PeculiarChangeling

I'm stealing that quip

Another caption featuring the lovely art of HofBondage! https://www.patreon.com/hofbondage/ If you'd like to support my writing and help keep the lights on over here at Diaper Smut Inc, you can do so on Patreon or SubscribeStar: https://www.patreon.com/PeculiarChangeling https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling .. Caption reads: Mandy had calculated the risks, but her math must have had a rounding error, because she didn’t expect this. It was just a little bratting! She wanted Daddy to pull her hair, maybe put her in time out or make her wear her diapers out on their date. What she didn’t realize, though, was that Daddy could smell her plan from a mile away, and that he wouldn’t be putting up with a second of it. Daddy let Mandy have her fun. She got to play the part of the smart aleck, refusing to obey, refusing to be good, for most of the afternoon. But, no matter how hard she acted out, he refused to put her in her place–until he revealed, finally, that he’d been keeping score, and it was time for her reward: Ten spanks for every bit of misbehavior. She swallowed, first when he told her the punishment, then again when he told her how much punishment she’d earned. And, as the spankings crossed into triple digits, with no end in sight, she learned her lesson: Next time she thought she wanted to be punished, she’d remember this spanking, and think again.

This story was written for @FFU as a prize for the Virtual Fiction Story Contest! The request was fanfiction based off of their submission, which can be read here: “Hey, Boss,” Candice said, leaning back and removing her headset. “You got a second?” The late evening grind had her uncomfortable in all the worst ways–back stiff, headache setting in, ears buzzing from the slight noise of dozens of computers. But that was crunch time for her, the game had to ship in a week and if Candice didn’t start the final render and import for the in-app item purchases, they’d be releasing ‘Janthak: 2552’ without a key revenue stream. “Sure thing,” Benny said, pushing off his desk, his own rolling chair skittering on the floor as he sailed to her side. “What’s up?” “You notice anything odd about the latest batch of items we’re making?” she asked. “Like–just seems odd.” He spun around, looking at her screen. “Stuff for pets and NPCs–decorative stuff, skins. That all seems straightforward enough to me.” “Sure, but–” she cleared her throat. “Well. This list came in from Deanne.” Benny nodded, leaning in to peer more closely at the items. Deanne was known for being a bit kooky, even eccentric. She always had on a very particular necklace, and one of the IT jockeys had found it being sold online as a ‘day collar’–leading to more than a few rumors and jokes that Candice didn’t much care for. That might have been the end of it, if she hadn’t insisted on coding in an erogenous zone for kobolds, just at the small of their backs. When asked why, she insisted, ‘Historical accuracy’. And now, the list of items had her suspicions raised to full alert. “Like,” she said, pointing to one. “Diapers for child NPCs.” “That makes sense, I suppose.” Benny scratched his chin. “I mean…” “There’s programming in the file to make them…eh, functional,” Candice added. “Not just cosmetic. I skimmed the code, there’s not just the usual texture mesh and sensorium information, there’s inputs for absorbancy and capacity, so it’ll soak up fluids realistically.” “Huh.” Benny’s attention had been grasped fully, and he stretched his back out, eliciting a loud pop, so he could give this his full focus. “What else?” “Just other oddities, like…a ton of the pet accessories have way more interactivity than needed. Last VR game I worked on, pet accessories were just a toggle option. These are fully interactive, though–you can adjust them, flip them around. In theory, a player character could wear one. One of them has a lock.” “Uh…huh…” Benny continued, pursing his lips. “Okay, yeah. Weird.” “So,” Candice continued. “Like…what should I do?” “I guess load them in,” Benny shrugged. “It’s weird, but that’s not really our job.” “Sure, but–” She shook her head. “Benny, a reminder: I’m doing QA. I need to test everything.” He got it. “Ah. Well, I guess…just model them onto the in-game pets and make sure they work correctly.” “And the diapers?” she asked. “They’re absorbent, but our NPCs don’t have…those functions. Only player characters do. And I’m supposed to record the results of the tests.” They both knew who had insisted player characters have those functions–together, they both said quietly, “Deanne.” “Alright,” Benny said. “I guess…I’ll sign off on you just taking written notes instead of recording that test. Ok?” “Ugh,” Candice replied, reaching for her VR setup. “Okay.” Some found the transition from real life to VR to be a bit of a headache, even jarring, but she’d grown used to it after hundreds of trips in and out to test and debug different sims. There were, mercifully, only a handful of diapers she had to test, so as the VR sandbox spawned in around her, she loaded the first model, spawning it into place. Looking down at the puffy white garment, she unfolded it, feeling the realistic crinkle of plastic beneath her fingertips. Groaning, she unfolded the diaper, slipping out of the simulated pants she’d spawned in. The diaper folded up comfortably between her thighs–of course it did, it spawned in at exactly her measurements. Fumbling with the tapes, she moved from standing to sitting to get a better grip, and then to laying on her back, finally sticking it down properly. “Ugh,” she said, trying to pee. Her body wouldn’t let her, so she summoned a debug menu with a gesture, accessed the bladder slider–Deanne–that’d been programmed in, and turned it all the way up. She lost the ability to hold it, flooding the diaper instantly. The program worked as advertised, and the simulated diaper soaked up, swelling between her thighs. She prodded at it a few times, sat up, checked to ensure there was no clipping or masking issues. Everything seemed up to spec, so she waved a hand and dismissed the VR, popping back into reality. “Alright,” she said, leaning to her keyboard and typing up notes. Let’s– Squish. Eyes widening, she sat back and looked down–her jeans were soaked through, and as her weight shifted, she felt her office chair squelch, dribbling urine down onto the ground. “Um…oh. Right. ” she said, blushing. Raising her voice, she called out, “Barry, I need to go on break.” ... Most of what I write is released a full month in advance over on Patreon, and I am currently releasing a short story and a serialized long story monthly over there as well - that's two updates a month that never get released over here on DeviantArt! If you'd like to support my writing and help keep the lights on over here at Diaper Smut Inc, you can do so on Patreon or SubscribeStar: www.patreon.com/PeculiarChangeling subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

