eyes widened. Nanny had given her what she wanted. “I hate you, Nanny,” she said again. “I know, Beth,” Nanny replied, smiling sweetly. “Now, let’s get home and get your tush into bed.” ... There's one more part coming to this little story! If you want to get discounts on commissions and early access to all my writing, plus exclusive content every month, I'd really appreciate you subscribing to my page on Ream or SubscribeStar. I'm still reeling after the P@treon purge and any support really helps get me back on my feet. ❤️ https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl

I don't know for certain if your email is shown to members by default, buuuut I'd still strongly recommend creating a business email you use for your Ream and any other professional ABDL work. If you need to communicate with your subscribers, you do so by emailing them, and they respond by emailing you back. Aside from that, it's just convenient to keep everything separated.

You can actually leave comments! Use the + sign on the far right and it'll bring up a menu allowing you to comment directly on that paragraph

I'm using Ream! (Actually I might be responsible for lots of writers moving to Ream, I encouraged lots of friends and colleagues to switch after the ship caught fire.) To answer: Yes you can use a pen name. They're extremely flexible on content. I've confirmed over email with their content team that ABDL is okay, dubcon is okay, etc. Their minimum price is 3$ for a tier, which I find works for a low cost entry/lite support tier. I personally use 8$ range as my all access/exclusive content tier. You *can* post pictures, but not as part of the stories at the moment, only in community update posts, and covers. You cannot post videos to my knowledge. You do not need to have a Paypal account. I use both Ream and SubscribeStar, and comparing both, I prefer Ream, though there are advantages and disadvantages to each. The cons of Ream are: Less back-end metrics than I'd prefer. It's difficult in particular to see how much your monthly revenue is without manually counting subscribers. Something like Patreon's, "X per month" icon doesn't exist yet. (This is apparently a feature that's being developed and will be implemented in the future, but it's not something they currently have.) Its fees are higher. SubscribeStar charges 7% plus credit card fees, Ream charges 10% plus credit card fees. (Credit card fees are 2.9%+30c.) 3$ out of every 100$ you make isn't a huge amount, but it adds up. It's not built for image content - you can share pictures through community updates, but it's not an image hosting platform, it's built for writing. In general, I've got little gripes about the content uploader. It's fine, but some greater granularity would be nice, particularly with regards to post management. (There's a very good chapter queuing system, but once you have the chapters queued, it's hard to see what's being posted when, which isn't great for my ADHD ass.) (This feature is also being worked on/improved.) The pros of Ream are: The user experience. It's hard for me to stress just how much better Ream is to read on than SubscribeStar. In particular, trying to go back and read a long-form story on SubscribeStar is a genuinely awful experience. On Ream, it's buttery smooth. The UI on Ream is built from the ground up for people to read stories, and it's excellent at that. This is a massive Pro. New features are being developed and added regularly. This is only kinda-sorta a 'Pro', since it assumes that the new features will arrive and be good, but so far that seems likely to me. They're extremely permissive of NSFW content, and their staff is very communicative. You know what I can do with Ream that I couldn't do with Patreon? Talk to a human on a timely basis! In short, I'm personally sold on Ream. I maintain my SubscribeStar because some of my readers prefer using that platform, and it's not much more effort for me to just have two websites to update, but if I had to use only one, I'd use Ream. I will quote Dan Olson of Folding Ideas here though, and add a gentle reminder that platforms - even platforms that you like a lot - aren't your friends. I am on board with Ream and like using it quite a bit, but I'm also not going to ignore the downsides or put all my eggs in their basket. My advice would be that anyone looking to start a page for paid content - Be it Ream, SubscribeStar, or something else - would be to make sure that you always have a backup plan. Download your audience contact info regularly so you can contact them if the site goes down or you get unexpectedly banned, (as with Patreon,) and diversify so you can't get screwed by a single point of failure.

Yeah, it's a bit awkward - fine for reading the most recent post, but there's not a great catalog system. That's why I like offering the Ream option, it keeps the reading experience clean. ^^ Thank you!

Chapter Two The Plan came in three stages. Stage One had been the easiest–just filling out a new university application with some creative verbiage. It had been relatively straightforward to send in enrollment information without ever referring to himself with a single pronoun. The forms did have an option to self-report being a non-binary witch, but Daniel just left that section blank: The assumption was ‘Girl’ by default. Under his name, he’d written it as ‘Dani Aster’, a nickname so close to his real salutation that it wasn’t really a lie, and in the personal information section, he’d described himself as a legacy applicant following in his mother’s footsteps. Just to be safe, he wrote down a phone number for her, but put down his own number, and cleared his voicemail greeting. If anyone called, he’d be able to ‘Get her on the line’ and then speak in a high register. A week later, he got his response–he’d been selected for the final group of applicants for the upcoming semester. His application had been a little late, but given that he was a legacy applicant with good grades, they were willing to give him a shot. Now came the harder part: Stage Two. He’d need to look like a girl, because they wanted him to come in and take an in-person test. Some parts were easier than others. His hair had grown pretty shaggy over the summer, and even a Mundane stylist could get him extensions. He felt a bit sheepish when he pointed to a girl on a magazine cover and explained, “I want my hair to look like that,” but the stylist had only smiled pleasantly and started on it without question, chatting him up about movies and the weather while she worked. He half suspected they’d gossip about it as soon as he left, but who cared? They were Mundanes, after all, he didn’t need their approval. Shopping came next. He picked out a knee-length skirt, and got an employee’s help selecting a blouse to match. With a pair of kitten pumps and a padded bra, he was all good to go on the physical front–there was no chance in hell he'd get any alternative underwear to replace his boxers. If he got checked for panties he'd already be in too much trouble to recover. He had a moment in the changing room. With his hair already long and lush, and the skirt and blouse donned, he had to do a double take in the mirror. Even without makeup, he looked like most of a new person–if he didn’t know better, he’d swear he was looking at his secret long-lost sister. Without giving that any further reflection, he bagged up the clothing, checked out, and went to go potion shopping. Alchemy was something he was an old hand at–it didn’t require precise, quick action, just a slow, steady supply of magic and a good head for magical reagents. Though potions were brewed by all sorts, it did get a bit of a reputation as witch’s magic–a whole coven could work on a potion together and keep it brewing for days or weeks. A warlock or even just a low-powered hedge mage on his own could only do simpler potions, since they needed to be brewed in a single sitting. Fortunately, all Daniel needed was something to make his voice go up a half-octave and handle a little modulation for him. A few crushed pearls and the tears of a siren were the only expensive ingredients, the rest he picked up at the local grocery, and in an evening of stirring over a hot plate, he had his potion. He had dressed the part, and he sounded the part. Two steps down. All that remained was dealing with his face. Looking himself in the mirror, he studied the magazine tutorials he’d acquired. Lipstick, blush, eyeliner. He’d gone to a pharmacy and bought everything the tutorial suggested, and with it all laid out on his dresser, he followed the steps. Foundation, and then concealer. (No, wait.) A makeup wipe took that all off, so he could go concealer, then foundation. (Why the heck isn’t ‘foundation’ what comes first? It’s in the name.) To ensure he really sold it, contouring came next, which… He looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t look like a girl version of himself, he looked like he was in the midst of anaphylactic shock. Another wipe took it off, again, and he sighed, grateful he hadn't even gotten to eyeliner–that looked like a nightmare. Some skills he couldn’t learn from a book–he needed a teacher. So, sucking up his dignity, he left his brownstone apartment and took a walk to a boutique makeup store a few blocks away. If he’d felt uncomfortable with the hair and sheepish about the clothes, the store had him downright frozen, a deer in the headlights. He couldn’t really think of a proper excuse, it’s not like he could claim he was buying makeup for his twin sister who looked exactly like him–or, well, he could, but it wouldn’t be believed. It took him ten minutes of pacing the aisles before he built up the courage to approach the counter. Feeling like he was about to be laughed out of the store, he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes drawn down to the employee’s name tag. (Kimberly. Okay. She’s just a person. This is her job.) “Hi,” she said, beaming at him. “Can I help you with something?” He nodded. “I need…eh…” (Just ask for it.) “I need a consult.” She nodded. “Alright–let’s get you started, then. Are you looking for a new daily routine, or something more elaborate?” “Eh…” (A normal girl on a normal day would just use a daily routine, right? Or–since this is a test, it’s a big deal. Should I go for the fancy stuff?) “Something more elaborate.” And, adding a touch of honesty, he continued, “I’m enrolling in a new…position and I want to look my best for the application.” Kimberly just nodded. “Alright–well, we can start with the basics and work our way up from there. First things first–getting a color match that’s right for you.” Daniel got no impression that she cared that he was clearly a guy, albeit a guy with long, flowing locks of recently-permed hair, she just set him down and took out a color matching set, comparing different shades with his skin tone. “Can you explain what all this does?” he asked, as she pulled out a product to sample, applying it with a soft brush to his face. “Of course! This concealer is going to match your skin tone and hide your beard shadow, so we’ve got a surface to work on. We want to use a complementing color here, so it’s tinted orange to cover up the blue.” He blinked. “My hair is brown, not blue.” That did get a smile out of her, but not one of condescension–more just, ‘I’ve answered this objection before’. “Not when it’s under your skin.” “Right. You’ve done this before? With–guys, I mean?” She nodded. “Makeup is for everyone, sweetie. Now, let’s get you set up with a good foundation and show you how to blend it…” She walked him through the whole process, and at risk of missing something that would tip off the school, he said, ‘Yes’ to everything. Concealer, foundation, eyeliner, eye shadow, (That’s different from eye liner?), primer, setting powder, lipstick and lip liner, (again, why are there two products for lips?), bronzer, a contouring palette, false eyelashes, and enough brushes that he was having trouble keeping them apart. As an afterthought, he tossed in a bottle of nail polish. The total bill came out to a hefty triple digit sum, but it'd be worth it once he achieved High Warlock. But when she was done… He had to rush home, paying quickly, hurrying to get out of there. Back in his apartment, all he wanted to do was stare in a mirror. He looked…good. Great. He looked adorable. Full lips, and a face that didn’t have any pockmarks or old acne scars. All the little blemishes that he didn’t like about his appearance were gone. In a moment of uncertainty, he took out the dress he’d bought and put it on, comparing how he looked with that on in the mirror versus his shirt. That…didn’t do anything for him, which wasn’t exactly a surprise, but it affirmed what he’d already thought. He didn’t want to be a girl–even if that would have made the ‘applying to a witch’s school’ part of his life a little more understandable. He was certainly still Daniel Aster, would-be Warlock, confident in his manliness. But all the same…he liked how he looked in the makeup. He didn’t need the falsies or the bright red lipstick, but the rest of the routine? He could get used to that. Plus, he’d learned a lot, and had some ideas. A little contouring could make his jawline stronger instead of softer, and generally have him looking a bit more...Daniel at his best. It’s like Kimberly had said–makeup was for everyone. And, more important to his scheme, he’d completed his look. Hair in golden locks, with a face that looked pert and feminine and a skirt that twirled so easily he seemed to be flouncing with every shift of his weight, Daniel knew at a glance that he’d never be questioned on his girlhood. With a ritual circle and some concentration, he apparated into Alphabeta’s grand landing hall. A towering chamber built out of white stone, there was enough space overhead to comfortably fit his entire brownstone apartment building, and the light cast across the entire chamber seemed to be sourceless, coming from everywhere and nowhere, so that everything was well lit and nothing would ever be blindingly difficult to look at. The air had a warm undercurrent–a surprise, given that they were somewhere in the North Pole. The whole school was built so far away from Mundanes that it didn’t even need to hide. Getting in and out required magic–simply making it into the school was proof that you had some talent. And sure, a warlock would have been able to apparate to the landing hall in a snap of his fingers. The hall was built to be a beacon for sending magic, after all, but Daniel was happy to have made it, period. Speed could come later. Speed could come later, that’s why he was here. Turning to look around, he saw girls popping into the space around him–a few in groups, most solo. Hoping one of them might know which way to go, he watched for a moment, but they seemed as directionless as him. Before he could approach anyone to ask, though, he heard a voice call out. “If you’re here for testing, raise your hand!” A tall blonde girl with angular features and equally angular glasses stood near one of the large corridors leading out of the landing hall, and her voice carried so well that Daniel suspected she’d amplified it with a bit of magic. She didn’t look old enough to be a teacher, so Daniel suspected maybe a TA or just a student who’d volunteered to help. Most of the girls in the room raised their hands, and Daniel followed suit. “Alright–Sparks, follow me.” Making a ‘this way’ gesture, she turned to walk down the corridor behind her, walking sideways so she could keep an eye on the group. “And don’t dally–you might want to familiarize yourself with the place, but this isn’t home yet. Most of you are going to leave and never come back, so don’t waste everyone’s time on tourism.” Daniel snorted, following along in the middle of the group. Mistake. Her eyes shot to him. “What’s your name, Spark?” “Spark?” he asked. His voice came out in a high alto, and he almost gave himself away by looking shocked–he wasn’t used to how he sounded with the pitch potion in his system. “Newbie. Rookie. You’ve got a bit of power, but you don’t know how to use it,” she said, walking backwards so she could face the group and lead them at the same time. “What’s your name?” “I know how to use my power." He looked her petulantly in the eye, annoyed at her attitude when she didn't even know him. She stood almost a foot taller than him, so to meet her eye line, he had to look notably up. “And I appreciate the directions, but I don’t need your opinion about my skill–I know how good I am. This test is going to be easy.” “Yeah? Check this again,” she said, pointing at her chest. He looked back down, only now noticing the name tag with ‘Prefect’ printed beneath her name, ‘Rachel Haligtree’ over a pair of breasts that warranted staring. “If you do make it in, Spark, I’m going to be watching over you to make sure you know your ABC’s. That means my opinion about your skill is all you need. Name.” He almost puffed himself up for an argument, but a second’s hesitation told Daniel to stand down. Once he aced the exams, he could start throwing his clout around. Until then, he’d keep his head down. “Dani-el Aster,” he said, pronouncing his name like ‘Danielle’. Rachel tapped her horn-rimmed glasses, considering. “Right, the momma’s girl. You got in because of a family connection. Don’t think that’ll help you on testing.” Adjusting the bra, annoyed by the straps over his shoulders, Daniel cast his gaze downward and continued marching towards his exam room, following Rachel. (Just get through the exams, then you can take this stupid outfit off and shove your results in this girl’s face.) He did smile, though–his disguise had survived a trial by fire. All eyes had been on him, and he’d made it through without anyone noticing that it was a disguise. Daniel grinned, the expression accented by his cherry-red lipstick. The tests would be the easy part. He was practically in. ... Did you know that my supporters get discounts on commissions, in addition to all their other perks? It's true! Also I take commissions! So if you didn't know that either, now you know two things! https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