There are some words I’ve heard a thousand times. A million, even. So many repetitions that they lose all meaning, except as signifiers of something else. “Things could be worse,” to say, “Stop complaining.” “Millennials,” to say, “Anyone younger than me who I disagree with.” And, “We saw you from across the bar, and we really dig your vibe,” to say, “We’d like to use you as a sexual object, but have no understanding of how to maintain a healthy nonmonogamous relationship.” The speaker of that last line was a woman, maybe thirty or a bit older, with a chintzy necklace and long, blonde hair. I could see her partner, a man a few years her senior, sitting at the end of the bar nursing a pale blond beer. Meanwhile, her comment was directed at another girl sitting next to me who was barely old enough to be drinking. From my little chatting with the girl, Katrina, I knew she lacked experience enough to recognize the threat in front of her. Already, I knew the dynamic. His partner–the woman–would be bait, the friendly face to reel in girls for a one night stand, or perhaps a few flings, before discarding the girl the moment she became too much of a burden. Maybe the girl would need help with something, or just talk about herself too much, or assume that their emotional sharing was a two-way-street. Either way, she’d be dumped like hot garbage, and the couple would be on to a new target in a day. I didn’t like couples like that. “Here, let me get you a drink, have you had a ‘Red Headed Gabriel’?” the woman said to the girl. “Oh, and I’m Esmay, my husband’s name is Louis.” The girl, flattered by the attention, smiled. “Katrina.” Names. Useful. I filed those away in my brain and got to my feet, shuffling down the bar. Pulling up next to Louis, I said, “You’re new, aren’t you?” He looked me up and down. I could tell he had no interest–he was here to find a pretty young girl, threesomes with another man were off the table. “I saw the event post on Fet,” he replied. “We’ve been poly for about a year now, though.” I nodded. Another useful detail. Good. “How’s it treating you?” “Oh, great,” he replied, grinning as he sipped his beer. I saw the brag coming a mile away. Retellings of his sexual conquest, and he opened his mouth to confirm my assumption. “I’ve had more girls…” I tuned him out. I didn’t need to hear those details. I looked down the end of the bar, to where Esmay was wooing Katrina, plying her with a cherry-red drink that was far more alcoholic than it tasted. “...of course, she does all the work,” Louis continued. “Can’t complain about having twice as many girls in bed.” I knew the answer, but wanted to hear it from his lips, so I asked, “Always girls?” “Absolutely,” he confirmed. “Sorry, buddy–you’re not our type.” “Don’t worry,” I replied with a smile, one that I hoped would be interpreted as friendly and innocent. “I wasn’t suggesting that.” “That’s the rule, anyways,” Louis continued. “Esmay can date any girls she wants, and so can I, but I’m the only man in the relationship. It keeps things simple.” I hid my disgust with a sip of my drink. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m one of the event organizers here–if you’ve ever got any issues, you can send me a message. Can I add you as a friend?” He nodded, taking out his phone. I got his contact info–his username, ‘SirDominant7’, caused me to hide an eyeroll, but I added him anyway. “I’m Davis,” I added, shaking his hand. I had his profile, his face, and his name. I didn’t need much else except time, and a bit of effort, but I did need to do one more thing. Walking back to my original seat, I planted myself next to the girl, and the woman. “Sorry to interrupt, Katrina,” I said, getting in the way of her flustered conversation with Esmay. “But I do need to leave soon, and we’d talked about getting you vetted for the next dungeon meetup–would you like to do that now?” “Oh, sure,” Katrina said, glancing back at me. “When did you say the beginner hypno instructional was?” Esmay’s smile flickered at the change of topic, but she said, “We can talk later, Katie–come down and see us at the end of the bar!” I took Katrina to the side, and explained the birds and the unicorns to her. I didn’t tell her not to go with the couple, but I did warn her what to expect–emotional negligence–and ensured that dear god please she had to use a condom and make sure they’d been tested. Katrina didn’t go home with the couple. She was safe for the night. Now I just had to handle them so the community would be safe at large. … I’d expected things to be simple. With a bit of digging, I could typically find red flags, enough to put out a general warning to the poly community, at least those in my circle. Enough ostracization, and most unicorn hunters got the point. What I found was far, far worse. Louis wasn’t just the head of a crappy one-penis-policy polyamorous relationship, using women as threesome fodder. He was, to put it bluntly, a bastard. Through the grapevine, through my relationships, I was able to count the number of people Louis had slept around with on the sly. He wasn’t claiming to be poly with these people, but pretending to be single, cheating on Esmay at every opportunity. He openly bragged about being a dominant, masculine figure, disparaging any man he saw as lesser, while slinking around behind his wife’s back. Esmay, for her part, just seemed negligent. She didn’t seem to understand their relationship dynamic beyond being something Louis required to keep their marriage together. I couldn’t find a single partner she’d had as part of their ‘polyamorous’ relationship that wasn’t simply threesome fodder. She didn’t even seem particularly interested in girls, which made the, ‘You can’t date any men,’ rule all the more odious. Maybe I could have done my usual routine–put out a general warning through my social grapevine, ensure that as many people as possible knew to stay away from this couple, and leave it be. But then Louis made The Post. The Post was six thousand words deriding kink, deriding kinksters, claiming that anyone who enjoyed anything not to his own personal taste was a degenerate–with a particular focus on calling out diaper fetishists and ageplay. My usual methods wouldn’t suffice. I needed to try something stronger. So I went back to the bar at the next meetup. I doubted that the couple would be discouraged by one success, and my suspicions were confirmed–the two of them were at the end of the bar once more, eyeing a new girl who wasn’t even there for the poly meetup. I waited for Esmay to make her move, then walked down to the end of the bar once again, sitting next to Louis. “Hey,” he said, scowling at me. “What did you say to Katie last week?” No need to be subtle. Taking a coin from my pocket, I held it up, so he could see the silvery metal shimmer in the barlight. “I showed her this. You know what this is?” He hesitated. I had his attention. “No.” “Take a look at the polish,” I said. “It’s… …and drop.” The induction took minutes, but the script was so familiar to me, and his mind so weak, that he folded like a cheap suit. When I said ‘Drop’, his expression fell, and he stared at me without comprehension. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” I said. “When Esmay returns, you’re going to tell her you want to try something new. You’re going to invite me home, but when we get there, you’ll be feeling too under the weather–your drink won’t be sitting right with you. You’ll go out and lie on the couch, listening to whatever Esmay and I get up to. You won’t touch yourself.” His eyes widened, but his mouth couldn’t respond. He stammered. A little beer-spittle dribbled down the edge of his chin. “You won’t touch yourself, period,” I continued. “You’re going to find yourself flaccid, no matter how much you try, no matter how much you want it. Your dick is closed for business. When Esmay wants sex, you’ll tell her to call me instead, or she can simply please herself. For all I care, she can find another partner–but she won’t get anything from you.” He blinked. I could see the fear, even in a face that couldn’t move beneath the layers of hypnotic control. “And another thing,” I said. “I’ve decided I want control of your dignity–someone as immature as you doesn’t deserve respect. You will forget how to use the potty. You’ll understand what it is, that it’s something most grown ups have control over, but not you. When you ruin your pants, you’ll need my permission to clean yourself. You’ll need to go buy diapers, and when you do, I will control those too–when you change, and when you don’t. If you need a fresh diaper, you will ask me. Only when I respond–and not a second sooner–will you be able to clean yourself up. If I don’t have my phone on me, you may need to wait for a long, long time.” There was one thing left to do. I thought this might be a bit too much–we were in public, after all–but in the moment I couldn’t resist the temptation. “When I snap my fingers,” I said, “You’re going to stand up, squat down, and poop your pants. As you do, you’ll feel my control taking over in your head–with every push, you won’t just be loading the last pair of big boy underwear you’ll get to wear, you’ll be pushing out all your potty training, your dignity, your ability to get hard. You’ll know that it’s all gone when your pants begin to sag and you can smell what you’ve done.” Smiling wickedly, I admired the way his lips trembled–I’d scared him so much his emotions were coming through even beneath the space I’d dropped him into. “Are you ready?” I asked. He tried to shake his head, his eyes darting back and forth. I snapped my fingers. Gasping, unable to control himself, Louis got to his feet. He was staring at me all the while–eyes burning with helpless, indignant rage, pleading for me to stop him, wanting any sort of interruption. I offered no such reprieve, and his furious, pouting blush warmed my heart. Squatting down, he puffed up his cheeks, stifled a grunt, and began to push. I saw it leave his face–the knowledge of how to control himself, to be considered an equal amongst adults, to achieve sexual satisfaction–and the stain that bulged out the back of his pants told me when he’d bottomed out. Even a dribble of pee escaped him, though I hadn’t required that, staining the crotch of his jeans a dark, wet blue. He stood, eyes darting to the bathroom, but I hadn’t given permission. He could not clean himself up, no matter the stink wafting up from his sagging, stained bluejeans. Esmay returned, then. “Hey, babe, who’s…um…” Nose wrinkling, she didn’t disguise her smirk. “This is Davis,” he said, stiffly. “I want to try something new tonight–why don’t we take him home instead?” She seemed uncertain, so I stepped in. “Louis said he was having some stomach troubles–Louis, why don’t you go get cleaned up in the bathroom while your wife and I talk?” He nodded, eyes bulging with humiliation and impotent frustration. I took his seat, and Esmay sat next to me, while her husband waddled helplessly to the bathroom to clean up his poopy bottom as best he could. “So,” I said. “Would you be interested in another man? Louis told me you’ve only had girls over until now.” Esmay’s expression was confused for a moment, and her face had screwed up from the smell, but at my question her eyes flashed with delight. “If he says it’s okay, absolutely, I just hadn’t expected him to change his mind on that.” “Good.” I smiled. “I expect Louis is going to be changing a lot in these next few days.” ... I hope you enjoyed ! If you want to support the creation of stories like this, you can give me a couple dollars on Patreon, and get early access and exclusive content to boot: https://www.patreon.com/PeculiarChangeling https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

What ever gave you the impression that her physical exercise habits have changed? She was never much of one for the gym.