Chapter 1 Rejection hurt the most when it came in multitudes. Daniel Aster prided himself in his resiliency and independence. He didn’t care what any authority told him, he could bounce back from any criticism. If a critique held merit, he’d listen, and if it just broke him down without purpose, he’d ignore it. He knew he had power, and he knew that with the right training, he could control that power. He was a master warlock in the making. The first rejection slip that came on his doorstep, delivered by a curiously intelligent Peregrine Hawk, he ignored. There were over a dozen great Warlock schools across all eight continents. (Maybe Mundanes thought there were seven continents, but they hadn’t figured out indoor plumbing until the 19th century, so what did they know?) and plenty of smaller private institutions. It didn’t matter if one said no. The second slip, he laughed it off. ‘Fundamentally incapable of controlling power’ may have been a note in both papers, but what did that matter? He knew his control was a weak point, it just took one administrator to see that it could be improved, that it wasn’t hopeless. Besides, they saw his strengths, didn’t they? Good results on written exams, high levels of magical attunement–if it wasn’t for piss poor control, he’d have been a cinch. Eight rejection letters made his confidence waver. He now had a stack of forty. So many letters that they made his waste paper bin overflow, so many that animal control had been called to complain about the bird poop spattering cars in front of his home–bird messengers were traditional, but perhaps a bit inconvenient. When he got to be High Warlock, he’d see about getting official communication channels equipped with telephones and pagers. If he got to be High Warlock. You didn’t get elected to top positions without a prestigious degree to your name. For all his confidence, he admitted needed education, practice, and a good teacher. Nobody became a master on their own; even Merlin had learned from the fae. Only…that wasn’t quite true. He didn’t just need a teacher, he needed remedial classes, maybe a tutor–the kind of education he could only get with a lot of money or a top-tier school. He was like a toddler who’d never learned to walk while his bones were growing, and now required physical therapy to catch up; he knew he had the capacity but he couldn’t stand up to prove it. And with forty academies–public, private, long lasting institutions and barely-accredited night schools–all insisting he was unfit to be a warlock at all, Daniel had to admit that maybe they were right. Maybe. Lying on his bed, Daniel weighed his options. Give up, find a private tutor, bribe his way in–or keep digging for another school that he hadn’t already applied to. Maybe he could make an appeal to his upbringing–his dad had been Mundane, not a lick of magic in him. Only his mom had power, but naturally, she was a witch. Women’s magic worked off the same fundamentals as men’s, but the nuances were vastly different; Warlocks worked alone, with lightning responses and raw strength no witch could manage, witches pooled their magic into covens that operated more slowly but with more delicacy, more staying power. It was like the old saying–If you want to go fast, go alone, if you want to go far, go together. Warlocks were fast. Or…they were in theory. Daniel had learned the basics of magic early, but he wasn’t fast, and nothing his mom had taught him had built speed. The catch-22 made him reel–he needed a teacher to get the speed and precision of a true Warlock, but his current abilities were so low that no school would take him. While he pondered this, another hawk smacked into his window, flopping onto the wrought-iron fire escape outside his apartment. He winced, walking over to open it, while the bird gave him an annoyed look. “I keep my space tidy,” he said, rolling his eyes as he untied the letter from around its neck, allowing himself to feel a spark of hope. “Not my fault you can’t tell clean glass from open air.” The hawk gave a croaking little caw, giving him a side-eye that seemed to say, ‘I’m better than you.’ Even the birds were looking down on him today. Once the note was in his hands, the bird squawked, flapped its wings, and took off to the skies once more. “Okay,” Daniel said, turning over the letter in his hands. “Let’s see what we’ve got…Berrier University.” A distance-learning outfit, Berrier had been just about his last choice for application, but it was at least a choice. He didn’t need to attend for the full course–he could enroll for a semester, get enough proof that he could handle his shit, and take those grades to a real school. He just needed his foot in the door. Holding his breath, he slid the envelope open and withdrew the note inside, mumbling the words as he read it aloud. “Dear Mr. Aster, We regret to inform you–” Something was wrong with the note; after reading those first eight words, all the letters turned blurry and illegible. He knew what the note said by heart, anyways. ‘Your control isn’t good enough, you aren’t fast enough, you don’t have the potential to be a warlock–you’ve got good grades on paper, go find work as an enchanter or something, maybe get a job teaching.’ And the message between the lines: ‘You’ll never be a real magician, so take the crumbs you can get. You just don’t have what it takes.’ “Dammit,” Daniel snapped, crumpling the note in his hand and tossing it into his trash bin. It bounced off the rim and rolled away. Annoyed, he snapped his wand–a stubby little thing with an ergonomic grip–off his desk and sent a shower of sparks at the note. It flopped into the air, overcorrected, and soared past the bin again. He tried the spell again, and it this time flew straight up, no closer to being thrown away than if he’d left it to sit. On the third time, he spat out a word and flicked his wand and–instead of levitating the paper–set it on fire. Eyes widening a fraction, Daniel blurted, “Shit,” and ran over, stomping out the flame before it could spread. He stared down at the ashy pile. (Goddammit.) (God fucking dammit.) (Are they right about me?) Grimacing, he went to get a dustpan and clean up the mess. A cleaning spell would have been faster, but the last thing Daniel wanted to do was confirm the worst belief he held about himself. He did have the potential, though. Daniel knew his strengths, and he knew his flaws–he was impulsive, he acted too quickly, he could be too stubborn for his own good. But he had a well of power inside him, one he could feel deep down in his core, the kind of power that warlocks of legend could only dream of. Maybe he was a little cocky, too, but who ever heard of a passive warlock? “Screw them,” he said aloud. “I’m going to get into one of these schools, one way or another.” He wondered about cheating, but that wouldn’t help either. Even if he found a way to pretend to be able to do things he couldn’t, he’d be found out too quickly; he needed something that would get him trained, not just that would get him in the door. His control was that bad–and, being honest, he couldn’t blame it fully on being taught the basics by a witch. Many witches, his mother included, had better control than him even though that was miles away from their field of expertise. And… And… And that gave him an idea. Sitting down, he picked up the phone from his desk, punching in his mom’s number on the hard plastic buttons. It rang twice, and then– “Daniel!” she said, excitedly. “How are you, sweetie? Everything still going okay in Seattle? Have you found a job yet? A girlfriend?” “I told you, I’m just here until I get accepted into college,” he said, scratching his chin. “Why look for a job when I’m leaving in a few weeks?” He heard her click her tongue, a noise she made when she was thinking. “Right, right–it’s just, you never call, how am I supposed to know what’s going on in your life?” “I’m calling right now!” He rolled his eyes. “Look, I was just curious–do you have your old records from when you were studying at Alphebeta?” “I’m sure I’ve got them somewhere,” she said. “Why?” He didn’t detect a hint of suspicion in her tone. Perfect. “For filling out one of these applications–I think it might help. Could you send that over?” There was a way to get the education he needed. If witches had better focus than him, he’d just go learn from witches. His poor control wouldn’t stop him from getting enrolled, and he could fake the rest. Daniel just had one obstacle to overcome: Alphabeta–and, for that matter, any other witches’ school in the world–was an all girls school. Of course it was; ‘all witches’ and ‘all girls’ were practically synonyms. Still, he had a way around that, too. He’d just need his mom’s records, a little sleight of hand, and a dress.