Chapter 20: Moral Fiber Contains: Teasing, messing, crawling, mild bondage clothing ... “Yuck,” Grace said, pulling her face back from the sludge on Pearce’s spoon. “What is that?” “Oatmeal,” he replied innocently. “Breakfast, in general. Something wrong?” She eyed it, swallowing a little to clear her mouth. “It’s gluey. You cooked it wrong.” “I cooked it just right,” Pearce replied. “Now. Say aaaa, you’ve got breakfast to eat.” Grace felt a sliver of suspicion, and tried to cut through Pearce’s innocent expression with her eyes. Had he cooked it poorly on purpose, to make it gross and unpleasant? Was this another ploy? He’d made oatmeal in the past and it hadn’t been this claggy, this gelatinous. Clearly, something was up, but she couldn’t puzzle out what. “Aaa,” she said. Another spoonful might help her discern the taste, what went wrong in cooking. It just felt…too thick. Like he hadn’t added enough water. The taste was the same–a bit of brown sugar and a little cream, pretty pleasant, the only objectionable element was the taste. But Pearce had on a suppressed grin, an expression of amusement. He liked that she didn’t like the food. Swallowing, Grace demanded, “What did you d–mph–” A spoon interrupted her question, jammed between her lips, more sludgy oatmeal. A little got on her chin, and he scraped it up with the spoon, waiting for her to open and swallow. She did, swallowing, then raising her hand to block another oatmeal assault. “What did you do to the oatmeal?” “Nothing you need to worry about,” Pearce replied. “Do you want me to add anything?” “It’s gross,” she said. “Maybe more milk to un-glueify it?” He considered her request and shrugged. “I suppose that’s fair.” While he did as she requested, she suckled on her bottle of coffee. She hadn’t even needed to ask this morning–instead just providing her with coffee just the way she liked it. Maybe a bit stronger than normal–did he want her to have a caffeine buzz? (What the heck is he planning?) He thinned out the oatmeal with another splash of milk, then picked up her bottle, topping off the coffee. Lifting another spoonful of less-offensively textured breakfast, he said in sing-song, “Alright then–no more fussing. Here comes the airplane…” … Pearce continued to behave strangely that morning. More attentive than normal–regular diaper checks, and he at least walked by her room once every ten or twenty minutes. When her coffee ran dry, he refilled it right away, ensuring she had water to drink as well. (Is he trying to over-hydrate me?) she wondered, sipping coffee while she reviewed some code. (I don’t really mind being wet, and a change is as inconvenient for him as it is for me. Could he really just be acting nice for the sake of being nice? Does he want to ensure I can’t leak, hence all the checks?) She couldn’t figure it out. He had gone through the trouble of souping up her diaper situation to prevent leaks–each change now came with an additional layer of puffy padding stuck inside with an adhesive back, a ‘stuffer’, and yesterday there’d been plastic pants overtop the diaper. Today, though, there was no cover, just the stuffer. Her outfit had included fewer inconveniences–he’d left her diaper exposed, giving her a T-shirt and stockings. When she asked why, he’d said it was for easier checks. The only issue was the booties, which had their feet lined with metal triangles. Trying to walk in them was like walking on lego–an issue that didn’t matter while she sat down, but it made walking more inconvenient than even the spreader bar. While she worked on two projects, her programming job and the puzzle of Pearce’s behavior, she felt her stomach grumble. The pressure came stronger and faster than usual. She’d been generally holding it until the end of the day, shortly before she expected Pearce would administer her evening bath. It made cleanup easier for the both of them, after all. She eyed the coffee. (Maybe I’ve had enough.) Then she eyed it again, eyes narrowing. (Is that his plan?) Pushing up from her office chair, she dropped to her hands and knees. She needed to go see something, even if it meant crawling all the way across the house. Maybe she’d been wrong to think this outfit was getting off light. Crawling meant sticking her butt up in the air, and her butt being up in the air meant its moderately soggy state was extremely visible. Pearce saw her through his open bedroom door and snickered, though he didn’t otherwise comment. Stairs were harder. Crawling down seemed like a recipe for slipping and falling, so she turned around, crawling backwards, butt-first down the stairs. While she shuffled down, one step at a time, Melody met her on the way up. “Hey,” Melody said. “That’s…a look he’s got you in.” “These booties are a pain,” Grace agreed, blushing as she reached the base of the stairs. The rest of the crawl saw no interruptions, and she felt glad that the window curtains were pulled, so that her crinkly, soggy bottom wouldn’t be on display to the neighbors. She got to the kitchen, pulled over a stool so she could get height without standing, and clambered up, kneeling on it to get a look in the cupboards. She found the evidence she needed. In Pearce’s section of the cupboard, a big plastic tub of powdered fiber supplement. “That ass–” she started to say. “Feeling snacky?” Pearce asked from behind her. She whirled, slipped, and nearly fell off the stool. Pearce jumped to help, but she caught herself on the counter before she could tumble down, and she snapped at him, “You’re drugging me?” “Not even a little.” Pearce smirked triumphantly. “Just making sure you get your fill of nutrients–I don’t think anyone would say fiber is a drug.” Her bowels gurgled again. Definitely too much coffee. “You want to make me use the diaper more so I get annoyed and quit.” “Duh,” he replied. “I know you don’t like being Little Miss Stinkypants, so what better way to force your hand?” She shot him a glare, but couldn’t argue against the tactic. He had a point. Only, there was a counterpoint. “I’ve never known you to like changing my…dirty diapers,” she shot back. “I believe the rules call them your ‘Little baby poopy diapers,’” Pearce replied confidently. “But we’ll see who balks first.” “We’ll see,” Grace said, glowering. It seemed prudent to assert her lack of caring just then, so she leaned forward on the stool. (Fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it–) She would never have described the feeling as triumphant, but when Pearce’s eyebrows raised in surprise, she did at least feel a little surge of dominance. That was undercut by the swelling of mush that bulged out the back of her exposed diaper, and a blush bloomed on her puffed-up cheeks as she pushed, but she didn’t back down. “Okay then,” she said. She almost demanded, ‘Change me’, but that’d be in violation of the rules, so she just said, “We really will see, won’t we?” He hesitated, just for a moment, but his confidence returned and he took out his phone. Tapping a few buttons, he turned around the screen so she could see it–a timer for fifty five minutes. Just shy of an hour. “Have fun, poopy pants,” he replied, turning to waltz away. She grumbled, dropping to the floor, sticking her butt in the air, and scooting on hands and knees back towards her room. The crawling was easier going up the stairs than down, but every shift of her thighs back and forth made the mush in her diaper squelch. Back in her room, sitting down in her office chair with a squelch, she realized his other trick. Without clothes, without plastic pants, there was little to contain the stink wafting off her diaper. Her bedroom was going to smell awful if she just sat around and waited almost an hour for Pearce to come around. (I could open a window,) she considered. (Or…) Unplugging her laptop, she rolled her office chair away from her desk, pushing against walls and furniture with her hands for locomotion. Rolling out into the hall, she scooted right on into Pearce’s room, moving a halting foot at a time. He glanced up at her. “What’re you doing?” “I’m feeling very mischievous,” she said, dragging herself forward until her chair was right next to his, setting her laptop on his desk. “I need supervision, I’d say, so I don’t get into trouble.” The smell wafting off her diaper struck him, and he wrinkled his nose. “I think you’re fine in your own room.” “Well,” she replied. “I’d rather be here.” To Pearce’s credit, he didn’t take her gambit lying down. Standing, he grabbed the back of her office chair, dragging it towards the edge of his room, towards the exit. Grace simply flopped out of the chair, crawling back towards his desk. “I can sandbag better than you can wrestle me,” she smirked up at him. “You know your options. For me to smell, you’ve got to smell me.” He checked his phone, looking at the timer, then groaned and walked over to his chair. “Well, don’t let me keep you from working,” he said, sitting down. Grace wished he’d just capitulate then and there, but he lasted an admirable fifteen minutes before pushing away from his desk and throwing up his hands. “Fine!” he said. “Let’s get you changed.” She smirked up at him. “If you insist!” There was no bathtime before lunch. When he got out the wipes and a fresh diaper, Pearce realized he’d have to be thorough this time–he couldn’t just let the bath deal with getting her a hundred percent clean. And, relishing her victory, Grace didn’t help in the slightest. She played the sandbag, laying on the ground, only following his instructions to lift her hips after coaxing and whining and complaining. It took him ten minutes to get her clean, and his face was screwed up in response to the stink the whole time. Half a box of wipes later, though, she was clean, powdered, and freshly diapered. “Thanks!” she said with a smirk, crawling back to her laptop. “Or, I guess, you’re welcome–this is what you wanted, right?” He glowered, discarding all the changing supplies into a sealed trash bag. “Do you still want my ‘supervision’?” “Hmm,” Grace said, thinking. She had another trick up her sleeve, one to really cement things. When she’d gone in the kitchen, she hadn’t completely gone. A little pressure still remained. A little need. She briefly pondered how long to wait. Five minutes? Ten? (Let’s do this now. He doesn’t get a break.) Leaning forward in her computer chair, Grace almost let out a giggle as she mucked her second diaper in as many hours. Not a lot–just enough to smell awful and be a pain to clean up, all that she had in her. Pearce stared down at her in shock. “Seriously? I just changed you.” Grace giggled for real this time. She didn’t care about the state of her diaper, just about the triumph. “Your face…It’s priceless.” After that day, there were no more concerns of fiber in her food. ... I'm not going to spoil anything, but the next chapter of this story - which you can read over on Patreon today - has so far been a fan favorite, because something happens that readers have been waiting for since chapter one. If you can't take the wait, or if you'd just like to support my writing and help put food on my table, you can support me on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/PeculiarChangeling https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

? ? ? ? ? Y'all are very sweet, thank you!