Chapter 2 Hadrian’s fiery rage ran against the mental asbestos that was information scarcity. The desire to go after the Wizard, spells and blades brandished, couldn’t be realized without knowing the Wizard’s location, and the Wizard had left behind few clues. The locations of the four temples that’d been destroyed–or, rather, three temples and a holy site–didn’t seem to show any pattern, though given his power, it seemed likely he could teleport at will. The primary captives, two high priests, one ‘grand’ priest, and a merchant with a series of divine connections, hadn’t been able to send for help or signal their locations. Nor had the others who were taken. Nothing else was missing, he hadn’t taken any relics or valuables. He’d stolen only people. There was no satisfying-but-impossible revenge to be had. The only way to help the situation was to help. And so, they did what they could. Counterspells were largely out of their repertoire, but there were people who needed aid, and Sandra’s party were able to give that aid. A team of clerics working on magic to unlock the pacifier-feeder-brain-corrupting gags needed reagents and supplies, Sandra or Quinn could run and go get them. Hadrian knew more about the Wizard’s magic than most, and could provide detailed lore and insight into the ways of paraphilic magic. Tarja could only walk and exert fine motor control for ten minutes at a time, and doing so required her to wet her diaper, limiting how often she could make it happen, but she could still read books of magic and look up citations, still offer insights into healing and medicine, still make food and fetch water. All hands could help, and so they did. It wasn’t the sort of guild heroics that stories were written about, but it was the kind that made a difference. Hadrian worked until long after the sun had gone down, and would have kept going if Sandra hadn’t insisted he needed a good, long rest or he’d be useless to them tomorrow. Finally, the party ended up at the Blackbird, a guild inn where the drinks were cheap and the rooms were soundproofed. They ate on a balcony overlooking the bar floor, watching other late-night guild members drink and eat and chat. Faintly cheerful music drifted from a player piano, and a waitress almost as busty as Quinn brought up mugs of ale whenever their ran low. “Let’s talk,” Sandra said, without looking at her dining companion. “You waited until Quinn and Tarja went off for ‘quality time’, hmm?” Hadrian asked, glancing over at her. The room soundproofing wasn’t just to keep the noise of guildmates out of the bedrooms–it was to keep the noise of hot-and-bothered lovebird quiet. “I figured you wouldn’t mind the discretion,” Sandra confirmed, watching everything and nothing. “So.” “Let’s talk,” Hadrian agreed. “It’ll be a quick talk. We’re going after the Wizard.” “You’re not going to do Serendipity any good bound, gagged, empty-headed and full-diapered,” Sandra replied. “The Wizard hit four temples, full of clerics and even paladins, waltzed through them all, and took their strongest champions. We’re strong. We’re getting stronger. But we can’t fight that.” “That’s crap,” Hadrian snapped, unwilling to accept bad news. “We’ve gone against him before, and we’re twice the party we were then. We’re not going to sit on our asses and let him keep doing this!” Slamming down his tankard on the table, he drew a couple eyes from the lower floor from cautious, jaded warriors ensuring they didn’t have to be ready for a bar fight. Sandra sipped her own ale and set her tankard down silently. “I didn’t say we’re going to sit on our asses, either.” “I’m not opposed to the whole stick-around-and-play-butler aid,” Hadrian said, “But we’re just playing catch up. The only way to stop the Wizard is to put him down or at least bring him in, we can’t be cowards.” She didn’t mind his heat, his anger. She understood where it came from and could accept that Hadrian was only throwing it at her because he couldn’t throw it at its true target. “Let me talk, Hadrian,” she said. His lips flattened into a line. “Fine. Talk.” Leaning forward, she watched the bartender, then sent her eyes to the waitress, then an old, gruff dwarf leaning against the piano. “I was thinking while we worked today, why hit where he did? Why four temples, four priests?” Hadrian didn’t answer right away, before asking in sarcastic tones, “What, can I answer? You said you wanted to talk, skip the hypotheticals.” “Alright,” Sandra said coolly. “The wizard operates in curses. He’s got powerful spells, sure. You’ve figured out all sorts of ways he twists magic to be kinky and torturous and vastly stronger than it should be, but his bread and butter is curses, objects, constructed things. It’s cursed items that do the most harm–be it mass produced locking pacifiers that can disable a person completely, or bespoke humiliations he invents on a whim. He does curses.” Hadrian kept his mouth shut, but nodded. “And what dispels curses better than divine magic?” Sandra let the question hang for a moment, lending it weight. “I don’t think he hit four temples. I think he hit four Clerics. Four of the strongest in the realm. I think he took out the people most suited to challenge him, the people who–if they got together and pooled their might–could bring him to task.” Sitting back, she took a long sip of her ale. Hadrian eyed her, a little annoyed at the request for silence, but didn’t interrupt. “We can’t face the wizard directly,” Sandra said, “But we can deal with his traps. We’ve done it before. If he’s not there, actively hampering us, we’ve got the savvy to stay safe, and we know his magic. We can’t win the battle, but we can rescue the people he’s taken, and once they’re free…then they can take their power, find the wizard, and put. Him. Down.” Hadrian nodded, in silent thought. After Sandra didn’t say much else, he said, “I’m going to talk now.” Sandra nodded. “It’s a good speech.” “Thanks.” “And a good plan, too, if we can find where the captives are,” Hadrian said. “Find them, spring a rescue. They might be too cursed to move, though, or to fight once they’re free.” Sandra nodded. “We’ll have to take it one step at a time. Finding their location will take some doing, releasing their curses will be a long term effort, but we’ve got some powerful allies in our corner. The guild isn’t going to stand for an attack like this, and if they pool all their resources into defense, we can fight off the wizard while we get the priests cured. Plus, if we locate the captives, and free them, that’ll include Janet.” Hadrian blinked for a moment. “Serendipity.” “Her given name’s Janet.” Sandra smirked. “I never understood, why do you call her by her performing name? You two seem closer than that.” “It’s…complicated,” Hadrian conceded, face turning pink. “It’s almost that we’re too close, but it just doesn’t feel quite right calling her… er… mist–” The front door of the tavern opened, and Sandra held up a hand. “Hold that thought.” Hadrian had to double take to see what was unusual. The door had opened, but nobody had walked inside. A floorboard creaked, barely audible above the sound of chatter, but a few others noticed. This was a guild bar, after all. Everyone their had been taught in the school of ambush paranoia, and those lessons carried daggers along with failing grades. After a moment, though, a figure, no taller than a foot off the ground, padded inside, tongue lolling out adorably. It was a puppy, and a particularly cute one at that. The coloration and pointed ears made Sandra thing, ‘Fox pup,’ though it didn’t quite match–foxes didn’t have cute, colorful eyes, and they didn’t pant like dogs. Rather, this creature looked as though someone had mashed together the cutest elements of both–fox, puppy, and maybe just a touch of cat in there too. Even from forty feet up, Sandra wanted to pick the little creature up and snuggle it. It seemed the rest of the bar agreed. After the pup gave a happy little, “Arf,” the entire room responded with a chorus of D’awwws. “Danger,” Hadrian said. “Agreed,” Sandra replied, standing up. Scooting back a couple steps, she kept her gaze over the balcony while sending a few hard knocks on Quinn and Tarja’s door. “Sorry to interrupt!” She could just barely hear their responses, frustrated grumbling by the tone, but they’d come through. She trusted them. Walking forward, Sandra inspected the creature for magic, and saw the faint spell aura wafting off it. “Mental magic.” “We’re out of its aura, right?” Hadrian asked, preparing spell reagents from his belt pack. “I think so,” Sandra said, conjuring black knives in each hand. “Take it out fast, before it can do anything else?” “Buffs first,” Hadrian suggested. “It’s not actively attacking right now. Let’s wait a second, be sure we’re ready to fight before the music starts.” Sandra smirked. Hadrian glanced at her. “What?” Gesturing with her chin towards the player piano, Sandra said, “The music’s already going. Hit me.” Hadrian twisted a bit of licorice root between his fingers and Sandra felt the speed surge in her, followed by a secondary surge of precision as he sent a second spell her way. She felt ready to fight, to fly, to take on the world, filled with energy and a buzz that made her want to move. A second later, the windows of the tavern all exploded inward in unison, and the door flew inward as though kicked by an invisible boot. The people in the bar reacted, but their foes couldn’t be seen, and they seemed unable to attack, only to throw up defenses and try to prepare to face an invisible enemy that surrounded them on every side. Sandra couldn’t spot any magic at play, at least not from the windows, though magical shields and wards started going up almost at once, and the fox creature in the center still yipped and cheered happily, sending out some mental effect or another. Hesitating, she tried to resist the urge to leap into battle. Tarja and Quinn stumbled out of the door, Quinn hastily donning his battle dress while Tarja struggled to stay upright in the doorway, clad in only the cursed onesie she couldn’t remove and a puffy diaper crinkling beneath the crotch snaps. Quinn’s battle armor was something to behold–a large pink dress made almost entirely of silk and lace, it seemed to always poof out and flounce around him with very movement, and yet it turned away attacks better than any armor they could afford. He wasn’t cursed to wear it, per say, but it was hard to turn down the benefits of protection when a misplaced attack could cost his life, while a floofy pink princess dress only cost a bit of dignity. Tarja, on the other hand, got neither. Though she held onto her bow with a death grip, it was clear from how she trembled that her curse was in full swing. “Tarja,” Sandra said, eyeing the chaos below nervously. “You’re going to need to–” “I know,” Tarja shot back, flushing. “It’s–kinda hawd wi’ now.” “Make it work, we’re on a time crunch here,” Sandra insisted, fidgeting, feeling a buzz like adrenaline and caffeine and something harder all driving her to move. Maybe Hadrian had sent out the buffs too quickly, but she wanted nothing more than to dive into battle, to get attacking, to run a marathon– Below, invisible forces were throwing around the guild adventurers, twisting wrists and kicking out legs. Sandra danced from toe to toe, battling her good sense–she wanted to get in, to start fighting, but she was waiting on her party and on a good plan. “There’s nothing there,” Hadrian said, “But I’m not seeing magic.” “Me either,” Sandra said. “So…not a spell, not an illusion.” “Crap, crap, I know this,” Hadrian said, tapping the side of his head in thought. “Tarja!” Sandra repeated, glancing back at their trembling ranger, whose face was screwed up in concentration. “Any time now would be good.” “I can’t–” Tarja said. “You can’t make yourself pee at all?” Sandra looked back at her, trying not to be annoyed. The curse was a cruel one–Tarja could only have control of her body if she wet her diaper, but it didn’t take much wetting to make it happen. Surely she could pee, just a little, and– “It’s hard when–” Blush deepening, Tarja said, “It’s hard ta’ pee when I’m…er…” (Ooooh.) Sandra blushed sympathetically. She and Quinn had been interrupted right in the middle of fooling around, and Tarja’s curses hadn’t been limited to clothes. In possibly the wizard’s cruelest trap, he’d set something up that rearranged Tarja’s nether regions, a transformation that she hadn’t been able to undo since. And that was the trouble–she was trying to pee with an erection. Now that it’d been pointed out, Sandra couldn’t help but notice the slight tent bulging beneath her onesie. “Just–” Sandra tried to think of an idea, “Try to think not-sexy thoughts!” “Yannow how hard it i’ to twy not to fink about somethin’?” Tarja snapped back, her blush rising a note. “What’re you–” Hadrian started, before piecing it together himself. “Oooh–don’t try to think ‘not sexy’, try to think ‘gross’.” “I don’–” Tarja said, “Ugh, I dunno, I–” A crash, and a yell, and Sandra’s heart almost stopped–from nowhere, a gag appeared, a pacifier on a leather strap, and locked itself around the mouth of the waitress. Instantly, her eyes rolled back in her head, she stopped struggling, and a dark yellow stain grew on her dress. Then she fell to the ground, no longer a concern. They had no time. “Tarja,” Sandra commanded, tail swishing anxiously, “Gross yourself out, now, we need to fight!” “I, I–” Tarja stammered, her face totally awash with red, before nodding. “Okay.” Squatting down, Tarja held onto Quinn’s hand for support so she didn’t fall over completely, screwed up her face, and– “Mmm, okay,” Sandra mumbled to herself, looking away to give her friend a modicum of privacy. Her acutely pointed ears couldn’t help but hear Tarja’s slight grunts of effort, but there was nothing to be done there. And, a second later, Sandra heard an accompanying hiss, and then Tarja stood, steady and balanced, bow drawn. “I’m ready,” she said, nocking an arrow and stepping up next to Sandra. Neither of them said a word about what’d helped her get ready, they just took shallow breaths and pretended nothing was amiss. Below, the scene was chaos. More gags had appeared, more adventurers were on the ground. Fighters were dropping like flies. “Let’s go,” Quinn added, holding his massive warhammer at the ready. “Then–” Sandra started. “Wait,” Hadrian said, shaking his head and reaching for his component pouch. “I’ve got it. These are elementals–Invisible Stalkers, or something close to them.” “You have something for that?” Sandra asked, itching to go, ready to scream if there were any more holdups. He grinned and nodded, producing a little pinch of baby powder. “I do. Let’s see how this works when it’s heightened.” Raising his hand, he blew, and the baby powder cascaded out of his fingers, turning from a pinch to a torrent, white, fine dust cascading towards the room, outlining everything–including eight invisible bipeds, shuffling, shambling figures. Sandra couldn’t wait anymore. Grabbing the balcony railing, she leapt over it, daggers out, and plunged into battle, and a second later, her party followed after. ... December's been a pretty rough month as far as being an ABDL creator goes, but I'd be super grateful if anyone would consider supporting my writing by following me on Ream or SubscribeStar! Both platforms get all of my content, so it's a matter of user preference - I think the reading experience on Ream is fantastic, but I'll let you be the judge of which you prefer! https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

This is the start of a sequel to one of my longest commissions, "Dungeons & Diapers". It's written to work effectively as a standalone novel, but follows directly on the plot of the original work, which you can read here. Also it's set in the Pathfinder 1e universe, not any DnD plane. Nyeh. You can't tell me what to do. ... The smell of the Wizard’s destruction carried on the wind far past the edge of Verity, the eastern capital, long before the damage could be seen. Sandra knew they were walking into trouble and danger of their greatest enemy’s doing. Her whole party knew it. The Wizard had caused them untold humiliations as an afterthought, and prolonged exposure to his magic had taught them the telltale signs. With one sniff of the air, they knew it was him. The distinctive, sharp smell of baby powder left little room for misidentification. Turning back in the saddle to look at her party, Sandra swished her tail, trying not to show any uncertainty. “If anyone wants to turn back, I understand. There’s no reason to throw ourselves into danger without cause.” Quinn didn’t need to answer. The brawny half orc feared little, and even when he had trepidation, he kept it hidden for the others. His protective instinct didn’t break here, and he shook his head. Tarja trembled on the horse next to Quinn, but not out of fear–rather, the curse that had degraded her fine motor control left her constantly shaking unless she could lie down, get on all fours, or briefly dispel the effects. Mounted on a saddle, she had to cling to the horn and let Quinn lead. She hardly looked like the most lethal Ranger Sandra had ever met, but when she was free of the curse, she could track, hunt, and aim a bow with legendary precision. Even cursed as she was, she’d never back down from danger. Taking the effort to enunciate clearly, she said, “I’m no’ running.” Her words carried a slight lisp, like a toddler still struggling to make the letters come out right–another side effect of her curse. Finally, Hadrian. The party’s own wizard, and their most thorough source of information on the Wizard’s magic. Clad in a latex bodysuit that bulged around his hips, and with a pacifier lodged between his lips that he couldn’t remove, he had the most visible curses of them all. His gaze was on the horizon, hard and furious. He didn’t need to speak to communicate, not when his feelings were this clear. They were going to Verity, no matter what had happened there, no matter the danger. Sandra shifted in her seat again, noting a slight squelch beneath her pants. Her diaper was full–and now that she’d noticed, she picked up a slight foul stench mingling with the baby powder odor. The diaper would self clean before they got to the city, so it didn’t concern her much. Still, it was a reminder of the Wizard’s lightest, least invasive curses–he’d stolen her potty training more than a year prior, and it had stayed stolen. If he led an assault against a city, she shuddered to think what he could have done to the populace. It wasn’t long before they crested a rise and, finally, came into view of the city. Verity’s walls stood proud and unbreached, and most of the homes, businesses, and buildings seemed to be intact. From one point, though, billowing clouds of white wafted up. Plumes of baby powder, shooting from a space where the great Temple of Calistria had once stood. Now, the structure seemed to be made of geometric pastels, twisted as a thousand child-safe squares of foam flooring had been frozen in the middle of an explosion. Pulling up his mount next to Sandra, Hadrian gestured at his pacifier urgently. Reaching to the side, she pulled it free. “Serendipity,” he said, “She’s–” “In the temple,” Sandra finished. “I know.” He didn’t wait for further words or confirmation, but spurred his horse onwards, galloping as fast as the mount would take him. Sandra couldn’t blame him, even if she doubted there was much they could do. Hadrian had fallen head-over-high-heels with a priestess performer of the temple. He wouldn’t slow for anything while he knew she could be in danger. The others followed soon after, matching Hadrian’s speed so they didn’t lose him on the road to Verity’s gates. As they grew closer, Sandra got a better look at the damage–she could make out distinct shapes, but the scale was all off. One side of a baby crib, bars painted pastel blue, seemed to be twenty feet long or more and hovered above the debris. An enormous mobile, so large that the plush toys dangling from it were to-scale with the animals those plushies resembled, spun slowly. Contrasting with the openly juvenile elements, she also saw a large plug, tapered at the base, large enough that it could only be practically used by an elder dragon with a very particular set of kinks. If Sandra had any doubts, that confirmed it. Only the Wizard of Paraphilia would mix infantile and erotic objects with such a tasteless disregard for dignity. Hadrian was babbling at the gate–literally, his pacifier had returned in the fifteen minutes it’d taken to ride there–and Sandra had to pull up next to him and address the guards. “We’re working for the guild,” she said, leaning over to free her friend’s lips again. After removing the pacifier, she continued, “We have business with the Calistrians.” “The temple’s…” one of the guards said, scratching his head as he looked them up and down, first at Hadrian’s pacifier and latex bodysuit, then at Quinn’s ample breasts, to Sandra, an elf with a dragon like tail that twitched to emphasize her impatience. At least they’d managed to clear up a couple of the more awkward things–Sandra could at least pull her clothes down to cover her diaper properly, hiding the perpetual peek she’d been stuck with for a while, and Quinn had managed to find a caster who could permanently revert his size back to normal. It could have been worse. Shaking off his confusion, the guard explained, “Eh…the temple’s got wrecked like you all. Not sure you’ll be able to do any business there.” “We can help,” Sandra insisted, sliding the guild seal from her pocket to show him. “Let us pass, quickly.” Shrugging, the guard nodded and stood back, allowing the four of them to ride through the gates. To Hadrian’s chagrin, they couldn’t just gallop up main street–Verity was a big enough city that, even with a crisis in plain view, life had to go on. Merchants had to sell their merchandise, beggars had to beg, scoundrels had to scound. Their horses helped them navigate up the streets more quickly, but she could see the frustration build on Hadrian’s face as they got closer and closer, stymied by the thick press of busy people in the streets. Finally, they came into view of the temple, and Hadrian leapt free of the saddle. Stumbling on his heels for a moment, he ran across the cobblestone street, up to the place where the temple entrance had once stood. The walls were replaced with the same pastel-painted slightly foam substance. Where there had once been grand doors decorated with symbols of Calistria, the Savored Sting, there was now a large flap, more akin to something an animal would use. Sandra pulled up behind him, bringing her mount to a nickering stop, and said, “We need to use cauti–” Hadrian ran in through the flap. “Damn.” Sandra jumped down from her own horse, taking a moment to tie it off to the hitching post, dealing with Hadrian’s as well. Quinn began to help Tarja down and deal with their own mounts as well, but Sandra stopped him. “You stay out here.” Sandra said. “If this place has some effect on the people inside, we can’t all just rush in. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, start finding a way to get Hadrian and I outside without any collateral damage.” “Be safe, ‘Andwa,” Tarja lisped, before Sandra slipped under the flap, conjuring an umbral knife in her hands–she’d be ready for anything. Inside, the grand hall of the temple had once been home to a massive stage, where scantily-dressed clerics would flaunt their goods in exchange for tithe. Calistria was a goddess of lust, after all, it made sense. Now, where poles and stages had once been, cages and hard points floated in the air, trapping priests and worshipers alike. The sky could be seen above–the roof was floating far too high to fully shield from the elements, and the various bizarre structures Sandra had seen from afar loomed above them. A foul smell hung in the air, the results of the curses and time that had warped the former holy place. Diapers were everywhere Sandra looked, wrapped around people of all genders and ancestries, most soiled to the point of leaking. Pacifiers, too, were a constant–held in place with leather and magic, so that the victims couldn’t spit them out, mumble, or even speak. Some priests had their hands tied far above their heads, leaving them standing, desperate, unable to rest or relax. Sandra met their pleading eyes, though their words got distorted into helpless mumbling beneath their pacifiers. She approached one. “Hold still,” she whispered, “Let me try…” Reaching up, she touched the clasp holding the pacifier in place. She could plainly detect magic on it, and knew it had to be enchanted, but perhaps– Her brain fogged for a moment, and she staggered back, falling to the ground. Her brain fuzzed, befuddled by magic. When she blinked and regained full control of her thoughts, she realized she’d begun suckling her thumb, and that her diaper–which had self cleaned not ten minutes prior–was suddenly sagging and full again, not that it could make the room smell any worse. Shaking her head, Sanda stood, staggering for a moment before regaining her balance. “I…” she said. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” The priest’s eyes didn’t show understanding, just desperation to be free. Regretfully, Sandra looked around further, careful not to touch anyone. Other priests were in their own predicament. Some, trapped in cages or cribs, were cuffed spread eagle. Still others sat on adult-sized rocking horses that never fell still, wrists tied to handles and feet to the base, forced to shift back and forth, squelching their diapers interminably. Going by the slight bzzz sound filling the air, Sandra guessed more than a few had toys inside their diaper, torturing them in other ways that couldn’t be seen as easily. There were more restraints, too, in patterns and configurations she didn’t know. X-shaped crosses. Spanking benches–though, mercifully, she saw no enchanted paddles going to town. Two particularly unfortunate clerics were tied to each other, wrist-to-ankle, so that their faces were buried in each other’s diapers. She counted dozens of people in the grand temple room, all bound, all unable to move or flee. Some were faces she recognized. Some were strangers. All were helpless. “Hadrian?” Sandra called, picking her way through the helpless, whimpering victims. “Back here!” he called, voice carrying from a rear door. She followed the sound. In the former backstage, it was less populated, but the cribs and cursed people inside were just as helpless. Hadrian was there, but as she stepped in, he looked from face to face, crib to crib, then turned and ran out the room. Sandra followed, urgently, chasing after him as he went to the once-and-no-longer rectory. Here, there were no people, only changing supplies and baby food stacked on shelves, piles and piles of each, a trove of necessities for anyone who’d been cursed into diaper dependence. Hadrian continued to run, and Sandra chased after him. “Wait, Hadrian–” “I have to find her,” he called back, moving down a back hall, to the priest’s quarters. More cribs, more faces, but not the face he wanted to see. Up, then, to the library–now a play room, with baby books and lewd folios, baby toys and vibrating wands all scattered around as though they belonged together. A few priests, glassy eyed, were going through the motions of stacking blocks or organizing rings onto a post, seemingly without any control over their actions. More desperate than ever, Hadrian continued his flight. He checked the kitchen, now filled with high chairs, and the restrooms, now filled exclusively with changing tables. Nothing. “She’s…” Hadrian panted, leaning against a changing table for support. “She’s not here.” “Maybe she was out on business,” Sandra suggested. “Gwyndomere relies on her for jobs.” “Gwyndomere’s gone, too,” Hadrian said. “He took–The Wizard took them.” Sandra looked back out the changing room door, to the open field of restrained worshippers. “Why?” “I don’t know,” Hadrian said, a growl building in his throat. “But we’re not going to let this sta–” “Hey!” A voice called from the grand hall. Someone who could speak, not bound up by the curses and restraints. Sandra stepped out, looking for the source of the voice. A man in white and gold robes. Sandra recognized the colors, indicating a god or goddess of healing, but couldn’t remember the divinity’s name. “We’re with the guild,” Sandra said. “I’m–” “Sandra Cassidy,” the cleric replied, stepping closer. He was older, with a neatly trimmed grey beard and a weary expression. “I know who you are. My name is Barro, I’m a priest of Aesocar. You shouldn’t be in here.” “These people need help,” Sanda gestured, while mentally snapping a proverbial finger. (Aesocar! That’s the god I was thinking of.) “We’re finding ways to do that,” Barro said, “But it’s dangerous. The pacifiers provide food and water, keeping them alive, but we haven’t yet found a way to get them down safely. They could be like this for weeks, and unless you know how to dispel it, there’s nothing for you to do but fall into a trap or erase your own mind by mistake.” “I know how to work around the Wizard’s cruelty,” Sandra said. “And you know how dangerous he is,” the cleric replied. “But–” “Wait,” Hadrian said. “How do you know it could be weeks? When was the temple hit?” The cleric shifted, uncomfortably, looking back at the door. “We should step outside–” “What happened?” Hadrian demanded, stalking forward. “How long has it been like this?” “This temple was hit this morning,” Barro said. “Eight members of the clergy are still unaccounted for, but…” Sandra understood. “This isn’t the only one.” “Four temples in eight days. The Wizard has been busy. And…it could be much, much worse than this.” He looked down and to the side. “My order was hit. Aesocar’s great hospital–the wizard rendered most of the finest healers in the realm to sadistic torments, turning their healing magic into cruel sources of pain.” “Let’s go outside,” Sandra finally said. Careful and reluctant, they stepped around the helpless, moaning victims, out into the fresh air. “Four temples,” Sandra repeated. “What’s he doing?” “We think, trying to get something.” Barro hesitated. “He’s taken the high priest of each, and several of their highest ranked assistants.” “Serendipity,” Hadrian whispered. “Gwyndomere,” Sandra added, thinking of the high priest’s power. If the Wizard had taken Gwyndomere, rather than coming in and attacking the temple while Gwyndomere was gone, then that implied danger and power beyond what she’d already feared. “What’s going on?” Quinn asked, seeing them walk out. “Danger and trouble,” Sandra started. “We’re going to need to be careful and decide our next move cautiously, something big and complicated is coming, and–” “No,” Hadrian cut in. “It’s not complicated at all. We’re going to find the wizard, and when we do, we’re going to kill him.” ... 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This is also my second dip into writing AB/DL SCP, too!