To be honest - I hadn't initially planned on a part two, but so many people are asking for one I think I can come up with something. Watch out for a public post sometime next month!

December. The month of Christmas, the month of Solstice, the month of holiday cheer. And the month of Finals. Snow blustered in windy circles as I trudged down campus. I wanted to be out having fun–relaxing, taking the time off, maybe indulging a bit in a little kinky fun while my roommate was gone for the weekend–but I had papers to write. I’d compromised. I wouldn’t blow off work entirely, but I’d at least put something puffy and absorbent on, and if I hit my study goals, I’d give myself a little time to have fun in the diaper. It made the day a bit more exciting, and helped incentivize me to focus. Being cooped up in my dorm would have been too painful, so I’d passed on that. The library was only a few blocks away–and despite the snow, it wasn’t too cold, just wintry. With a couple layers on, I almost found it comfortable. Outside the library, something unusual struck me. A girl–I thought she was a student, though I couldn’t be certain–had on bright red and fluffy white robes, with a floppy red hat atop it all, standing behind a table. She was chubby enough to fill out the Santa role perfectly, with red cheeks and a smile that could infect anyone with mirth from twenty paces. In front of her table, tentatively secured with overstretched duct tape, was a posterboard sign advertising hot chocolate for two dollars. I stopped and looked it over. She had thermoses ready to go, paper cups inside plastic packaging that had a small rock set inside it so they wouldn’t all blow away, and for only two dollars it barely felt like it cost anything. “Spare a couple bucks for charity?” The Santa girl asked. She’d dressed for the weather–leg warmers over insulated leggings, and her hat came down over her ears. “I’d spare a dollar for hot chocolate anyways,” I replied, smiling. “What’s the charity?” “I’m raising money for the Dearby Animal Shelter,” she said. “If I can sell forty cups, that’ll cover a puppy’s adoption fees.” I glanced past her, through the library’s glass entry doors. “Do you know if they allow drinks in there?” “As long as you stay in the seating area at the front,” Santa said, gesturing with a cheerful smile. “I asked a couple days ago to make sure.” Digging in my coat, I produced my wallet. “Are you going to be out here all morning?” “All day!” she replied. “If it doesn’t get too cold, at least–I’ve got a sandwich and all the hot cocoa I can drink, so I’m gonna be out here till it gets dark.” Maybe it was just already on my brain because of the diaper crinkling between my thighs, but I joked, “Well, be sure to squeeze in a bathroom break in, here or there.” She giggled and–blushed? I expected a reply like, ‘Oh, of course’, but she demurred and said nothing. Was she not planning on taking bathroom breaks? How, unless…? (I’m reading too much into this,) I thought. (She’s flushed because it’s cold.) Drawing out a ten dollar bill, I said, “Keep the change, I’m happy to help out some puppies.” She beamed, pouring me a cup of cocoa. I expected the kind made from generic-brand powder, but the slurry she poured into the cup was rich and thick and smooth. She passed the cup to me, and I took a sip. “Holy shit,” I muttered. She raised her eyebrows, in the middle of placing my ten bucks into a metal box. “What?” “That’s delicious,” I said. “Two dollars is a steal.” Santa smiled. “If you wanted to say that to everyone walking by, it’d probably help sales.” I paused, smirking, and slung my backpack off my shoulder. “I have an idea.” She tilted her head. “What’s that?” Producing a fat-tipped blue highlighter, I moved to her hand-written sign and added in my own handwriting, “Five stars, Delicious, Homemade, Two Dollars is a steal - A Satisfied Customer”. She stepped forward to read my note, and her eyes sparkled. “Thank you!” “You’re welcome,” I said. Hefting my backpack, I added, “Good luck–I’ve really got to get to studying, but I hope you sell plenty of cocoas.” “If you want a refill, please come get one,” she replied. I raised an eyebrow and smirked. “I will absolutely come take you up on that, so be sure to cut me off before I drink your whole supply.” We both giggled, and I walked into the library, my day a fair bit brighter than it’d been twenty minutes before. I settled into one of the tables, took out my laptop, and got to work. Chocolate nectar sweet on my lips, and Santa’s giggle echoing in my ears, I was ready to take on the world. Or, at least, ready to write essays. My focus lasted a solid ninety minutes. My diaper helped–when I felt the need to pee, I didn’t need to interrupt my work, I could just let go and keep going, though the sensation of warmth spreading between my legs did make me squirm with delight. Nobody could tell beneath my clothes, it was my secret. And my gaze kept drifting to Santa. We could see each other through the library’s glass doors–she was sipping cocoa, chatting with customers. And she didn’t take any breaks. It’d only been ninety minutes, though–that wasn’t an unreasonable amount of time to hold it, not in the slightest. I had to be imagining things. I had to. As I finished up the easy essay on my list, my cocoa cup ran dry, and I chose to reward myself with a refill. Stepping out, I pulled my arms close, holding up my cup. “About that refill,” I said. She smiled, lifting her thermos. “Of course! How’s the studying going?” “Thousand word essay is done,” I said. “Next one’s the real beast, though–I’ve got to write five thousand words on the history of potatoes.” “Ooh, exciting,” she snickered. “I plan on titillating readers with the thrilling tale of starch,” I snarked back. “I’m not taking too much if I come back for one more cup later, am I? I’d hate for you to run out.” “Oh, please,” she replied, gesturing with a foot to the big canister thermoses at the base of the table. “I’ve got more cocoa than I have cups. If running out were an issue, I’d be the real problem–I’ve had about five cups already.” “Ooh, they say you’re not supposed to sample your own products,” I said. She laughed, her tummy jiggling–don’t think it, don’t think it–like a bowlful of jelly. “Oh, I’m not sampling, I’m a full-blown addict,” she explained. “How do you think I got the recipe just right?” My cup refilled and my soul refueled, I said, “I should get back to it. Thanks for the refill.” “Of course,” Santa replied. “Thanks for helping the puppies.” “And seriously–” I added. “If you don’t cut me off, I will be back for more.” What passed next was two more hours of good, solid focus. I didn’t just drink cocoa–I also detoured to the water fountain so I wouldn’t die of a sugar headache–but the hot, creamy elixir kept me sustained. Now that she’d pointed it out, though, I also noticed her own fluid consumption. She was drinking a cup or two an hour, while I sipped mine and made it last. I couldn’t begrudge her–it was cold outside, the cocoa was warm, there was nothing wrong with it–but I had to wonder where it was all going. I’d had to pee twice since arriving, but she seemed to have a bladder like a steel trap. (Or…) I couldn’t see even the tiniest hint of puff around her butt, but it was concealed by long crimson robes and layers of insulated clothing. If she had on a diaper, it’d be as invisible as my own. I’d brown-bagged my own lunch, same as her, and this time, I timed my break around her own schedule. When I saw her take a sandwich out of her bag, I saved my work, closed up my computer, and walked outside. Holding up the paper bag with my own sandwich and some chips, I asked, “Mind if I join you?” “Sure!” she said, eyes sparkling as she stepped to the side so I had room to set the bag on her table. “What’ve you got?” “BLT,” I said. “You?” “Oooh, that sounds tasty,” she said. “I just made a PB&J.” “Want to share?” I asked. “Halvsies?” She snickered. “What, are we in middle school?” I almost rescinded the offer with an abashed comment, but before I could, she added, “That sounds nice, actually.” Removing half of her sandwich from its cellophane wrapping–she’d cut it into two rectangles–she gave me one. I gave her a triangle of my BLT. “How’re sales going?” I asked, eating the savory sandwich first. “Great,” she said. “Your note is really helping, people keep stopping to ask who wrote it.” “I wondered why everyone kept staring at me,” I joked. “I figured they just recognized me from the wanted poster.” “But seriously, thanks. I’ve sold like sixty cups already!” “That’s a puppy and a half, right?” I asked. She beamed and nodded. “Awesome!” I wanted to ask. I desperately wanted to ask, but I wasn’t going to be a creep, no matter how much the curiosity burned. Instead, I said, “So are you a student here?” “Guilty as charged,” she replied. “I haven’t picked a degree yet. Kind of want to be a vet, but like–I don’t know I want to do that, you know? So I’m just collecting credits for now.” “I get that,” I replied, finishing off the BLT and moving to the half-PB&J I’d received from Santa. “Have you considered going into toy delivery?” She laughed. “I almost didn’t dress up, y’know. But this was warmer than my other jacket anyways, so I figured–why not?” “Next time you can bring coal too, for people who don’t buy the cocoa,” I suggested. Santa smirked, picking up her cocoa to sip it. “So what about you? What’re you doing here?” “Disappointing my parents,” I replied. “Or, well–I’m a theater major. English minor.” Snorting, she sprayed cocoa out of her lips mid-sip. A little got on me, and she blurted, “Sorry!” “It’s fine!” I replied, wiping off my jacket with the palm of my hand. “I timed that quip pretty unfortunately. Don’t worry about it.” “Well, here,” she said, picking up her thermos. “Let me at least treat you to a bit more, since I’m getting it all over your clothes anyways.” “Do you have any napkins? You got some on your robe too,” I added, pointing to a little dark stain on the red. She shrugged. “I’ll rinse it out later. Trying to sop it up in the cold would be pretty pointless–my clothes are too absorbent.” Giggling at her own joke, I definitely saw her flush rise a little more. (That’s–that’s definitely a blush. Is it because she said her clothes were absorbent? Would she be that brazen? Why am I thinking about it this much?) I felt myself struck by a clumsy tongue, unsure how to speak without blurting, ‘So are you wearing a diaper?’. She noticed my apprehension, and we ate in a slightly awkward but otherwise pleasant silence. “Whelp,” I said, hefting my backpack. “Back to work.” “Good luck,” she replied. “I’ll be here a few more hours at least–I know there’s a big club rally meeting something-or-other here at four, and I want to be here to get them all coming through. That might be as many sales as I got the whole rest of the day!” This time, I really buckled down. Really. I wasn’t constantly glancing up, wondering if–or when–she might finally take a break to come inside and pee. There was no way she could hold it this long. Not as much cocoa as she’d drank. She had to–(stop thinking about it, you’ve got work to do)–but then she’d said her clothes were absorbent, was that a coy joke, or–(shut up, horny brain. Study.) I got a couple more pages done in a couple more hours, wrapping up around three thirty. Enough to be satisfied with the day’s work, and by this point, my diaper had become saturated. Much longer, and I’d have to start worrying about leaks, about my discreet padding becoming an indiscreet stain on my pants. I had to pee, a little, and wanted to get back to the dormitory to change before the inevitable happened. Coming to a stopping point, I started to pack up. That’s when calamity struck. It was terrible timing, really, and just bad luck. The wind had picked up, a little, with more flurries twisting in little cyclone circles. While Santa was crouched, getting a new thermos of cocoa, the tape holding her sign in place finally lost its stickiness, a mix of cold, wind, and snowy damp. The sign flipped up, caught in a gust, and knocked over the plastic bag over her stack of paper cups, sending them flying like bowling pins. The weight inside, the little rock, wasn’t enough to do a thing–cups scattered into the wind, spilling across the ground. Santa stepped back in shock. Desperately, she tried to grab a few off the ground, but even the ones she picked up were contaminated with dirty sidewalk snow, unusable. I ran out the door, trying to help. There was nothing to be done. A handful of cups were still in the bag, but only a handful, and the ones that had scattered were useless even if they hadn’t blown away. Eyes turning to huge puddles, Santa whispered, “No–” “Jeez, I–” I started, looking for words. With little else to do, I at least ran over and grabbed the sign, sticking it back down onto the table. “I’m sorry. But hey, you got a bunch of sales already, right?” “Yeah, but… the club meeting. I’m going to miss the club meeting. That’s why I came here today.” Her eyes began to water, and her sniffle had nothing to do with the cold. I recognized the ‘I-don’t-know-what-to-do’ panic, while she whispered, “It…I…” Time to be helpful. “Okay, no problem. You’ve still got a few cups left, and there’s a gas station a few blocks away from here–I think they sell solo cups for the party kids. I’ll go get a box and be right back, okay?” Her panic froze on her face, melting into surprised relief. “You’d do that?” “For puppies? Any day,” I said, smiling as confidently as I could. “Thanks!” She said, “And–hurry, please!” “Of course. Be right back.” Turning, I half-jogged down the sludgy sidewalk, hustling through snowmelt to get the cups in time. Easy. No problem. I wouldn’t be getting back to my dorm before I had to pee again, but that didn’t matter–my diaper could hold a little more, and it was worth the inconvenience to provide a little Christmas miracle. I got a hundred cups for eight dollars from the gas station, paused to pee somewhere without wind or cold, and then hurried back to the library, my diaper squelching warmly with every step. I barely noticed, too task-focused to care. A car was pulling up to the front of the library as I ran up, bag of cups in my hand. Santa was looking around, concerned, not a single cup on her table. She saw me, and her eyes lit up. “Merry Christmas!” I called, running the last half block up, just as a few students looked over the table, doing the math, recognizing the deal, and dubiously figuring out which of them had cash to pay for the hot chocolate. Stepping up, I announced, “I’ve got cups for the pups–let’s get this cocoa sold.” She smiled. I smiled. Then I set out the cups, and we went to town pouring out cocoa, collecting cash, and chatting with customers. We made a perfect Christmas team. The club rolled through like a storm. Almost a hundred people, enough to completely fill up the library’s ample meeting spaces, and more than half of them got cocoa. Some got two cups. Some passed over wadded twenty dollar bills, just wanting to donate to charity. I chalked it up to the quality of the cocoa. Santa said it was all due to Christmas cheer. In half an hour, the last stragglers had gone through. Santa and I were laughing and giggling. She still hadn’t taken a bathroom break, even with me there to help. I knew I had to ask, even if I was nervous about the results. “Hey…” I said, anxious to say the words. “I need to ask you something.” She looked me up and down, her giggle dying as her expression turned shy. Not concerned, just uncertain. “Oh, yeah?” “Um…” I rubbed at the back of my neck. “Can I get your number?” Smiling, she nodded. “Sure. And my name’s Emily.” “Right! I’m Sam.” My eyebrows shot up, and I blushed. “Shoot, I–I’d just been thinking you were Santa herself.” She laughed. “Well, Sam–if you want to get coffee sometime, I’d love to.” “I’m more of a cocoa person, really,” I admitted. “But thanks.” I didn’t need to ask about what she had on. It didn’t matter–I liked her, and she seemed to like me. Maybe the rest would work out, maybe it wouldn’t, but for now it was coming close to Christmas and I felt happy. I helped her pack up, and we polished off the last thermos of cocoa together. “Do you need help carrying this anywhere?” I asked, gesturing to the box of empty thermoses, the folded up table, the bag of trash and various remaining supplies. “I’ve got a friend coming to pick me up here soon,” she replied, “But thanks.” “Happy to help,” I said, smiling. “So…see you later?” “Sure. But…” she added, blushing and glancing away as she stood back. “Maybe pull your jacket down. I didn’t want to say anything before, while other people were around, but you, erm, leaked.” My eyes widened, and my face turned bright pink. “O-oh!” “I don’t mind,” she said. “And you can only really tell if you’re looking down at the back of your pants. Just thought you’d want to know.” Bright pink, I said, “Um…thanks. I–um–I was–erm, thanks.” “You’re welcome,” she replied, shyly, before quietly confessing. “Don’t worry. You’re not the only one.” She stepped up to me. She had to get on her tiptoes and lean forward, but she planted a kiss on my cheek. “Merry Christmas.” I looked at myself in the mirror–I had a big lipstick mark on my cheek. I didn’t want to wash it off, not for the world. I beamed. “Merry Christmas.” ... What's this? A Christmas Story in January? Well, sure, this was released in early December for my supporters on Patreon and SubscribeStar, so they got it just in time for the holidays. That said, I hope the cuteness holds up and you enjoyed my spin on a cutesy, Hallmark style AB/DL romance! https://www.patreon.com/PeculiarChangeling https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