LOL That's an excellent addition

Set in the universe of 'Control' “This’d better be good,” Jessie snapped, already in work mode as she stepped out of her car. Emily paused, mouth half open as she looked at her direct superior. “You’re–” “In theory, I’m allowed a day off once in a while.” Jessie didn’t see the need to defend her wardrobe. No, she would never wear a flowy blue dress at work, but she wasn’t supposed to be at work. She was supposed to be getting dinner with… It didn’t matter. She had work to do. If she got this taken care of quickly enough, she might even be able to enjoy a couple hours off before getting back to it tomorrow. “Talk to me,” Jessie snapped, getting her distracted scientist back on track. “What’s the issue?” “Artifact of unknown origin,” Emily replied, pointing with a pen as she read off her clipboard. “It’s inside the house.” “And our containment team couldn’t do this on their own because…?” “Because it’s…they just said, ‘It moved’.” Emily shrugged weakly, trying to deflect criticism before it could be thrown her way. “I’m not on the containment team, I can’t tell you what went on in there except to repeat what I’ve been told.” “Alright.” Jessie tilted her head to one side, then the other, popping her neck. Reaching out her hand, she added, “Radio.” Someone on the tech team passed her an earpiece, and–without any other protection besides her own power and the earpiece itself–she walked up to the structure. All it took was a snap of her fingers for two uniformed agents to step into line behind her, their tactical clothing at odds with her flowing dress. It wasn’t a house, exactly. It wasn’t not a house, either. She couldn’t put her finger on why. It looked like a house–triangular roof, porch, windows, door–but seeing it, the word that came to mind was prison, or perhaps, cage. Her instincts just told her it wasn’t a place for people to live. Pushing open the front door of the not-house, she peered inside. Lights on the street shone clearly through the windows, enough that she could see the layout. There were no rooms, just walls arranged haphazardly, as though someone intended only to break up sight lines within the not-house. To her flanking agents, she asked, “Where was the artifact last seen?” One pointed, shining a flashlight around one of the walls. Jessie started to look, but– Motion whipped behind her, a rush of wind, and she spun on her heels, but there was nothing to see. She heard it again, and spun once more–still nothing. “Are you seeing this?” “Hearing it, not seeing it,” an agent replied. “It’s too fast.” “Then go back-to-back,” Jessie demanded. “Get rid of blind spots, so that–” She heard the whoosh of air again, but this time, she was ready for it. Turning the other way, she caught the object with her eyes, and… On the floor, motionless, lay a flat white rectangle. Nothing about its form suggested that it might have been moving at incredible speed a moment before, but Jessie knew it hadn’t been there just a second prior. Glancing to the side, she said to the agents, “I think I have eyes–” Wind whooshed again. She looked back, but the rectangle was already gone, and before she could fully process what’d happened, she felt her dress ripple, as though something had pushed through the fabric and gone up… She put a hand to her belly, shocked by a sudden pressure. She had to pee, bladder bursting as though she’d been stuck in a car for hours after drinking a super big gulp. “Ma’am?” One of the agents asked, still looking away from her, covering all sight lines. She could feel something between her legs, too, a new presence that certainly hadn’t been there before–pillowy fabric? A– Grabbing the hem of her dress, she yanked it up, just in time for her body to lose the fight. The flood gates opened, and she was able to watch as bright yellow wetness spread over the front of a plasticy, white, puffy diaper. She’d found the artifact, but the pressure didn’t go away. Her body just seemed to need to go, no matter how much she went–warm urine splashed into the diaper, soaking it until it began to sag, and still she felt the need. One of the agents glanced back, eyes darting down at her raised dress. “Ma’am?” “I–” she began, gasping as the pressure finally, mercifully, let off. She tried to peel away one of the tapes, but it stuck fast, and she knew the artifact wouldn’t let her be free that easily. “I found the artifact.” The pressure tapered off as she trickled the last into her diaper, she felt the relief wash over her and sighed as the painful need turned into satisfaction. “We’ll get a removal team ready,” the agent started. “I’ll handle it,” she replied, lowering her dress. “We don’t need any…ah…” The pressure returned with a vengeance, only this time, she didn’t only feel it in her bladder. Desperation suddenly grew deep inside her, a roiling pressure that she struggled to fight. She gasped, face turning pink, struggling with discomfort to fight the increasingly painful cramps. “She’s hurt,” one of the agents said. “Get it off her, now!” Jessie stepped back and tried to push their hands away, but another cramp rolled over her, and she lost the fight–bowels churning, she could only let out a tiny squeak as warm mush poured into the seat of her diaper, unbidden and unwanted, swelling out the seat and smushing heavily against her skin. Adding insult to injury, her bladder gave in once again, swelling the crotch of her diaper even more heavily, soaking it to the point she couldn’t believe it still held up. Reaching forward, the commando yanked up her dress, revealing the diaper once again, watching as the seat sagged. There was no hiding the smell that wafted out, and only once both her subordinates saw the heavily used garment did the pressure subside, her bowels getting a break from the insane discomfort. “I’m fine,” she said, feeling winded from the sudden need. “This–it just made me…again, this doesn’t need to be in a report.” She could get past her other subordinates, get back to the lab, and sort this out alone. At worst, she’d need Emily’s help, but nobody else. Lowering her dress, she– Pressure. She couldn’t fight it this time, not even for a second. As soon as her dress was lowered, the swelling, packing, torrent began to inflate her diaper yet again, foul muck bottoming out the diaper until it was so heavy she couldn’t stand up straight. Falling back, her dress caught around her knees, bunching up to make her diaper visible to the agents. The pressure stopped. Jessie got it. “No…” she mouthed. “What?” an agent asked. Reaching up, she touched her earpiece. “Emily, I need a containment team on constant standby. Observation only.” Emily’s reply came promptly. “Copy, what’s the issue?” “The artifact…” she began. “It has extreme effects that take place whenever it’s not observed. I need someone to watch me, twenty four seven, until it can be removed.” Accepting a hand, she got to her feet, careful to keep her dress hiked so that her diaper was plainly visible. One agent checked the door, while the other scanned the room, and in that moment she cramped and felt another small wave of mush pile into the diaper, so that it sagged almost down to her ankles. “Don’t look away,” she snapped. “Right, sorry,” the agent replied. They opened the door, and Jessie stepped out onto the street, her diaper on full display–where it would have to remain, permanently. ... (Written as a commission) I'm going to be doing more micro fictions like these going forward - I hope you like smutty little vignettes! 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I mean, it is inspired by Venom, the Marvel character. Just not Venom, The recent movies staring Tom Hardy. I'm thinking about cartoons and comic depictions, just because I never got around to seeing the films.

Part Three Elizabeth Sullivan’s prey had proven more elusive than she could have expected. She liked it better that way. Whoever he was, his online accounts were seemingly impervious–she’d found sockpuppets, fake profiles, but nothing pointing back to his true identity. He clearly had resources, because some of the fakes had real money attached to their names, but none were connected to any root identity. She’d find him, though. He would be out there, somewhere, and once she got his real name, she’d nail his ass to the wall–or, more likely, lock him in a diaper and make him beg for her permission just to use it. Elizabeth hadn’t longed to dominate someone this much in a long time, and such was her craving that she’d given up her usual pretenses. This was no vigilante justice, she just wanted to win. When her anonymous attempts failed, and her more direct attacks on his identity came up with nothing, Elizabeth finally tried to use his own tactics against him, to set out bait and wait for the rewards to come in. She posted as an anon, attached to a burner account, but with enough identifying information that the burner could be tracked back…at least, to a fictional identity. ‘Help - I’m being blackmailed, user has control of my wallet.’ Elizabeth was careful not to mention diapers within the post–a real anon wouldn’t admit to that, not in a million years, but she implied that she was being made to do something, and stubbornly refused to answer questions about what that ‘something’ was whenever anyone in the replies asked. It’d be enough. Her mysterious tail would come calling, sniffing for clues, and with luck, he’d finally reveal himself. All she had to do was wait. In the meantime, there wasn’t much to do. The trash needed to go out, but that could wait–she’d just had lunch a few… (Wait, how long has it been?) Her stomach grumbled. Okay, maybe it’d been a while since her last meal–she ordered a pizza, and checked up on one of her ongoing projects while she waited. One pig–his name was ‘Henry’–had asked to change almost three hours prior. She’d missed the text, including the rather humiliating selfie he’d sent, showing how the diaper sagged. Pretending that the delay had been deliberate, she sent the encrypted reply: ‘I think you’ve waited long enough. Send me one more picture to prove you didn’t cheat, then you can change.’ She doubted he had cheated–he’d grown too pliable, too obedient. He hadn’t disobeyed her in weeks. Before long, she’d cut him loose, it wasn’t fun anymore. The only person she wanted to diaper was her mysterious opponent. She checked her bait post again. No results, no sly comments or suggestions that her bait had lured in any clues. Finally, a knock came at the door. She checked her private security camera, built into the peephole–a tall woman stood outside, holding a pizza bag. She looked a bit frazzled, with greasy brown hair and a faded top, but she was attractive beneath it–if she cleaned up a bit, she’d be a knockout. More relevant to Elizabeth, she wasn’t one of usual delivery drivers. Then again, they had a high turnover, so that was no surprise. Glancing down, Elizabeth poked at her diaper–soggy, but not messy, nothing that would draw attention. Pulling on a bathrobe, she waddled to the door, answering it. “Pepperoni Pan Pizza for ‘Billy’?” the delivery woman said, reading off the receipt. It was a fake name–Elizabeth wouldn’t put her real name on something so frivolous. “That’s me,” she replied. “How much do I owe you?” The woman glanced past Elizabeth, into the condo behind her. The living room was stacked with pizza boxes and a single chair at a table where Elizabeth occasionally worked–nothing incriminating, but then, Elizabeth didn’t like anyone snooping. “How much do I owe you?” she repeated. She sniffed a few times, then smiled. “Hello, Little Cricket.” Her eyes widened. Nobody who knew that handle knew who Elizabeth was–hell, nobody really knew where Elizabeth lived, either. She stepped back, stumbled, and almost fell, but the woman reached out and caught her arm. The bathrobe fell back, though, and Elizabeth’s soggy diaper went on full display. Elizabeth was so stunned that she didn’t know what to say, but the woman clearly knew exactly what she was doing. Pulling her straight up again, the woman let go and waltzed inside the small condo as though she owned the place, not so much as glancing at the diaper. “I don’t know what I expected,” the woman declared, stepping in, surveying the scattered pizza boxes and detritus. “You bought this place outright under the name ‘Joan Smythe’, did you think you were being clever?” Finding her voice, Elizabeth demanded, “How did you find me?” “Brand loyalty,” she explained. “The designs change, but your targets always get diapers from Behindz. I imagined you likely wore the same, and their warehouse isn’t exactly Fort Knox.” “I–” she started, shuffling to the side, towards her bedroom. She kept a taser under her bed–this woman was clearly dangerous, and she wouldn’t be leaving on her own. “Wait, you–how did you know I wear diapers?” “Call it an educated guess,” the woman said, pushing open the bathroom door with two fingers. The toilet had a sheen of dust on it, and several triple-bagged trash bags were crammed next to it, heavy with old diapers that Elizabeth had yet to take out. “You won’t turn me in,” Elizabeth said, simply. “No matter what you’re being paid, I can double it, make this all go away–but if you try to cause trouble, I’ll do to you what I did to them.” Before she could smoothly make it to the bedroom, the woman stepped up to it, pushing the door open and looking inside. The room where Elizabeth spent most of her time, it had more pizza boxes, a bulging diaper pail whose front drawer had opened, overfull and in need of emptying, and her bed had several stains on it from where she’d leaked. Despite herself, the woman’s steady, thoughtful gaze made Elizabeth blush–not because of the diapers, but because of the state of her room. Walking in, the woman took the laptop from off the bed, as well as the cell phone lying on the floor next to it, tucking both into the pizza bag, which Elizabeth now saw was empty. Nothing was saved onto those devices–Elizabeth kept everything safely in the cloud–but the gesture still made her flinch. “You need to change,” the woman declared, simply. “And, god, this place is filthy. Put on your clothes, and then you’re going to start cleaning up.” Elizabeth blinked a few times, baffled. “What?” “Do it,” she said, simply, reaching for her own pocket. Elizabeth expected a weapon, but she instead drew out a cell phone, snapping several quick photos of the place. “You won’t have the same impact, humiliating your victims, if the world knows the state you live in–you can still take their money, sure, but you’ll never have their fear again.” Eyes widening, Elizabeth took action–storming towards the woman, she reached one hand for the bag, and the other for the invader who knew her name. The woman’s motion was swift, smooth, and precise. She dropped her phone, seized Elizabeth’s wrist, and twisted, turning the girl’s body over at a nearly ninety degree angle, rendering her helpless. The woman could have done anything, but she only delivered five quick swats to the seat of Elizabeth’s sodden diaper. Not enough to hurt, but enough to demonstrate her dominance. “Let’s be clear,” she said in a warning tone, still holding Elizabeth’s arm, twisting her body at a painful angle. “Attack me, I will win. Threaten me, I’ve got the material to make my threats stick. I haven’t yet decided what I’m going to do with you, but violence only makes it more likely that I’ll turn over everything I’ve learned and leave you to the cops and the court of public notoriety. Am I understood? Elizabeth wouldn’t be letting this woman win, but there was no point in fighting any further. She nodded, compliant until she could find a new angle. “Am I understood?” the woman repeated, twisting a little harder, producing a pang of pain in Elizabeth’s joints. “Yes,” Elizabeth said, barely hiding her loathing beneath a petulant glower. Nodding with satisfaction, the woman released her arm. Crossing the room, she sat down in the singular chair, producing Elizabeth’s laptop. When Elizabeth didn’t immediately move, the woman looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Well? I said to start cleaning. Get to it.” … Mikaela couldn’t help but thrill in her victory. She’d found her target, the Little Cricket, the thorn in her side for the past few weeks. It’d been a difficult dance, but a dance that she’d come out of as the leader. But now, she had to decide how to handle this girl. She’d half expected the Little Cricket to not be a girl at all, but at least that part appeared to be true. The utter chaos of her living space, though? That defied reason. The hacker that Mikaela had come to know was meticulous and careful, brilliant and cautious. To find her living in such disarray had come as a shock, even if Mikaela kept it off her face. Still, the girl’s sullen expression as she came out of the bathroom wearing clean clothes and a fresh diaper reminded Mikaela that her victory was well earned–this was the hacker who’d robbed and inflicted humiliating tortures on her victims. She was no innocent little lamb. So, while the Little Cricket gave pouting glances and carried old bags of diapers down to the condo’s dumpster, Mikaela opened the girl’s laptop and began to search. She half expected to be stonewalled immediately, to encounter a password gate. If that’d happened, Mikaela would have tried to bully the Little Cricket into giving up the password, but it wasn’t necessary. The computer had many passwords, but those passwords were all attached to a USB stick unlock key, and that key only required a five digit code. The laptop’s number pad had just three keys with slightly yellowed stains on them from regular use; 0, 8, and 5, and Mikaela knew those would correlate with the pin for the unlock key. There were a hundred fifty possible combinations, but Mikaela guessed it on her first try–58008. Smirking, she logged into the Little Cricket’s device and began to dig. Her estimates had been low. The girl’s net worth was far higher–in the hundreds of millions, if she sold off all her stolen coins and assets. A truly unfathomable amount of money, all obtained illegally, all ripe for the taking. Her number of victims, too, was far greater than the eleven that Mikaela knew of. Half a dozen men were still, in some way, under Little Cricket’s thumb–requiring regular diaper checks, or begging to be allowed to change, or simply being forced to send in daily videos where they filled their padding thoroughly and declared their love for dirty, smelly diapers–or lose their fortunes, one refused diaper at a time. The Cricket liked what she liked, and wasn’t coy about making others indulge in those behaviors for her own pleasure. That meant Mikaela felt no guilt engaging in turnabout play. When the girl returned, from her fourth and mercifully final bag of old diapers–though she still had mountains of pizza boxes to attend to–Mikaela addressed her. “What’s your name? I know it’s not ‘Joan Smythe’, or Billy, or whatever else you’ve been calling yourself.” “I’m not telling you that,” Little Cricket replied. Mikaela simply nodded, and with a keystroke, deleted account access for one of the girl’s many hacking victims–one she’d already planned on deleting, though now she had a convenient excuse. “I hope you didn’t care about ‘Henry’, because he’s not going to be compliant anymore with his account control back.” The girl gasped. “No, you–put it back!” “I don’t know how,” Mikaela admitted, her threat protected by candor and honesty. “But if you’re disobedient, I can take away more.” She swallowed. She knew the game–if she didn’t step into line, Mikaela would take more and more away. It’s the same game that the girl had played with her victims, after all. “I–Beth,” she said. “You can call me Beth.” Mikaela smelled a half-truth, but it was better than nothing. “Alright, Beth. I’ve changed the pin to your login key, and reset all the passwords. Your accounts belong to me.” “I can hack back into them,” Beth said. Probably true. For emphasis, Mikaela deleted access to another victim. “No more diaper checks from, ‘Gary’, then.” Beth made a helpless squeaking sound, which sang in Mikaela’s ears. “Please, don’t take any more.” “I won’t,” Mikaela said. “If you do what I say.” Beth swallowed and nodded, steeling herself. “Fine. You want a video? Want to make me beg? What?” “You’re going to clean up,” Mikaela explained. “As I already said–and then you’re going to use some of your money to get some proper furniture in here, and buy actual groceries for that kitchen of yours. I see from your activity that you’re up all hours of the night–that’s going to change, too. For now, we’re going to try bedtime at Nine PM, no electronics after that. If that isn’t enough, we can go for Eight.” Beth began to object, but caught herself, eyes darting between Mikaela and the screen. “What do you want?” “That’s not important,” Mikaela said. With her client served and the case closed, she now wanted control, to dominate the girl who’d thought herself untouchable, to prove that she was the superior between them–but Beth didn’t need to know that. “If you do as you’re told, I will allow you to continue to do what you like with whoever you can reel in, but only so long as it’s not interfering with your bedtime or chores. For tonight, no electronics, I still have to ensure I’ve set up the passwords so that you can’t easily get back in–and all future purchases will need to be run past me, as well, I don’t want you trying to sneak in a second phone you can use after hours.” Beth swallowed, and her darting eyes told Mikaela she was looking for an excuse, or–no, not an excuse. She needed a fix. Without electronics in her hands, she didn’t know what to do. “I won’t be able to tell any of my pigs that they can change,” she said. “Or use the bathroom, or anything.” Mikaela cocked an eyebrow. “Does it bother you that they’ll have to suffer while you’re in time out?” She couldn’t lie–she could try, but it wouldn’t work, and they both knew it. Beth shook her head. “Good,” Mikaela declared, a sarcastical, saccharine smile on her face. “Then there’s no issue. Finish with your cleanup, Beth, it’ll be bedtime soon and if you’re not done by then, tomorrow there will be no electronics as well.” Beth hesitated, not quite ready to get back to work. “Wait–you know my name. What should I call you?” Tilting her head, Mikaela thought for a moment. One word came to mind, but didn’t feel quite right–she wasn’t this girl’s ‘Mommy’. There was a better choice. Smiling at her helpless hacker, she said, “You may call me Nanny.” ... I'm opening commissions! Currently aiming to fill 2-3 commissions slots for short stories, (about one 'chapter',) or a single longer piece, and we'll see how things go from there. All my pricing, details, and guidelines can be found here! https://forms.gle/Bu2S26Lyshk9VKtn9 If you're subscribed at the all Access tier on my Ream or SubscribeStar, you get a 20% discount. (Links: https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling ) Happy holidays!

I'm opening commissions! Currently aiming to fill 2-3 commissions slots for short stories, (about one 'chapter',) or a single longer piece, and we'll see how things go from there. All my pricing, details, and guidelines can be found here! https://forms.gle/zUxDpZEJSAo8FFpt5 If you're subscribed at the all Access tier on my Patreon or SubscribeStar, you get a 20% discount! Happy holidays!