I might at some point! It got a ton of votes in a recent Patreon poll but didn't quite take first place, so it's on the backburner at the moment - but the possibility exists if I can find the time.

Y'all didn't make this easy on me, did you? I decided to add a second place prize, of 40$ prize/donation in your name or a micro fiction commission. Everything was just so close - it really came down to the wire, and I had a very hard time choosing. Going down the list, though, I really want to give shoutouts to everyone, because every story was very good and the different variations on the theme were wild and fantastic! @PaddedWarriorPrince, you ended your story with a heck of a twist, but one that was foreshadowed and made sense given the world you'd set up - props to you! @ImprobableLemon - way to hit me in the feels. The emotional impact and the way you showed intrusive thoughts and mental self harm off in the story, the way it was balanced against ageplay and the calming regressive experience, it hit very well. @willnotwill, I really enjoyed the world building of yours, and in particular the way that the ageplay and diaper elements were worked into a military setting with a plausible, if fantastical, excuse! The concept of having to fly missions with only VR to protect the pilots from nightmarish mental scarring is a really cool idea, and one that seems almost akin to more classic horror. (Take away a bit more control from the pilot and I could start making comparisons to Iron Lung.) @FFU, put simply: Yours was just a whole lot of fun. Well written throughout, and the ongoing sense of, 'Oh no, what's this boy gotten himself into' was palpable. It felt very tightly paced without being rushed, and I really enjoyed the combination of Streamer Gaming style energy with the VR. I'll deliberate a bit later down, but first, I'm just going to announce the winner: @ImprobableLemon, congratulations on winning First Place! @FFU, congratulations on winning a very close Second Place! It was so, so close. I knew when I set this up that the hardest thing is having to tell someone that they didn't win, and you made that absolutely true - this was a difficult decision. Anyways - congrats! I'll be messaging the winners to work out details!

Awesome! Submissions are now closed - I'll get all of these read and have my final decision within the next week!

I've read both submissions so far, and enjoyed them both! There's about forty six hours left if anyone else wants to sneak in under the wire!

I forgot to update the title of this to mention that Part 3 was out, but it's out! Also - Over on Patreon, my subscribers voted overwhelmingly to get an additional sequel to this. It's going to be a backer exclusive, so if you want to check that out and support me, please go take a look on Patreon! https://www.patreon.com/posts/magic-collar-76568945

I had a very good time collaborating on a new #ABDL zine released just in time for Xmas, with a ton of cool artists and writers in the community. It's both on sale now, and "On Sale!" now, with 60% off for the rest of the year if you use the link below (or enter the code 'merrychristmas' ! https://peculiarchangeling.gumroad.com/l/Gifts/merrychristmas Featuring the talent of myself, Princess Molly, Sophie and Pudding, JuiceBox, CrayonsNThings , FantasiaByte, Drizzlebyte, Thomas 'Faux' Steele, Just4n0th3rUs3r, DJKazoo, Red's ABDL Creations, & RamenNoods All revenue is split evenly between the creators!

People - or, toys? When you wake up in a toy chest after a very strange lunch encounter, how are you to respond? Listen here: https://share.transistor.fm/s/c2e96164 This is a side project that I did for fun, but I wanted to share it with all of you, too! To those of you uninitiated, a Liveplay is a recording of gameplay from a TTRPG, such as Dungeons & Dragons. (In this case, we were playing Pathfinder 2e with lots of homebrew.) This is episode one of four, from a game I played with friends. And we've got a star studded lineup: Personalias as Andy! https://www.patreon.com/personalias (Character: https://i.imgur.com/Ak3mRmM.png) JuiceBox as Charlie! https://www.patreon.com/JuiceBoxArt (Character: https://i.imgur.com/EUrJr4x.png) Sophie as Carmen! https://www.patreon.com/sophieandpudding (Character: https://i.imgur.com/0d7LC7n.png) HofBondage as Payton! https://www.patreon.com/hofbondage (Character: https://i.imgur.com/J0tCzSA.png) Kimmy as Tess! bby-kimmy.tumblr.com (Character: https://i.imgur.com/GvGJivZ.png) There's going to be four episodes of this - please let me know if you listen to it and if you enjoy it, because all the audio editing and formatting and stuff is kind of a lot of work and I want to know if I should record my games in the future Also, special thanks to FlashyFlesh for the player character art seen in the icon!

Chapter 19: New Digs Grace hadn’t known what to expect, only to expect the worst. Pearce’s wicked grin as he pulled in his newest packages were enough of a sign of danger–there would be no more Mr. Nice Babysitter. And then out came the spreader bar. Grace stared. “Wait–” “Bottoms up,” Pearce replied, waltzing in with a box under one arm, a spreader bar in one hand, and a full bottle of milk in the other. “Babies don’t need to walk, anyways.” “Hold on, we said outfits,” Grace complained. Her pillow-packed onesie was one thing, she’d been forced to waddle around all morning on account of it, but a spreader bar? “That’s not an outfit, it’s a–” “It was listed under ‘apparel’ on the website I ordered from,” Pearce replied, waving the bar in a baton-style gesture. “Apparel means outfits.” “But–” “You know what else technically qualifies as clothing?” Pearce asked, reaching into his pocket. Grace hesitated. “What?” He produced a pacifier. “If you don’t stop complaining, I might decide you need to wear this between your lips–so hush, and lay down, and let’s get you changed.” Rolling her eyes, Grace got onto her bed. The bars of the crib frame had been set aside, so her bed could be used as a changing pad. Legs splayed from the pillow crammed into her current onesie, she rolled onto her back for Pearce to get at her, blushing at the awkwardness of it all. The onesie was annoying and made walking clumsy, but otherwise fell into the juvenile-but-comfortable she’d grown accustomed to. She’d hoped Pearce would keep the clothes choices to ‘merely annoying’. No luck there, it seemed. Pearce unbuttoned her onesie, removed the pillow to get at her soggy diaper, and began ripping off tapes one-by-one. With the pillow gone, her legs relaxed, and she became aware of the extra effort she’d been putting in to keep her legs apart. He had, at least, been more vigilant about changes–and he’d begun dissolving some kind of capsules into Grace’s baby bottles, which’d had the effect of making her need to pee a couple times an hour. Her attempts to hold it until she could flood and leak were thwarted by plastic pants and a constantly-running bladder. Wadding up her old diaper, he set it aside and produced slightly-warmed baby wipes, cleaning her up. “Sog monster,” he snickered. “Your fault,” Grace pouted, sticking out her tongue. A gentle dusting of powder applied, Pearce wrapped her up in a new diaper. It felt even fluffier than normal, and also, just slightly warm to the touch. “Did you heat this up?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Ran it in the dryer for a couple minutes to puff it,” Pearce replied, sticking down the tapes. “Okay, you’re all changed. Sit up, and let’s get you dressed.” She did, raising her arms so he could pull off her onesie, so that her only remaining clothes were a bra and her diaper. Smirking, he went into his new box of tricks and produced a striped footed sleeper, one that looked…fairly normal. “Okay, what’s the catch here?” Grace asked. “Just that it’s tamper proof,” Pearce said. “So that fussy babies can’t wriggle out of it. The zip in the back locks.” “I’m not allowed to take off my clothes anyways,” Grace pointed out. “Why bother?” “Because,” Pearce gloated, setting his things down on her desk. “Now you’ll know you really are stuck.” That logic had an unfortunate sort of solidity to it, and Grace swallowed. He was right–even if it literally had few practical results, the psychology of feeling trapped made her squirm a little as he unfolded it and pulled the legs up over hers. “Hold still,” he said, while she stuck out her legs. “I am,” she said. “You’re–just let me do it.” “No,” he insisted, as the snug elastic got caught on her feet again. It took most of a minute, but he got her legs on, feet wrapped up in the bottoms–it just had a sort of grippy rubber on the bottom instead of soles. Grace had to stand so he could pull it into place, pull her arms through the sleeves, and finally zip up the back, pulling on little parts of the sleeper to get out any pinch points or bunched-up areas. With two little ‘clicks’, he buttoned down the zipper, trapping her in the outfit. “How’s that feel?” he asked, patting down her sides and pulling the fabric around the front of her, in a gesture that felt almost like a hug from behind. “It’s fine,” Grace said, glad he was behind her, that he couldn’t see her blush. “Alright, lay back down,” he instructed. Grace didn’t know what to think of his more gentle touch. She’d grown used to the dressing ritual being a nuisance, but he was really taking his time now, making sure she was comfortable, being almost… nurturing? (He’s probably just taking the time to gloat,) she decided, laying back down on the bed as instructed. Pearce lifted her legs and, with a grin that did nothing to dispel Grace’s assumptions about him, clicked the collapsed bar into place, soft, plush-lined cuffs tightening around each ankle. When fully shortened, the bar was only a little over a foot long, but as he pushed her legs wider, it moved to compensate, extending to two feet, and then three, holding her ankles far enough apart that standing wouldn’t be even remotely possible. Testing the latch to make sure the bar wouldn’t retract, Pearce let go. “Alright,” he said. “Have fun crawling, crinkles. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.” Grace’s heart skipped a beat, and she had to ask herself why. She came up dry of answers. “Is that it?” “What, were you hoping for more?” Pearce asked. She shook her head, sitting up. Legs forced apart by the bar, it made it even harder to hold her bladder, and she felt a dribble of pee escape her involuntarily as her body decided to give up on holding it. “No, I just–it’s not very creative,” she said, grasping for an excuse. Grace didn’t know what she wanted, she just didn’t want Pearce to leave yet. Wasn’t he going to watch her crawl around a bit, maybe tease her over it? Take the time to lord over how much his new plan was annoying her? “I’m going to go take a nap,” Pearce said. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you leak–not that you would mind that, you seem to enjoy having soggy clothes lately.” “I don’t enjoy soggy clothes, I enjoy making you pay up,” Grace shot, in a final attempt to rile him into some banter. “Sure thing, potty pants,” Pearce said, turning and waltzing out of her room. (Jerk,) Grace fumed. And then, (Why am I mad?) She stood to move to her desk, stumbled, flopped onto the floor in a pratfall. Glancing up at the door, she looked, and– Pearce wasn’t watching. He’d genuinely left. (Ugh.) Planting her knees on the floor, she crawled over to her door, slammed it shut, and then moved to take a seat. Even seated, though, the spreader bar was still a nuisance–she couldn’t get her legs under her desk, the space wasn’t quite wide enough unless she turned her hips awkwardly, so she had to move her laptop off her desk and move over to bed, propping her back up on some pillows so she could work in a seated position, even if her legs were splayed out in a V. Her focus lasted about thirty seconds before she was glancing at her door again. Waiting for Pearce to come back in and reveal he had something else up his sleeve, that he hadn’t just given up after dressing her. She wriggled, feeling uncomfortable already–between the spreader bar and the all-encompassing footed pajamas that wrapped her up, and… (He didn’t cut off the tag,) she noted. The tag was a little offset since the zipper was in the back, but it itched at the back of her neck. She didn’t mind, much, but it was a nuisance that had nothing to do with babying her, so she set aside her laptop, dropped to the floor, and crawled on all fours out to the hall. “Pearce,” she demanded. “Hey, Pearce!” No answer. “HEY!” she called, pounding on his door. No answer. “Pearce!” Grace called again. “Open the door!” Grace sat on the ground, arms crossed, pouting up at the door. Pearce threw open his door. “I just changed you, you got a bottle–what?” “This onesie still has a tag,” Grace said. “And you were ignoring me.” “I’m allowed to take a twenty minute nap,” Pearce complained. “And I’m allowed to whine about it, babysitter,” Grace shot back. Pointing with a thumb at the back of her pajamas, she said, “Tag. Deal with it.” “And then you’ll let me nap?” he asked. She swallowed. She wanted to hang out more, to… (What do I want? For him to make fun of me? Why?) “Yeah,” she said. “Unless you forgot something else.” “Fine, wait here,” he grumbled, turning to march back into his bedroom to find scissors. It was attention, but it wasn’t what she wanted. His attitude was begrudging, annoyed. Not mirthful or triumphant. (But…I want him to be annoyed. To give up. This is good, isn’t it?) He returned with a pair of old scissors, reached down the back of her pajamas, and snipped the tag. “Alright. Bye.” Walking away, he shut his door–he didn’t slam it in her face, exactly, but that’s what it felt like. Pursing her lips, Grace crawled back into her room, straight into bed. Her laptop was still there, but she pushed it aside, lying back, pulling a cover over herself. She felt tired, inexplicably tired. Pearce had made her coffee that morning, and if the bet did one thing well, it ensured she got a solid amount of sleep every night. There was no reason to be this tired, so… why? The idea of demanding that Pearce make her another coffee crossed her mind, but that just came with a pang of guilt. He did actually deserve a nap–unlike her, his sleep had been cut short every morning, forced to wake up so he could wake her up. He was putting in the effort. She felt mad, and ashamed of being mad, and the frustration at herself made her want to curl up in a ball. (What the fuck is wrong with me?) Grace couldn’t, in fact, curl up in a ball; with her legs spread apart, her only marginally-comfortable options were laying on her back or her stomach. Choosing her back, she pulled the blankets over herself. Maybe a nap was what she needed, too. Even if she couldn’t fathom a reason for it, the fatigue and feeling of being drained had overwhelmed her. She sniffled. Her eyes were wet. (Am I crying? Why am I crying?) She sniffled again, louder, and– The door to Pearce’s room opened, and he stepped out, holding a plastic cup. He glanced over at her. She hadn’t shut her own door, he could see her clearly, see her red eyes, even as she tried to wipe her face and appear fine. “What?” she asked, half glaring at him, half pleading with her eyes. Nothing made sense, her body didn’t seem under her control. “I had to, uh, get some water,” he said, pointing to the bathroom and holding up the cup in his hand. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, wiping her face with an arm. “Just…I don’t know. I think I’m sick or something, I feel really tired. I was going to sleep.” He paused, and set down his cup. “Hey,” Pearce said, after a moment of thought. “If you’re taking a nap, let me take off that bar. That’s got to be a pain to sleep in.” Grace nodded. “Sure. Thank you.” He walked over, removing the cuffs from her feet. They weren’t properly locked, just fastened in place, and he jimmied them free in a moment. “Okay,” he said, setting the bar aside. “Scoot over.” “Why?” she asked. “I’m gonna do the babysitter thing,” he said. “And that means you do what I say. Scoot over.” She did, and to her surprise, Pearce sat down on the bed next to her, kicked up his feet, and lay down next to her. Taking out his phone, he scrolled for a moment on the internet, cleared his throat, and started, “Once upon a time, there lived a very ugly duckling…” Grace raised her eyebrows, smirking. “Wait, seriously?” “Storytime.” He grinned over at her. “It’s what every baby needs, right? I’ll try and do voices, but my duck’s a little limp.” Giggling, Grace said, “Say that again, I think I misheard.” He rolled his eyes. “So there was this super ugly duckling–like, hideous. Ugliest little featherball you’ve ever seen, and…” By the time his nursery story was done, Grace was asleep, arm stretched over his chest. Pearce had dozed off a minute later. ... Did you know I admin a Discord channel for ABDL fiction of all stripes? Not just my own, but by any author who wants to contribute - it's great for discussion, hanging out, and just generally being a part of a cool writing-focused community. discord.gg/FvyTkRu I've also got a newsletter! Subscribers get all my public content sent straight to their inbox, no worrying about any social media algorithm burying it, and you also get a free novella that's otherwise for purchase only, "Delta Lambda's Little Stinker", a story about a magical college fraternity hazing their newest pledge in a very, very smelly way. www.subscribepage.com/n5a2u3

To support my writing and the creation of captions like this, you can go over to: https://www.patreon.com/PeculiarChangeling https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling Special thanks to Sophie for permission to use her art in this caption! https://www.patreon.com/sophieandpudding/ ... Text Transcript: “Sophie? Sophie, why don’t you go ahead and show everyone what you’re wearing. Come on now, don’t be shy–you know they’ll all see later when it’s time to change you.” “I’m sorry she’s so fussy, she gets like this sometimes–the idea that she’s a ‘big girl’ starts floating around in her head and, for how she acts, you’d almost start to believe there was a chance it was true. But it’s not, and we shouldn’t play pretend–that’s a game for little babies, not for grown ups.” “So, show us what you’re wearing. Uh-huh, just lift your dress–that’s it. Good girl! Now, don’t you want to tell us what they are? Oh, come now–don’t mumble. Say it nice and loud. What are they called?” mumble “That’s right. They’re your diapers. And why do you have to wear your diapers? Don’t talk to your shoes now, sweetie, say it so the grown ups can hear.” mumble “That’s right. And wouldn’t that have been so much less embarrassing if you were wearing your diapers like a good girl when that happened? Uh-huh? Good girl. Now, go play with your toys, and don’t worry–we can all tell when you need a change."

That also assumes a certain level of trust on the part of users that - For example - DailyDiapers' security is solid, that there won't be any mistakes, and that whatever it shows as on credit card reports will truly be 'anonymous. I have that level of trust, and it doesn't bother me, but expecting that from new users as a baseline is, I think, a bit too much. That works, but is a lot of effort to put in just to donate a dollar on an annual basis if that's what's on the table.

An issue with requiring even a tiny donation is that it requires members to link their credit card or bank account to the site, which many don't want to do for various reasons - privacy concerns being the largest. Also, part of what makes this community great is that there's enough people to really call it a community!

Special thanks to DollyJKazoo for the awesome art! ❤️ This one is so precious and cute

Chapter 18: Skip Skip yawned as the bus rolled to a stop, stepping off and shuffling towards home. It’d been a long night–ten hours on their feet, all go-go-go the whole time. Now, the sun had just begun to creep up over the horizon and their day had come to an end. At least they had a three day weekend coming up. The four-days-on three-days-off pattern worked for Skip, even if the night shift meant they started their day as everyone else was ending theirs. Long days meant fewer days, they were content with that. On the other hand, coming home to a house divided…that was getting wearisome. A large cardboard box sat on the porch when they arrived, Pearce’s given name printed on the label. Based on the size, it couldn’t just be a couple outfits–there had to be a lot in there. Skip pushed the box aside with a foot, opened the door, and waltzed inside. Giggles echoed from the kitchen when they walked inside. At least Grace and Pearce had been in a good mood lately–though the tension still stood, there’d been fewer shouting matches, just bickering. In the kitchen, Grace was in her high chair, bits of breakfast on her face. The smell of breakfast mingled with something more foul, though, somewhat muting the pleasant food smells. “Package,” Skip said, maneuvering around them and wrinkling their nose. “Grace needs a change.” “I know,” Pearce said. “Hasn’t been an hour yet–I decided it could wait till breakfast was over.” “Jerk,” Grace said, but her lips were played up in a half smile. Glancing at the stovetop, Skip saw the scattered remains of pancake preparation. “Any left?” With a flourish, Pearce reached to a plate covered in a tea towel and yanked the cover away, revealing a stack of fluffy pancakes. “I thought you might want some.” “I thought you might want some,” Grace corrected, rolling her eyes. “I told Pearce to make extra.” “Thanks,” Skip said, retrieving a fork. Breakfast for dinner. “Whipped cream if you want it,” Pearce added, sliding the can over to Skip. Coating the pancakes with cream, Skip left the kitchen, getting away from the mild stink coming off Grace and heading to the living room. More giggles. Even a little laughter echoed from the other room. “Be right back,” Pearce said, walking up, past Skip, to the front door. He towed in the box, picked at the tape with a fingernail, and ripped it open. Curiously, Skip looked over from the couch, though they didn’t ask what it was. “Let’s see what she thinks of this,” Pearce said, pulling the first plastic-wrapped parcel from inside. Skip saw fabric, though the specifics of what they were looking at weren’t immediately obvious. It looked like clothing, maybe, or possibly a pillow–until Pearce removed it from the plastic and unfolded it, revealing a onesie that seemed to have a pillow crammed in around the bottom, comical bulk. Raising an eye, Skip asked, “How’s she going to walk with that on?” “That’s the secret,” Pearce snickered. “She’s not. Oh, Baby Gracie, I think it’s time for your change!” The last part of his words were projected across the house, not for Skip’s benefit but for Grace’s. He whisked the outfit away, and the sound of amused protests and complaints echoed from the kitchen to the living room. Setting aside the pancakes, Skip got up, looking through the other contents of the package. “Hmm.” It was, without a doubt, not just cutesy clothing. Pearce had ordered in full-on BDSM wear, albeit BDSM wear with a juvenile coat of paint. They spotted a spreader bar, some sort of chest harness, booties–all told, probably three or four ways just to keep Grace from walking. While they finished up breakfast-dinner, Pearce led Grace by the hand through the living room, up the stairs, his expression triumphant, hers annoyed but in a way that implied she really didn’t mind. Skip ate the rest of their pancakes, dealt with their dishes, and went to bed. … “HEY!” Skip sat up, blinking blearily. Their alarm hadn’t gone off, but Grace’s shout didn’t discriminate–even if she intended it for Pearce, it still woke Skip up, even with a fan, white noise, and blackout curtains protecting their daytime sleep. Checking their phone, they saw it was almost five PM - just about time to wake up anyways. Getting to their feet, they yawned, sighed, pulled on a pair of baggy pants. “Pearce!” Grace called again. “Open the door!” Her tone wasn’t amused anymore. Great. They’re bickering again. Exiting their bedroom, they glanced down the hall. Grace sat on the ground, legs splayed. She didn’t have on the pillow onesie thing–instead, there was a pink-painted spreader bar forcing her to crawl, and her actual clothes were a striped set of footed pajamas. Pearce threw open his door. “I just changed you, you got a bottle–what?” “This onesie still has a tag,” Grace said. “And you were ignoring me.” “I’m allowed to take a twenty minute nap,” Pearce complained. Not my problem, Skip said, walking past. The argument continued, loud enough that the two of them could be heard throughout the house, but Skip put on headphones and shut it out, preparing their dinner-breakfast. They put on an extra helping, too, anticipating Brains’ arrival home from work a few minutes later. “Morning,” Brains said. “Evening,” Skip replied. “What’s up with the bet?” “Argument a couple days ago,” Brains said, peering at the bubbling soup on the stove. “You want the short version or the long one?” “Short one,” Skip replied, answering the unasked question as well. “There’s enough soup for two.” Brains pumped his fist just a bit in soup celebration, then explained, “They’re escalating since neither were looking like they’re going to back down. Pearce ordered a bunch of extra crap to mess with Grace, Grace is going to be more of a brat to try and wear him down. Maybe we’ll see this thing finally come to a conclusion here soon.” Skip shrugged. “You’ve already swept the betting pool on duration, now it’s just a matter of who wins.” “Want to go double or nothing?” Brains suggested. “New bet on how long this’ll last, now that they’re escalating?” “If Melody’s on board,” Skip replied. Brains checked his phone while soup simmered. As it finished, and Skip dished out the dinner, Brains supplied, “She’s in. Her bet is five to ten days before they fall apart. She’s sticking with the same winner.” “Under,” Skip said, sliding a bowl across to him. “You think so?” Brains asked, blowing on his spoon. “I’m going over.” “I figured you would,” Skip said. “Just taking the option that’s left. Plus, you didn’t see what was in that box. When are they just going to fuck already?” Brains choked on his soup. “W-what?!” “You don’t see it?” Skip shrugged. “No I don’t see–they hate each other,” Brains shot. “You see how much they argue?” “I didn’t say it was healthy,” Skip replied. “But it’s there. They don’t hate each other.” Brains shook his head. “I don’t believe it.” “Ask Melody,” Skip suggested. They didn’t need Brains to believe them, but Brains was a good friend, and he deserved a solid, straightforward answer. He sent another text, and they ate together in silence until his phone dinged and–“Melody says, ‘oh yeah, they’re totally going to fuck’. Does everyone know this except me?” “Everyone except you, and Grace, and Pearce.” Skip picked up their now-empty bowl, walking over to the sink to rinse it out. “Hmm.” Brains rubbed at his chin. “Okay. New bet?” Skip blinked. “No.” “Come on,” Brains said. “If you all think it’s so inevitable, surely–” “Crossing a line, Brains,” Skip said. “That’s too personal.” He sighed. “Thanks.” A few moments passed, and he added, “Can I ask about it, though?” “Sure,” Skip sighed, as they began to clean up from dinner. “What’s got you confused?” “How can you tell?” He asked, leaning back. “Like…how is it that you all figured something out that they don’t know and I didn’t notice?” “That’s complicated,” Skip said, avoiding the longer answer. Brains shrank back, took a breath, and shook his head. “‘That’s complicated’ is what people say when they don’t want to explain shit to me.” “Sorry, sorry.” Skip rubbed at their temple, considering how to answer. “You know we’re all fucked, right?” “Right.” He tapped his chest. “Wasters for life.” “Grace is a big ball of neuroses and she’s got a stick up her ass about everything, and Pearce–let’s just say we tried to get high on adderall once in high school and he sat down and did his homework.” Skip leaned up against the counter, resting on their hands. “And both of them are stubborn, and stupid. They can’t get over the superficial stuff. We’re all friends for a reason, but they’re both so fundamentally incapable of introspection that they can’t just sit down and figure out how they’re feeling. They have to blame someone else, and they’ve picked each other.” “Okay, I follow all that,” Brains nodded. “But how does that lead to the two of them fucking?” “Because you don’t get that mad at someone for being inattentive if you don’t want their attention,” Skip said. “And, well…just listen.” They pointed up at the ceiling. Brains paused, listening, and heard another giggle echo down from the other side of the house. “They like each other, even if both of them are too dense to realize it,” Skip said. “When they’re not both in their heads, thinking that they hate each other for reasons they haven’t really stopped to consider, they’re almost sickeningly cute. Plus, like…okay, this is crass, but Pearce just bought a bunch of fetish wear for her. Let’s not ignore that part.” Brains sat back. “Huh. Thanks for filling me in.” “You’re welcome,” Skip said, smirking. “And by the way–I’m not going to place a bet on it, but if I were, I’d say two weeks.” ... Thank you for reading! In news, I've re-opened taking commissions for the time being! If you're interested in getting a story commissioned, the details are in the form below: https://forms.gle/hiXUs9Pa3X5yyuLp6

As an update, my commissions have re-opened again!

I've taken to using parenthesis for internal dialog, simply because several places I post stories to screw up my italicized formatting and it's less work if I just don't use italics for anything important, rather than manually fixing all internal dialog! Just a minor detail I thought I'd add.