So imma be honest - I never actually watched Venom! 😅

Mikaela Bloomfield could smell a liar like a bloodhound, and she could smell baby powder and urine just about as well as anyone else. Her keen sense for deception came part and parcel with her career of choice. As a private investigator, she had to seek out liars, to find their secrets, to demonstrate their tricks for all to see–but that game only offered so much challenge. More often than not, the true treachery came from her clients. Mikaela was known for her discretion, and for her willingness to pursue any lead. Those two elements, when put together, made her the first choice for many people with less-than-savory intentions. If she caught wind that they intended to use her work to pursue a criminal end, she had to cut ties; it would be bad for business if the leads she developed were tied to any overtly illegal acts. She rarely had that issue. Most criminals who could afford her rates knew better than to try and use her as a surrogate hitman. More often, she had to watch for her clients to lie, because those lies were generally integral to her work. And now, sitting in an outdoor cafe, an anonymous little corner where they’d never incur a second glance, her newest prospective client was lying to her. “Sir,” she said, phrasing her words carefully as she reviewed what he’d told her, flipping through mental notes effortlessly. Her mind was a well organized place; she rarely forgot a clue, and physical notes could be lost–or worse, stolen. “You’ve given me extremely little to work with. I will do my best to track down this hacker for you, but the world of anonymous internet crime is fraught.” “All I know is, she stole almost half a million from me, and left me a message taunting me about it,” Henry replied, shaking his head vigorously. He hadn’t told Mikaela his name, and he likely assumed she didn’t know his identity, but she’d done the legwork before attending this meeting. Henry Wanger, web influencer, had made bank on a handful of pump-and-dump NFT scams. “I want that money back.” “Half a million in cryptocurrency,” Mikaela clarified. “Even if I find her, that money is likely to be long gone, and my services aren’t going to be cheap either. I’m not trying to talk myself out of a job, but consider long and hard whether the investment is worth it for you to try and get your money back.” Turning ever so slightly pink–the difference so subtle it could have been a trick of the light–Henry said, “I need to find this chick.” Mikaela sniffed again, and again–stale pee and baby powder. “If you’re not being honest with me about your goals, I cannot help you. If you want her found, you’ll need to tell me why you need to find her.” This time, his blush was deep and distinct. He looked away. “She’s still blackmailing me.” (Ah, there it is.) Mikaela didn’t smile on her face, though her satisfaction rose a tick. “What secrets does she have?” “Nothing.” Henry shook his head emphatically. Mikaela’s lips drew into a displeased line. “This matters. I need to know what she has on you, so I can trace down how she learned it. I will never disclose this information, and I will never judge you.” “No,” Henry clarified. “She doesn’t have any dirt. She’s still got control of my accounts.” Eyes widening a touch, Mikaela asked, “So how do you intend to pay me?” “She’s left most of the money,” Henry explained, shaking his head. “It’s still there, I can see it, I just can’t touch it. I’m–she’s giving me an allowance. And once you catch her, I’ll be able to pay you the rest of what you’re owed.” Mikaela tilted her head. “If she’s not taking the money, how is she blackmailing you?” He looked away, and told her everything in his silence. His ashamed blush told Mikaela it was sexual, his glance down told her that it was currently on his person, and the wrinkle of his own nose told her that the odors she’d been smelling were no mere coincidence. That wasn’t enough. Mikaela had learned the truth, but she hadn’t won, not until she manipulated him into confessing. “If you want this to end, you need to tell me.” Mikaela extended her hand, resting it on his own. “It’ll be over sooner this way.” He hesitated, glancing down again. “She–she makes me do things. If I don’t, she takes money from the account.” “What things?” Mikaela asked, gently, not pressing hard, just giving a quiet moment of insistence that he keep talking. His eyes sought around, as though looking for some way to bolster his dignity before the admission. Finding nothing, he looked at her hands. “She’s making me…wear…” Confidence breaking for a moment, he had to take a breath before finishing. “Diapers. If I don’t wear diapers, she takes my money.” That told Mikaela everything important, but she decided to push a little further. “Do you have to use them?” Henry nodded, refusing to meet her gaze. “And–I can only change if I text an encrypted number and ask for permission.” “I probably won’t be able to use that number,” Mikaela admitted, “It’d tip her off that I’m looking, but all the same–send me whatever you have. I’ll take the case.” “Thank you,” Henry said, finally looking up at her. His eyes were wet from humiliation and shame. “Thank you.” A talented, invisible cyber hacker was making this man wear diapers–presumably just for her own amusement. That alone was intriguing enough to have Mikaela interested in seeking out more information, but she still had one more issue to raise with Henry. “When you pay me,” she said, “I don’t accept cryptocurrency. You’ll be sending my fee in cash.” … Mikaela had a dozen identities kept on the internet, but they all had only one thing in common–none were anything more than the barest reflection of herself. She treated them as informants, as agents she could use to get information, but she refused to engage with the internet directly. She understood social media, she understood the various Web 3 Tech worlds, but they were places that she observed without touching. That sometimes made finding her targets more difficult, but she took it as an acceptable cost in exchange for the safety and anonymity it offered. Her first assumption proved to be true: If someone had the tools, expertise, and opportunity to gain access to a secure account and drain its resources, and the inclination to use that access not for personal wealth, but to humiliate their victims, it stood to reason that this wasn’t her first time and wouldn’t be her last. Other victims had to exist. The difficulty was not in finding other victims of electronic theft, but in separating the wealthy targets from the run-of-the-mill scam fodder. Using her most tech-adjacent burner account, Mikaela set herself up to be interested in the worlds of her victims, and then began pursuing details. It started with one–an “Influencer” who was known for his energetic livestreams. Several reddit threads, though, complained that he’d been rather dull on stream of late–no standing to rant, no pacing around the room, he stuck firmly in his chair. Mikaela tuned in, and though it was subtle, she knew she occasionally heard the rustle of a diaper. Over the course of two weeks, her list of two victims turned to eleven. It was slow going, but she built a profile: The victims were recently wealthy, having made their money off the gullibility of others, and involved in one marketplace or another that made their accounts vulnerable to targeting. Most were involved in cryptocurrency, using wallets that could be identified and exploited, but two were instead using more traditional offshore bank accounts in the most shady and least regulated parts of the world. They were also, universally, men. Mikaela didn’t know if this was because the crypto space was mostly populated by men to begin with, or if her hacker simply had her own proclivities, but one way or another, she’d engineered financial blackmail situations to inflict diaper humiliation on eleven different men. And it wasn’t just the humiliation–specifics cropped up even beyond that. She had a favorite brand of diaper. She enjoyed dragging out the space between diaper use and diaper changes–denying her victims a clean diaper for hours, sometimes longer. She had even made comments suggesting that her victims should be thanking her for the experience–that this was special treatment. That led Mikaela down another line of investigation, but this one proved to be a dead end. The hacker had to be filthy rich for all the money she’d stolen, but Mikaela couldn’t find anyone who fit the bill. She expected to turn someone up eventually, but no matter how deep she dug, she couldn’t find anyone with extravagant spending habits and a profile that matched the diaper-inclined hacker. The game was proving harder than normal. Mikaela’s opponent was discreet, talented, and didn’t leave clues behind–at least, none that could be traced back to her. Three weeks in, she didn’t have a name, a web handle, even a vague idea of her target’s identity. That just meant it’d take longer. Mikaela wouldn’t give up. She’d just have to play things smarter than her target. A bit of personal chatting with the various hacking victims might get her there–and if not, she’d try setting a bit of bait. … Elizabeth frowned at her computer screen, lying in bed, eyes slightly red from lack of sleep. She needed a diaper change, but that could wait until morning–or the afternoon, depending on whenever she got out of bed. It seemed too good to be true–another target had set himself up for her, all on a silver platter. A single post laid it all out–the story of a man who’d recently acquired massive wealth by convincing several senior citizens that they should buy into a worthless coin. He bragged about it, gloating about the sheer money he’d have coming in soon, and–to just emphasize his stupidity–even posted a screenshot showing off several of the NFTs he’d purchased with the gains. The screenshot included a few too many identifying details, and with only a few minutes of effort, Elizabeth had this stranger’s identity. His wallet wasn’t as full as she’d expected, which implied he might have a bit more intelligence than she’d expected–he likely kept several wallets. Or he’d lied. Going back to the post again, Elizabeth re-read it. He was too obvious. He had too many lines where he mentioned rubbing it in the faces of the people who’d made fun of him for being a late bloomer. The words ‘Nobody’s going to look down on me ever again’ were used twice, and ‘humiliation’ was in the post four times. He even condescendingly referred to his victims as ‘diaper wearing grannies’. Elizabeth got it, then. This wasn’t a victim, laying himself out for her to exploit–it was bait. She had a tail. Grinning, she sat up in bed. Whoever this person was, he’d quickly learn the folly of messing with her–she’d find his real identity, and give him the same treatment as her other victims. And sure, the ploy had been a bit obvious, but it wasn’t braindead. Elizabeth had seen through it only after a second glance, only after giving it some considerable thought. Further, the fact that her opponent had been able to lay the trap at all meant that they’d learned quite a bit about Elizabeth already–enough to know what would catch her interest. She finally had a real opponent, someone else who knew how to play the game. This would be fun. ... I promise I won't do long plugs like this forever, just allow me one more: My Patreon got deleted and I completely lost the income I'd spent three years building from my writing. I'm not going to lie. If I'm not able to rebuild, I won't be able to continue to write as much or as freely as I have these past couple years. My creative freedom has allowed me to write stories like this one, short smutty ideas that I found joy in writing for one chapter or a few, as well as long, emotionally-driven novels like The Baby Bet. Without income from my writing, I will have to find another way to pay the bills, and my writing will slow down to whatever I can manage in my free time. I'm building a new audience over on two other platforms - Ream and SubscribeStar. I am incredibly, *incredibly* grateful to everyone who's migrated to those new platforms, but I'm currently only made up about 15% of what I lost when my Patreon account was obliterated without warning or good justification. If you've enjoyed stories I wrote, and have money to spare, (seriously, though, please don't subscribe if you can't afford it, I don't want to fix my issues by causing some for you,) I'd be very grateful for your support. For now, I'm trying to keep things as close to business-as-usual as possible, which means early access for my supporters and exclusive fiction as well. Ream offers a uniquely good reading experience and allows you to follow without subscribing, and I've spent a couple days uploading my entire library to the site. SubscribeStar also gets all my exclusive content, if you prefer to keep all your eggs in one basket! https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

I'm also amongst those hit by the purge - No warning, no heads up, just deletion.

If you're worried about fees/it being too expensive due to currency issues, PM me and we can get something figured out. (Ream is supposed to handle the currency conversion and the fee should be on my end, but if it's not working properly, I'll find a way to get you taken care of.)

Sorry for the overt ad post, I'm just kind of panicking right now. I'm Peculiar, author of a whole bunch of ABDL stories - The Potty Draining Chart, The Baby Bet, a bunch of shorts, and the comic, Under Lock and Key. For the past three years, I've been writing professionally, using the crowdfunding/subscription website, Patreon. Patreon nuked my account without warning, without even letting me log in to get anyone's contact info or post an announcement about it. Writing has become a primary part of my income and basically a part-time job for me. By nuking my account without warning, appeal, or any sort of recourse - just days before a new billing cycle - Patreon has left me without money for December's bills and no way to even contact my former subscribers to let them know where they can find me in the future. I've set up a new account with a fiction-focused, erotica-friendly website, "Ream". Even if you were never a subscriber of mine, you can follow creators on Ream for free and get updates when they have new, free content come out. If you like my fiction, please give me a follow, and if you want to help out while I try and scramble to cover bills this month, I'd be incredibly grateful if you'd subscribe. If I can't get back on my feet as far as writing income goes, I don't know what I'm going to do, but writing several stories a month just won't feasibly be part of it. "Ream" has a very user-friendly reading format and I've uploaded most of my library to the site - though there's still more to come. (And some cover stuff needs to get polished.) Once I'm done with the backend management, it'll be the most exhaustive repository of my writing anywhere on the internet, with a vastly better UI for reading a single author's library than any other site I've used, subscription or otherwise. As I always say, there's no pressure to support me if you can't afford it or just don't want to, but if you're able, and you want to help me get back on my feet, I'd very much appreciate the support. You get all the same perks you would have on Patreon - Early access, and a ton of exclusive fiction. https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl

They deleted the account of every ABDL creator on the site and gave only a stock copy/paste explanation saying that it was violating rules about sexualizing minors.

Would you be willing to at least give me a follow? Ream allows you to Follow authors and get updates when their content comes out for the public, without any payment or subscription necessary. Even without building a paid audience, I'm just trying to establish myself on the platform right now and get the reader experience as nice as I can.

The hacker sat cross legged on her floor, leaning against her bed for a bit of support. She’d bought an expensive gaming chair–the kind that was ninety percent of the way to being a carseat, it just needed the harness–but it was several feet away, and she’d already been on the ground, moving a box beneath her bed when the shipping notification pinged. With her laptop in reach and her focus engaged, she’d gotten to work right where she sat. Her back would protest, but that was a problem for later. Nor did it matter that it was just past dawn, that she’d been up all night, that sleep would have to wait for hours once this began. She had her game, and that’s what mattered in the moment. Elizabeth Sullivan did not consider herself a hero, but that’s how she branded herself, and to the few who knew her screen name, ‘Little Cricket’, it’s how she was to be treated. She didn’t consider herself a grown-up either, but that’s how her documents read–and as far as the government was concerned, it’s how she was to be treated. Shifting a bit, she noted absently how her diaper squelched–she’d saturated it heavily enough to justify a change, and she needed to poop. Strictly speaking, she preferred to keep that contained to the toilet, but she was in the middle of a project, her thoughts were laser focused, and she didn’t want to kill all her momentum by getting up to change and use the toilet. It’d just have to last a little longer. Tabbing through her notifications, she read data, soaking it in like a diaper absorbed moisture. She knew the patterns, she recognized information before she’d read it, and only needed to glance at what was written to confirm her gut feelings. The internet had existed for forty years, and for twenty, it’d been a tool used by more than half the world’s population. Elizabeth didn’t understand how so-called adults could be so incompetent in its use, so lax and lazy when it came to security. It’s like they wanted her to beat them. Her current target had fallen for a trivially simple linkswap scam to get his passwords, and from there, the rest of his downfall had been easy. A few tricks to bypass two factor authentication, a couple more to get into his financials. By most estimations, he was some flavor of asshole–he’d made his money scamming people into buying useless assets, the lazy kind of fraud that didn’t even take creativity. Elizabeth didn’t particularly care what he’d done. She’d long since learned, however, that if she targeted vulnerable victims, she’d be condemned, she might even end up in trouble with the law. When she went after criminal con men, though, everything became permissible. Leaning forward, she grunted almost without thinking, the seat of her diaper swelling a bit while she took control of her victim’s computer. She’d already decided on the game she wanted to play, now she just needed her participant. “Hello, piggy,” she said. Her voice was modulated, a bit–not to hide her identity, though, it wasn’t as though anyone would be able to track her down. She rarely left her condo, and few people knew what she sounded like. Rather, she distorted her words to make her targets uncomfortable. The man in front of her flinched–of course he did. A voice from nowhere had just addressed him, when he was alone, in private, working from his home office. In a work-from-home world, high-def webcams had become standard, which made her games all the easier. “What the hell?” he asked, setting down his morning coffee. He hadn’t even gotten to work yet. “Who said that?” Elizabeth gloried in the moment for as long as she could–watching her target’s surprise, the shock, all displayed in crisp HD from his webcam. Soon would be the horror and the realization. The sweet moments of early victory, while he still had enough dignity to show humiliation. “I did, piggy,” Elizabeth said. For emphasis, she moved a mouse on her computer screen, and the motion was mirrored on his own display. “Don’t close your computer. I’m in your wallet, I own your assets, and if you disobey me, you’ll find out just how quickly I can take it all away.” She wouldn’t actually take it all away. Others had disobeyed her before, after all, and if she actually followed through on her threat, it ruined the game. She’d take their money, but who cared about money? She wanted more than that. So, if he disobeyed, she’d only take half. Let him see the notification on his phone, learn what he’d lost, and frantically come back to beg. That was, in its own way, almost more fun than when her days went off without a hitch. “I don’t know how you’re doing this,” he said, “But I don’t believe you.” “Then let’s give you some proof, piggy,” Elizabeth said. She was rubbing the name in thick, but she wanted it to be clear that this was his name, at least while she spoke to him. Moving her mouse again, she opened his digital wallet, displaying the various cryptocurrencies he’d acquired. Selecting one at random, she sent it to an anonymous holding wallet with just a few keystrokes. It didn’t matter where it’d gone, the point was that her Piggy no longer had it. The digital equivalent of several thousand dollars, gone in a flash. He still had millions, but he’d gained it recently, and the psychological impact of the dollars lost still hit him plenty hard. His eyes went huge, like she’d just shoved him down on the playground and taken his lunch money. Perfect. “What the fuck–okay. Stop. What do you want? Money?” “If I wanted money, I’d already have taken it,” Elizabeth pointed out. “No, piggy, I want something more. You’ve hurt people to get this money, you’re a pig. You need to learn a lesson.” He swallowed. It was clear she could follow up on her threats easily enough–one wrong word, and she’d drain his accounts. His delicious fear sang when he asked, “What lesson?” “What you really are,” Elizabeth explained. “You’ve got a package in front of your door. I know how long it takes you to go from the computer to your porch. Go get the package, and return immediately–every second you dally, I’ll delete another coin.” He nodded, shook his head, and stared at his computer screen a little longer. “Okay. Okay. I’ll do it, just–” “The timer’s started, piggy boy,” Elizabeth’s tone was sing-song, and just for emphasis, she called up a stopwatch on his screen. Her target jumped to attention, scrambling out of the room. Good–if she kept pressure on him, he wouldn’t have time to think or come up with any bright ideas. She doubted he had the intellectual capacity to come up with bright ideas regardless, and even if he did, they wouldn’t be bright enough to beat her. Even still, she kept the pressure on. She’d win, no matter what, but she preferred to have full control of the game. He returned a minute later, holding a medium sized duffel bag. “Okay,” he said, taking shallow breaths. “I have the package–please don’t take anything else.” “We’ll see,” Elizabeth promised. “All I will promise is that after we’re done, you’ll never hear from me again. If your accounts remain full, that’s all well and good. If not…well, good luck getting it back, because I won’t be available to hear your begging.” He swallowed, looking between his computer and the duffel. “What are you going to do?” “Inside the duffel, there’s some water bottles, a bit of food, and an outfit,” Elizabeth explained. “Take off all of your clothes and put on the outfit. Is that understood?” Instant shock. Of course, it’s what she expected–nobody liked getting naked on camera. “What? No!” Another coin vanished with a big, dramatic notification bubble. “Oh dear,” she said, trying to pump sarcasm into her tone so that it’d come through even with the artificial processing. “You can turn your back–I don’t care about seeing your dick. Just get dressed.” That deflated his protests, and he looked again at the duffel, reluctance and greed battling in his head. She was so focused on the game that she’d lost all sense of her surroundings. She was a part of her laptop, and the vague smell permeating her bedroom, wafting off her diaper, may as well not have existed. If she leaked, she leaked, she had victory to enjoy. Defeated, her piggy unzipped the duffel, peering inside for a long moment in uncomprehension. Only after staring did he say, “No, I–I mean–please, don’t take anything. I’ll do it.” Elizabeth could have jumped for joy, if that hadn’t meant actually moving her body, taking her attention off the display and keyboard in her lap. The outfit wasn’t elaborate–just three elements–but she’d selected it with precision. Sometimes, less was more, and this was absolutely one of those instances. She genuinely couldn’t care less about his nudity, but she still watched him strip with glee, staring not at his body but at his face. The humiliation, the fear, she drank it in until she felt intoxicated. Then came the real prize–the awkward, uncertain embarrassment that came whenever she made someone put a diaper on for the first time since before they could remember. Inevitably, they always got something wrong, and she got to giggle as they worked to correct their mistakes. Her piggy laid down on his back, fumbling with the diaper. He first put it on upside down, then had to flip it, lifting his hips to slide it in place. While he did, little sounds kept escaping him–squeaks of embarrassment that he didn’t even seem to be aware of. Elizabeth’s grin just grew, seeing how his cheeks turned pink when he stuck down the tapes, sealing himself into a puffy white diaper that clung to him like a pillowy target. “And the rest,” Elizabeth said. “A diaper alone does not a piggy make.” Meekly, already halfway to being broken, her target reached for the bright pink onesie. It was mostly uniform in color, but had one bit of special decoration–a short, curled tail on the backside. He’d feel it, just a bit, when he sat down, just as she wanted. He wriggled to get into it, not understanding how the crotch buttons worked, instead stepping into it like a swimsuit and shimmying his legs into the outfit from the top, doing the shoulder snaps instead. Only one thing was left–a halloween costume pig nose, one that’d hold over his face with elastic straps. It’d be uncomfortable, and that’s what she wanted. Discomfort. A constant reminder that he was just a little piggy, with a little piggy nose. He pulled it over his face, transformation complete. Or, well–almost complete. He looked the part. Now he had to go through his training. “Alright, piggy,” Elizabeth said. “Sit down on the floor, criss-cross applesauce.” He obeyed. It meant he had to look up at his desk to see the computer screen. It also meant his posture and pose matched hers, except that he looked up at her, and she looked down at him. “I’m going to play a video for you, and it’s going to ask some questions. Every question you answer correctly, nothing will happen. Every question you answer incorrectly, I take your money away. Do you understand?” Of course he understood–and if he didn’t, she’d still start the video, just to see him struggle and try to learn by trial and error. Still, he nodded. “I won’t lie.” He’d jumped to conclusions about the question, but that just meant he’d be surprised when she showed him his video. “Please. Just don’t take anything else.” “I know you only care about your money, and I’m not lying either,” she assured him. “But this isn’t an interrogation. Consider it more…a knowledge test. If you get hungry or thirsty, or need to take a break, you can have the food in the bag. There are points in the test where you’ll have a few moments to do so. But, and this is important: Until the test is over, you won’t sit up, leave, or turn off your computer. Any of those actions count as a forfeit.” He understood the implied point, anxiety weighing down on his shoulders. “How long will this take?” “I hope you didn’t have evening plans,” she replied. He was a couple time zones ahead of her, but it still wasn’t past nine in the morning yet. “What if I need to use the bathroom?” he asked. Elizabeth didn’t feel the need to properly answer. “If you’re that dumb, piggy, I worry you’re going to fail this test. I’m starting the video now. Pay attention.” He’d already known, somewhere down in his subconscious, but the dawning moment of realization as he was no longer able to pretend still sang to her heart. Knowing, without a doubt, that he’d have to use the diaper he put on was triumphant to Elizabeth. In truth, the test was not really one of knowledge. It didn’t matter how much he knew, any toddler could answer correctly–but the questions would come fast, and they’d demand focus. He’d have to follow along for hours. Queuing it up, the cartoon began to play. A woman in colorful coveralls stood in front of a barn, and a cheerful tune began to play, simple guitar strums. “So many animals on the farm, so many sounds heard on the farm, all the animals make sounds on the farm, can you name the sounds on the animal farm?” Her piggy’s brow furrowed for a moment, confused. “I don’t–what is this?” Elizabeth didn’t reply, and the video continued. “What noise does the cow make on the farm?” He didn’t say anything. Grinning, Elizabeth removed a coin from his wallet, taking thousands of dollars away right for him to see. The song continued. “What noise does the cow make on the farm?” His eyes just widened. “What the hell?” This time, Elizabeth said, “Tsk, that’s wrong,” as she removed another coin, another couple thousand dollars in speculative value. “What noise does the cow make on the farm?” This time he got it, and finally, tentatively said, “Moo?” Elizabeth laughed, and the rest of his wallet stayed firmly place. “So many cows moo on the farm. What noise does the chicken make on the farm?” He got it, and this time, answered immediately. “Cluck.” “What noise does the chicken make on the farm?” “Cluck.” “What noise does the chicken make on the farm?” “Cluck.” “So many chickens cluck on the farm.” Elizabeth was satisfied–he’d understood, and now, all that was left was to wait and enjoy the torture. The song moved forward–next to the dog. “Woof.” Then to the cat. “Meow.” Then to her second favorite moment–the pig. “Oink.” And, finally, the crescendo of the song, where the singer asked, “What noise do you make on the farm?” Her target didn’t get it. “Um…hello? Human sound? I don’t know.” A coin vanished, and his anguish at financial loss was hilarious and cathartic. She’d picked an expensive one, too: He’d lost more than ten thousand dollars for that one little mistake. “What noise do you make on the farm?” “This is–there’s no sound for a person!” he objected, furious and near tears as she removed another coin–though, this time, she was generous and only cost him the price of a shitty car. “Think about it a little longer,” she replied, pointedly avoiding his new moniker. “What noise do you make on the farm?” Finally, with a dawning moment of humiliation, he got it. “Oink.” Success. No loss for him, as the song jingle finished its loop. “Good piggy,” Elizabeth praised. “Now, let’s see how well you learned.” The song began again, playing through the chorus–the twenty second period he’d get every repetition to drink, or to try and eat some of the food in the bag. She looked forward to that–watching him gawk as he realized she’s left him no utensils, that all the food was chosen to be as messy as possible. Would he try to lick the pudding cups out with his tongue and get it all over his face, or scoop it out with his fingers and dirty his hands? She’d even done tests with the canned spaghetti–when cold, it was slightly thick, and would come out in globs. If he tried to drink it from the can, it’d inevitably end up all over his face, and I’d get to enjoy his mollified reaction as he spilled red sauce and soggy noodles all over his piggy onesie. The song itself was only a couple minutes long, but that was fine–the repetition added to the torture. He’d have to listen to it a few hundred times before she let him off the hook–in fact, she had set it up to play on a loop until she told it to stop, and she wouldn’t be doing that until he’d leaked through his diapers and filled up the seat at least as much as she had that morning. She wanted him to really get the pig pen experience before it came to an end, after all. She could have gotten up then, letting the audio play in the background to ensure that the piggy didn’t get his answers wrong. She kept watching, though, enjoying her private performance as he enthusiastically called out the barnyard animal sounds loud and clear for fear that if he mumbled she’d take more money away. This wasn’t about justice, or punishment, or even revenge. Her target was an asshole, but that’d been the excuse to pick him as her victim, not her motivation. This was just about fun. ... Author's note: Patreon nuked my account and I'm left scrambling to try and make up the lost income and rebuild my audience from scratch. I've set up a new page on a service called Ream, which is ABDL-friendly and fiction-focused. I'd be incredibly grateful if you'd go over there to subscribe, especially if you were previously subscribed on Patreon. https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl