PeculiarChangeling

Contains: Premature Ejaculation, Humiliation, Pull-ups ... Timberly Swinn, 27 F Happy for fun, would love something deeper. Sex positive, unless you’re a fuckin’ creep. I’m interested in technology and writing on the human psyche. I like board game nights with friends when we want to keep things low key. For a high energy date I’ll teach you how to play pickleball–I’d say, ‘Loser buys drinks afterwards’, but I don’t need free drinks. I’m not going to quit my career for you, don’t even ask. Looking for a sweet, sensitive guy who isn’t terrified of emotional vulnerability. Sam scanned the dating app profile, hesitated, then looked at her picture again. She was chubby and tan and didn’t appear to be more than five foot even–only an inch shorter than himself–with a short pixie cut. She radiated confidence in her selfies; attractive, self assured, and her bio got his interest. (Sure, why not?) He sent her a message. … It took two weeks of chatting before Sam could work up the courage to ask Timberly out for coffee. She countered with dinner and drinks at a local club, and he fumbled typing his response so badly he sent ‘Y3<s’ by mistake. She just…got him. They’d quickly moved off the dating app and onto a little chat app she’d recommended, and whenever he heard its notification jingle he felt his heart flutter. Timberly was funny, successful, and confident in her attractiveness–Sam thought he was just a little funny, and not in the ‘good at telling jokes’ way. He worked as an underpaid stage hand and lived out of his parents’ basement because there was nowhere else he could afford rent. What did she want out of him? He kept expecting her to drop him, to move on to someone better. In fact, he found himself almost pushing for it–he didn’t try to hide the fact he was dirt poor or put on a persona of success. Timberly didn’t mind. She insisted she was interested in who he was as a person, not the lack of a comma in his bank account. So, anxious about being underwhelming but willing to give it a try, he’d put on a shirt that properly buttoned and tan pants, walked forty minutes to the bar she’d recommended, arrived twenty minutes early, and sat on a bench outside waiting for– “Sam?” He hadn’t heard Timberly’s voice before, but he recognized her from her photos in an instant–though she hadn’t been wearing a vest over a crisp white shirt that gave her a look of strength and solid poise. Sam momentarily worried his jaw would hit the floor and his tongue would roll out like a red carpet, but he managed to come up with a reply instead. “Timberly,” he nodded his head, looking her up and down and answering all at once. “I–I feel underdressed.” “Don’t worry, I think you look just right,” she said, nodding at the restaurant door. “I’ve got us a table–and, please, you can just call me Tim.” She led him in, ordered drinks for them when the waiter came around, and let the conversation slip into talking. Sam knew he was doomed, then–he was head over heels for her. She knew what she wanted, and she was getting it. They talked about work–he had fairly little to offer to that conversation–but her ambition made him want to go run a marathon or climb a mountain or something, just any activity to match her intensity. They talked about growing up–there, he had more in common, they’d both been to charter schools and he had stories to swap. “You’re cute,” she said, after placing their dinner orders. “I–” He spluttered. The direct complement had short circuited his thoughts, and his cheeks started to burn. (Oh god, you’re blowing this. Just…breathe.) “Thank you, you look fantastic.” “Thank you,” she said, the corners of her eyes crinkling when she smiled. “But that’s not all I meant. Did you know your ears wiggle when you get excited?” “They do? I didn’t…” focusing on the sensation, he realized she was right–his ears were wiggling. “I didn’t know that.” “I read people for a living. Spotting little tells in people is my business–and it can tell you a lot about a person, too, besides just which muscles are connected to which feelings in their head.” She shrugged, her body language indicating that she found the quirk endearing. “Do you know what you want to do with your life?” she asked, pivoting the conversation so quickly it gave him whiplash. “I guess…I’d really like to be in a band,” he said, knowing it sounded lame. Tim sat back, reaching into her purse to take out her phone. “A band, huh?” “Sure, it’s kind of the fantasy, isn’t it?” And it was true, it’d been Sam’s fantasy…when he was twelve. Now, he just gave that answer because he didn’t know what else to say. “Up on stage, popular…” Eyes off him completely, Tim said, “I guess so. You don’t strike me as the ‘popular’ type.” Sam winced. “Ouch.” Her gaze returned to him, and softened a little. “Oh–I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I was thinking, though…is popularity chasing really your thing? That’s what you think will bring you fulfillment?” He shrugged. “I don’t…I don’t know, really. It sounds cool? But when I think about all the work that’d go into that…I don’t know. It sounds exhausting. I’d really just like to be comfortable, I think–to have friends and people I care about, to have enough free time where I can have fun, to work a job that feels like it helps people.” She set down her phone on the table and smiled. “That’s more like the Sam I know. You’ll do just fine.” “Hmm?” “I just mean, I’m enjoying this,” she said. The waiter finally stopped by, but she just asked for more water and waved him away. “I like you, Sam.” “Thanks.” Trying to find a way to fill the space and respond, he asked, “What about you? I know you like your job, but is there anything else you’re looking for in life?” She grinned. “Oh–I crave attention.” … The night went great. Better than great–they talked for hours. His crush deepend, and at the end, she drove him home. He had to awkwardly admit they were driving back to his parent’s place, but she didn’t mind; he got into her BMW and rode with her. What he wanted was to go back to her place, to hit it off in a big way, but that could wait. The night had gone well, and Tim seemed happy–he didn’t mind patience, in theory. Unfortunately, he had a tough time convincing his body of that–during the back half of the drive home, Tim had to shift the way he sat three times to hide the unfortunate erection that’d cropped up. It just wouldn’t go away, even as he kept trying to shift the conversation towards serious topics–for reasons he couldn’t quite put into words, Timberly simply made him horny. Parking on the curb, Tim walked around to get his door, let him out, and took his hand. “I had a really nice time tonight,” he said. “Me too,” she replied. “I’d like to take you out again.” He nodded enthusiastically. “Please! And–” She leaned in to kiss him, and– (Oh god, oh god–) Sam’s cheeks caught fire and he found himself unable to stifle a moan that carried into Timberly’s lips.Without warning, he found himself spurting into his boxers right there on the street, mingling embarrassment and bliss. Tim pulled back. “Was the kiss that goo–Sam?” He couldn’t help but breathe rapidly, trying to keep his face placid, unable to totally resist the sensitive shocks of bliss currently dribbling out of him. “Um…um–” Sam looked down, stupidly, shocked to see it’d soaked through. He’d stained his pants with the unexpected orgasm, right there at the end of the date, and Tim’s gaze followed his. “f**k–” he started, blush rising, before turning and sprinting into his home. He simply could not face Tim for another second. … Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! Chirp chirp! Sam didn’t answer his phone until the fifth chirp. He couldn’t bear to read the rejection message Tim had inevitably sent. Things had been going well, she’d liked him, and then he’d just blown it. (Ugh, no pun intended.) Finally, though, he had to face the music. Checking his messages… ‘Hey, Sam, I had a really nice time tonight. Don’t be embarrassed about the accident at the end–it’s not your fault.’ ‘I’d still like to go out with you again, I really didn’t mind.’ ‘How does lunch on Tuesday sound?’ ‘I knew someone in college with a similar problem. I didn’t think less of you, I was just surprised is all.’ ‘Are you okay, Sam?’ Eyes widening, he responded to the most important part first. ‘Tuesday–lunch. Yes please!’ … Things went great again, until they didn’t. Sam hadn’t experienced another bout of early ecstasy since their date, so he wrote it up as coincidence. Over excitement after a long dry spell and a wonderful night. Just to make sure, he even rubbed one out the night before. It didn’t help. They had great food, great conversation, and this time he didn’t even have the dignity of going out to the car–she reached across the table to hold his hand, gave it a squeeze, said how lovely he was looking that afternoon, and– (Oh god.) He was just glad they’d sat in a booth instead of a high top, it gave him a modicum of privacy as his cock twitched and he came in front of Timberly for the second time. “Oh, Sam–are you–” she started. He felt he had to nod, wanting to melt into nonexistence. She let him breathe, twenty seconds passing, before she said, “Hey, don’t worry about it. You can’t help it, so what’s the problem?” “Right…” he said, looking down. His jeans were stained yet again, the faint smell of cum wafting out of the booth. But when Tim smiled at him…he didn’t mind so much. … Their third date was the real breaking point. A movie at the mall, then dinner. That was the plan. But then Zoe Kravitz came on screen, and– (f**k–) Tim gave his hand a gentle squeeze, whispering under the sound of the action on screen. “Shh–it’s okay, Sammy.” That only made his blush deepen. After the film, standing in a nook by the theater exit, he tried to explain. “I swear–this was never a problem, this never happens–” “I don’t care,” Tim promised. “I’m not judging you, Sam, it’s just little accidents that happen. Some boys are like that. But…if it’s going to keep happening, you might need to do something about that.” Looking down, she gestured to the dark stain on the front of his jeans. It looked for all the world like he’d peed his pants. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess…I could just wear a condom all the time?” She thought about it, then shook her head and took his hand–just that touch made him shudder for a moment, though thankfully he didn’t humiliate himself in front of her again. “I have another idea.” He didn’t know what she was talking about until they were deep in the mall’s retail outlet, coming up on the juvenile potty training aisle, and– He dug in his heels. “Woah! I’m not going to wear–” he dropped his voice into a low stage whisper, “diapers!” “I’m not thinking about diapers,” she said, doing nothing to match his volume shift. “Pull-ups. They make them up to your waist size, and they’ll do the trick, right?” “I, but–” he started, feeling exceptionally small–and not just in a physical sense, remembering his slim waist. “Sam,” Tim said, looking him in the eye. “Nobody except you or I will know, and it’s better than having to change your pants every time we hold hands. I’ll buy them, and a new pair of pants so we can finish our date. Just wear the pull-ups, ok, sweetie?” She wouldn’t stand for self-consciousness. He knew that, and he didn’t want to argue about the details of his diaper needs in the store when he knew he’d lose. Trying to match Timberly’s own assuredness, he nodded. “Sure.” She picked up the nearest pack, one decorated with Disney princesses, and nodded. “Ok. Let’s go find some pants, get checked out, and then we’ll find a bathroom for you to change.” … Sam hated that the pullups worked, but, well…they worked. He found himself dealing with his ‘Boy accidents’ more and more around Tim, but at least they were contained now, and all it cost was a pink waistband and the shared knowledge that he had puffy absorbent princess prints for underwear. They continued to date, weeks stretching into months, until the relationship had proper labels attached. “Boyfriend and girlfriend”. Quaint, but when Tim had declared that the terms were appropriate…he’d needed a fresh pull-up. He got to meet Tim’s friends–meeting up for game night, he was reasonably sure none of them noticed when he tensed up after Timberly laughed at one of his jokes. He had to change his pull-ups in the bathroom–twice–but had a great night otherwise. They even had sex–sort of. He lasted until she had her shirt off, but she was more than content to let Sam use his mouth and fingers to make her happy, kneeling at the foot of her bed and spending half an hour giving her the pleasure he could get in two seconds. And she never judged him. Not once. If anything, Timberly liked that she could make him pulse with pleasure just by giving him a smooch on the cheek or a squeeze of the hand. She smiled when he got flustered, said he reminded her of a kid on the playground, blushing over incredibly mild PDA. And it was mild, too. She could just stroke his hair and leave him moaning, and a deep-throated kiss was better than any marathon session he could imagine. If she really wanted, Tim could snuggle up to him on her couch during a movie, wrap her hands around his waist, and leave him quivering and drooling from pleasure. The third time she got him a pack of fresh pull-ups, she referred to them as his ‘happy pants’, and he wasn’t sure he could argue. The weird thing, though–it was just Timberly. He didn’t deal with it at work, he didn’t deal with it at home, only when he was out with her. Something about that touch, or her words, or just something made him utterly unable to control himself. He started to like it, and he was pretty sure he loved Tim, too. Four months into their relationship, she dropped two bombshells on his head. “Do you want to move in with me?” she asked, followed by, “And–your accidents are getting worse. I really think we need to get you a chastity cage.” ... Tried something new with this one, incorporating some elements I don't often use! Let me know what you think. ^^ Part two, the conclusion of their story, will be out soon! If you want to support creative endeavors like this one and get access to more content like it, you can do so here: https://www.patreon.com/PeculiarChangeling https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

If you're wondering how she poops so much, and other science facts (La la la) Repeat to yourself it's just some smut, I should really just relax! The first thing to come to mind was the Potty Monster, and everything else went downhill from there into Extreme Silliness. Good, cuz you're gonna get more! And thank you so much, I really appreciate this sort of praise!

The title of this post kinda says it all, but here's extra details and a link! https://peculiarchangeling.gumroad.com/l/Submission "Submission" is a compilation of AB/DL Erotica stories centered around power exchange - handing over control of even our most basic dignities to another. This compilation contains four standalone short stories, one series of three shorts that can each be read alone, one three-chapter series, and one five-chapter series, all unified by the themes of power exchange, dominance and submission, rules, punishment. All stories, (though not all segments within a larger series,) feature messy diapers prominently. Of the fifteen segments, nine were previously only available on Patreon, and in total there is forty thousand words of fiction. Price is 6.99 USD Stories included: 'The Locker', a roleplay of a highschool bullying scene 'Baby Sat', a three-part series about role reversal during a weekend play session 'Coddle Camping', a coddling/cuckolding piece The 'Beatrice' trilogy, three shorts about Beatrice and her mistress, Martha, whom she obeys unquestioningly 'Diaper Check, Please', in which any diaper check that finds a clean diaper results in a spanking 'A Weekend at Sir's', an intense BDSM story about a long weekend at a new dominant's house And, 'Daddy and Baby', a sweet, light Daddy Dom/Baby Boy story Cover art by HofBondage, used with permission. https://peculiarchangeling.gumroad.com/l/Submission

Boom. Glass and brick shoots out from the side of the Central City Research Institute, showering the surrounding yard with debris, hitting nearby skyscrapers and busting out further windows with the aftershock. Outside, civilians scream and run, scattering in all directions, fleeing in terror from the smoke that billows from the institute’s rapid unscheduled exit. A coiled metal hose shoots out, four claws at the end slamming down over the nearest fire hydrant. Water sprays, and is then consumed, pumping into the hose at an incredible pace. Another hose launches out and stabs into dirt, a point of leverage. From within, the creature releases a sloshy, sucking bellow, and drags itself out. Forty feet tall, with a dozen such hoses extending from its base, it’s made of steel and pristine white porcelain. Without legs or wheels, it can only drag itself forward with the hoses, leaving deep furrows in the ground behind it where its weight tears up dirt and pavement alike. Resembling nothing more than an enormous mechanized toilet, the creature rampages free out into the streets of Central City. Most people run. One man, tie flapping in the wind, is caught by the hoses. The mecha’s lid opens, and he’s thrown inside, screaming until it slams shut, flushes, and he’s lost beneath. Only two people aren’t fleeing. One–a girl named Kelly–has stopped, confused, staring at the other. She frowns, uncertain what she’s looking at. The other is a young woman, dressed in a business casual top and loose skirt, half-moon glasses hiding bright blue eyes. She’s crouched by the sidewalk, knees spread, face screwed up and cheeks puffed out as she pushes. Noticing she has an audience, she puffs and grunts, “Do you–mind?” “Um…” Kelly says, distracted as another flushing bellow echoes a hundred feet away. “What are you doing?” The crouching woman shoots her a glare. “Pooping myself, what does it look like?” Kelly stammers a moment longer, then her attention is stolen. A hundred feet away, the mecha seizes a car and flings it with no particular aim–it skips and skids over the pavement, bouncing off a parked bus, and careens straight towards her. She can only stare, a deer caught in the headlights, until– Wham! A blur of pink interjects itself between her and the car. The vehicle stops, bouncing off like the tide against rocks. Standing where the car just hit, wielding a baby rattle with a head as large as a basketball and shield reminiscent of a pacifier guard, stands the woman–her glasses are gone, and her hair has billowed out into long pigtails, but he recognizes her anyways. She’s suckling a pacifier that matches her shield, and her clothes have vanished, replaced by a pink top and a skirt barely four inches long, doing nothing to hide the drooping diaper between her legs. “Who are you?” Kelly asks. Her eyes glow as she responds, floating slowly up from the ground with every word. Though she has a pacifier in her mouth, it makes her voice no less clear. “With the might in my Moonbeam Rattle, and the power of my Baby’s Guard, I am Starlight Boom-Boom–Champion of Earth!” She drops back down, stretching out her arms. “You should run.” “Did you–are you–” Kelly stammers. “Why’d you poop your pants?” “I had to fight,” Starlight replies, simply, before turning and lunging at the mechanized toilet. Rotating, the monster points one of its many hoses at Starlight, blasting her with a jet of water powerful enough to cut through steel beams. Starlight raises her shield, deflecting the blow, but the force of the aqua jet throws her back into a nearby hot dog stand and she collapses through it. She stands up, bloodied but–no, wait. She stands up, covered in ketchup but ready to get back into the fight. Kelly stares. The street has cleared, but she can’t help but watch as the poopy-pampered superheroine goes to battle with the colossal commode. She slips under its next water jet, dodges around a swipe, and yells out a shrill battle cry: “Massive Rattle Blow!” She brings her toy down on its porcelain body, sending a spiderweb of cracks across its body before jumping up and grabbing the toilet tank cover. She flips it over and dives inside, seizing the unfortunate businessman who’s sodden but still breathing. Setting him off on the sidewalk, she runs back towards the fray. Uninterested in her, the toilet drags itself forward, seizing another fire hydrant and pumping water away from the city, into itself. As it does, the hydration seals the cracks that Starlight just opened, healing from the damage she inflicted. Starlight leaps at it again, but this time, the monster is ready–a hose arm lashes out, seizes her immediately, and pounds her into the ground repeatedly, flinging her back and forth like a ragdoll. Her rattle goes flying, and she’s ultimately tossed aside, slumping against a nearby wall. “Starlight!” Kelly calls, running towards the , but before she can make it ten steps, Starlight is standing again, knees wavering. Kelly hesitates, stride catching, wondering aloud, “What is she…doing…oh.” With a blrrttch that echoes across the open city street, Starlight Boom-Boom fulfills her namesake, her diaper expanding to the size of a swollen beach ball beneath her absurdly short miniskirt. The mass stains her padding a deep brown and it falls with a fwump, drooping to the tops of her knees, but something in the act seems to energize her. She stands taller, if bow-legged, and extends her hand. Kelly catches the shucka-shucka sound and ducks as the rattle whizzes over her head, flying into Starlight’s hand. Reinvigorated, the heroine charges at the mecha again, moving so fast that she leaves blurred air and a faint green puff of smell behind her. “Lightning Potty Strike!” Expecting the fight to turn, Kelly watches, but it seems futile–every blow that Starlight rains down, the monster seems able to effortlessly heal, soaking up water from the city’s many fire hydrants. It continues wailing at her, jets of icy water and flailing hoses trying to swipe at the heroine, but though its many attacks miss, it just doesn’t seem to care–it continues dragging itself across Main Street, moving with purpose, tossing cars and ripping up hydrants in its wake. So, Kelly does something the heroine can’t–she turns and runs towards the Central City Research Institute. The smoke has mostly cleared by the time she picks her way through the broken wall. Inside is chaos–shards of broken toilets are everywhere, and shelves of toilet paper, tissues, and even golf balls have been strewn aside, making the space a tripping hazard to navigate. Beneath one of those racks, a man coughs, reaching out weakly. “Help…” Kelly runs to him. She’s not imbued with any super strength, and loading up her panties won’t help her do any heroic feats, but with a bit of grunting she lifts the shelf. “What is that thing?” “Forgive us,” the scientist stammers, crawling out on hands and knees. His faint German accent seems faded by time in the US, but still comes through ever so slightly. “We…we knew not the forces with which we meddled.” “I don’t understand,” Kelly says. “Why did you make this… thing?” “We were blinded by ambition,” he whispers hoarsely, fumbling to pick up his glasses from the ground. “We desired only to create the world’s most advanced toilet, but we pushed the limits of morality and science alike. Our hubris was our downfall–we taught it to fix itself, and to flush, but never morality.” Fearing at his words, Kelly asks, “What is it? What is it?” He swallows. “It’s the Potty Monster.” Grabbing him by the shoulders, Kelly demands, “Do you know what it wants?” Eyes huge behind thick glass, he can only speak the answer in a whisper, “Water.” Kelly understands. “The treatment plant–it’s going for the treatment plant?” “You must stop it,” he says, nodding quickly. “If it gets there, it’ll be unstoppable!” Kelly turns, running out into the street to warn Starlight, but she’s met quickly with a streak of pink and brown, soaring through the air and crashing into the dirt next to her. Starlight stands up, wiping away drool from her chin and under her pacifier guard, mumbling, “Meaniehead caught me napping–won’t happen again.” “It’s trying to get to the water treatment plant!” Kelly warns. “It’s using water to heal,” Starlight adds. “I can’t let that happen!” “What are you going to do?” Starlight turns pink. “Um…Could you not watch for this part? There’s not much left in the tank, but…erm…” Kelly nods, politely averting her gaze, though she can’t avert her sense of smell or turn off her ears. Starlight’s grunts of effort are obvious, trying to get out every last bit of muck, and the blrrrch and blorts rumbling in her diaper are hardly subtle. When Kelly looks back, the abused garment is so full and heavy it’s well past her knees, and Starlight’s steps squelch like she’s waddling through waist deep mud, but her stride seems to only have gotten quicker. Lunging forward into the air, she dives at the Potty Monster once again, crossing a full city block in a single smelly bound. Huffing and puffing, Kelly runs to the side of the street, unable to keep up with the super. After half a block, she gives up, resting her hands on her knees. “Too… much… running.” Two blocks down, Starlight brings her rattle down, swiping away. Where she hits, porcelain cracks and chips, shards scattering into the street, but water surges out of those cracks and heals them as quickly as she can deal damage. And, though she’s stronger and more agile, Starlight is weighed down, dragging her swollen diaper behind her. She evades, blocks, and parries the hoses and claws lashing out at her, readying for an almighty attack. “Ultimate! Tantrum! Forever!” Discarding her shield, she takes the rattle in both hands, raises it, and prepares to bring it down, but the intelligence behind the Potty Monster gets wise–lashing out from behind her where she can’t quickly see or react, and instead of going for an arm or a leg it grabs her by the diaper. Starlight swallows. “Oh, no–” Wham! The Potty Monster flings her down, so hard it leaves a crater in the pavement. Before she can stand, it strikes her again, knocking her against a brick wall, then seizes her by the leg and flips its seat up. Swinging her rattle wildly, she tries to bat away the claw holding her, but it grabs her with half a dozen more, rips under her skirt, and with a loud, splorchy, fwump, her diaper falls off and lands inside the toilet. The seat slams shut, and with a floosh, Starlight’s power is flushed away. Her outfit bursts into light, and her weapons vanish. Now harmless, the woman is tossed aside, thrown into a row of hedges out in front of a cafe. She stands, staggering, trying to fight again, but her strength is gone, and even when she balls up her face and tries to push, nothing comes out. “Starlight!” Kelly calls, pedaling furiously on a borrowed bike to catch up to the . “Are you okay?” Starlight looks at her, terrified and helpless. “I can’t–it changed my diaper! I can’t fight!” Ditching the bike, Kelly runs up to her. “Can’t you go again? Just…go on yourself, like before?” Shaking her head, Starlight lifts her skirt to show that her stained panties have returned. “I’m…empty. Can’t keep going.” “Gotcha.” Kelly looks around. “Then…is there someone else? We can’t let the Potty Monster reach the treatment plant.” “There’s…” Starlight hesitates. “Er, there’s one way.” Kelly nods. “What? Do you need something?” Reaching into her blouse pocket, Starlight hands Kelly a chocolate bar wrapped in aluminum foil. “Eat this. The whole thing.” “Okay,” Kelly says, acting on impulse–there was no time to question. Chomping down on the bar, she chews and swallows. “What was that?” “Laxative,” Starlight explains, producing a small pacifier clip from her purse. “Clip this to your shirt.” “L–laxative?” Kelly says with a start, blinking. Starlight just shakes her head. “Hurry.” Kelly pins on the clip, nodding. “And?” “Congratulations, you’re a temporary member of the Boom Boom force,” Starlight explains. “Pick a name, and then…squat down.” “Oh,” Kelly says, realizing. She feels her tummy gurgle, the laxatives already working their way down in her system. “Um…name. Name… how about just ‘Mega’? That’s got a classic feel to it.” “Alright.” Starlight pats her on the head, in something between a gesture of affection and a knighting. “I pronounce you Mega Boom-Boom.” Blinking and shaking her head, Kelly starts to say, “Wait, I get the last name too? But–” Before she can finish her thought, the laxatives kick in, and she feels her panties suddenly swell with an impossible tidal wave of mush. And, in that same moment, she changes. Her hair doubles in length, braiding itself into pigtails, and her outfit vanishes–fabric transmuting in seconds from pants and a t-shirt to a billowy, heavily laced green dress that only comes down slightly further than Starlight’s skirt, white frills keeping the hem line poofy. And, of course, her panties changed too, thickening, becoming absorbent, becoming protective enough to deal with the sudden catastrophe between her legs. The expanding mess pours out of her, bloating her diaper until it’s at least as impressive as Starlight’s had been; a mud bath taped around her waist. Above all, though, she suddenly felt strong. Powerful, surging with adrenaline like she’d never experienced. “Do I get a weapon?” she asked, noting her empty hands. “Pick one,” Starlight says. “Name it, and it’ll come to you.” “Okay,” Kelly says, the mudslide into her diaper ceasing. Turning, she says, “I already know what I want.” With that, she dashes forward, kicking off the pavement so hard it left a pothole. Crossing a city block in a single bound, leaving a stink trail in her wake, Kelly–Mega Boom-Boom–soars at the back of the Potty Monster, hand outstretched. It was only a block away from the treatment plant now–too close. “My weapon is–” she calls out, grabbing the top of the tank, “A plunger! In her hands, a plastic and rubber tool as long as she is tall, with a plunging head two feet wide, appears. Suddenly full of terror, the Potty Monster shrieks, hoses lunging at Mega, but she bats them away, wielding the plunger like a polearm. One hose manages to whack her on the butt and she tumbles forward, landing on the seat, but with a thrust she sticks the plunger head to the toilet seat and–with a handhold to grab onto–she flips back into the air. And, coming to her as naturally as breathing, she identifies the names of her attacks in the same breath that she unleashes them. “Suction Love Strike!” she calls, using the leverage to pry the lid open, though the Potty Monster fights her. Whipping around and grabbing the open lid with a free hand, she keeps it open, raises her plunger, and thrusts it down into the Potty Monster’s open bowl. “You’ve gone far enough!” The monster shrieks and sloshes, water backing up suddenly as her plunger seals the hole, preventing any water flow. Its hoses try to spray her, but they fizzle out without pressure and hiss harmlessly at her, water trickling from the nozzles. “Mega Plunge Forever!” Squatting so low her diaper touches the rim, Mega Boom-Boom ensures her plunger isn’t going anywhere, then lunges up, driving her fist into the porcelain of the Potty Monster. It cracks thunderously, and this time, though it shrieks and tries to bat her away, nothing heals the wounds. Raising up her free hand, a hairbrush large enough to serve a pizza on appears, a secondary weapon for which only one move could be possible: “ONE THOUSAND SPANKS JUSTICE!” Bringing down the flat of the brush, she unleashes an infinity of lightning attacks. Blow after blow, raining down spanks against porcelain that can no longer repair itself. In desperation, the Potty Monster drags itself towards the water treatment plant entrance, but Mega stops it once and for all. Jumping up, she hits the handle, and with a floosh, water floods into the bowl, and with nowhere else to go, starts spilling over the top. Drained of its power and energy, the Potty Monster shrieks, shudders, and stops. With a final, almighty blow, Mega Boom-Boom leaps up, brings her messy, diapered butt down in a finisher move, and blasts the potty into porcelain powder. In the debris, all that’s left is a small terminal and an array of wiggling hoses, disconnected from the monster’s body. Mega picks up the terminal, turning it over in her hands. ‘Property of Central City Research Institute’, it read, written on the side in white marker. ‘Proprietary–if found, return to Doctor Stein Von Kindchen.’ She looks around. Overhead, news helicopters have their cameras directed at her, and from the surrounding buildings, civilians come out to see if the coast is clear. Diaper on full display, stained and smushy, Mega Boom-Boom blushes. From the side of the street, though, Starlight limps towards her. “You did it.” “I did,” Mega says. “My face–I don’t look any different, even if my clothes–” “Don’t worry,” Starlight promises, stepping up and squeezing her hand. “Nobody will recognize you. I can help you change, that’ll return you to normal.” Mega smiles, a bit of Kelly shining through. “Thanks.” Nodding to the terminal, Starlight asks, “Doctor Stein von Kindchen? Who’s that?” Looking down, Mega Boom-Boom crushes the terminal in her hands, destroying the research once and for all. “Just someone who needs to work on his Potty Training.” ... I hope you had fun with this creative indulgence in tropey, shlocky, stinky fun! If you want to support my writing and get early access, bonus content, and my gratitude, you can do so here! Or if you'd rather do SubscribeStar instead of Patreon - the services are the same, so it's down to platform preference - click here!

@littlebopeeper Actually has it pretty right - These are Von Neumann machines, but they're not *smart*. What we don't know is whether or not they'll find a way to adapt, (they did manage to make new replication machines, at least!) - But that's a different story!

I wrote this story originally a couple years ago, but apparently never posted it here - I genuinely don't know why. Regardless, I was recently commissioned to write a sequel, so I'm rectifying that problem and posting both the original and the new story! The Drone Legions - Induction “Tell me, doctor,” Madame Arianna said, standing on a balcony. Two thousand feet up, she could survey her whole factorium from her elevated perch. “How go the preparations?” Doctor Connors looked up from his clipboard. “The first round of assimilation has gone well. Our drones are ready to begin spreading out and claiming more candidates.” She tapped her sharp nails on the ledge, not looking back. Connors didn’t know if she could tell what he was thinking, the terror that always felt completely reasonable in her presence, but he kept it off his face. “Good, good. It is on schedule, then?” “Eh… yes,” he said, wincing. “Mostly. There’s been a slight delay with the dropships. Setting them up to go to other Federation planets without clearance was a trick.” Madame Arianna whirled, fury in her expression. “What?” “We’re only behind by forty minutes!” Connors squeaked, holding up his clipboard defensively. “And our takeover of this sector won’t be delayed at all!” She glared, and he thought for a moment that Arianna might be contemplating killing him right then and there. She couldn’t, though. The assimilation factories were his design, from the ground up. Sure, the apprentice that Arianna has assigned to work with him could likely run the machines, but they were only an apprentice. They couldn’t have built them from the ground up. “Show me,” she said, lowly. “Ma’am?” “A tour,” she insisted. “I want to see the machines that will bring about my conquest.” “O-of course.” Bowing, he gestured towards the elevator. “Right this way, your supreme excellence.” There was no arguing with Madame Arianna. She ruled with an iron fist, and nobody who dared question her had ever gotten away with it unscathed. Leading her, they walked into the elevator, surveying their steel yards at work as they descended. Drop ships, the size of city blocks, were being welded together, each holding room for an attack team and an assimilation factory, each ready to be sent to another planet. The Federation hadn’t seen war in a hundred years. They were unprepared for ground forces, especially not ground forces that would self replicate. Once their assault began, Madame Arianna’s conquest would be swift and decisive. Those who knelt would be allowed to serve her. Those who fought, well… That’s what the factories were for. The elevator shuddered as it touched down on the factory floor, letting them out with a hiss of hydraulics. The factory floor was abuzz, drones forcing random civilians into the line. It didn’t matter who they were before, by the end they would be loyal soldiers for Arianna’s army. “It starts here,” he said, gesturing towards the civilians being shoved in. As soon as they stepped onto the belt, a needle jabbed in their neck, and the people dropped. “With a powerful, fast acting muscle relaxer. Once it’s been injected, their bodies become unresponsive for roughly an hour, ensuring that they can’t tamper with the rest of the process.” “But they’re fully aware?” Arianna asked. “Of course. As you requested, the whole process is as uncomfortable and humiliating for the drones as possible. Those who resist will be in a perpetual state of degradation once they’ve been conditioned,” Doctor Connors assured her. He walked along, pointing to the next stage. Large mechanical claws adjusted the victims, lining them up neatly, so that a laser could scan them and then begin systematically burning its way up their bodies, leaving clean, naked skin behind. “The laser renders them hairless and naked,” Connors explained, checking his clipboard and walking to the next step. As they moved through the factory floor, the drones all barely acknowledged them. They would respond to commands, but were otherwise incapable of independent actions. Discussion had been had about designing them to acknowledge Arianna and salute as she passed, but those ideas were discarded for fear of software issues in combat. Having the drones stop to salute in the middle of a battle would be potentially devastating, after all. While they walked, Arianna seemed to be inspecting Connors more than the machines, looking him up and down. “And these are calibrated to work with anyone, yes?” “The machine doesn’t care who’s put in, ma’am.” Doctor Connors confirmed. “Body type, sexual characteristics, it can work with any of them and create a loyal soldier drone. If we see here, now, we get the first stage of modifications…” He gestured at the belt, where groggy subjects were trying to escape, but barely even able to move their arms. As they tried, servos sat them upright, and metal bands were locked around each subject’s neck, wrists, and ankles. Once properly cuffed and collared, they were lifted up, and the first humiliation was put into place. For those with penises, tight metal cages were latched around them and welded shut. They were designed with stimulating toys that would constantly tease, but never give release. Subjects with vaginas were given a similar treatment, only with a self sterilizing implant that would tease and torture just as much without any sort of release. “All subjects are scanned, and have an appropriately torturous locking mechanism applied that fits them,” Doctor Connors added. Following this came plugs, forced in with lube. Each was hollow, but had a wax seal to prevent any accidents on the line, and there was no flared base to prevent removal under any circumstances. Given a few minutes, the wax seal would melt, but by then the drone would be wrapped in a snug diaper. “To ensure they can’t control even their baser urges,” he added. “Of course.” They kept walking. One particular subject, a young man, was looking side to side and struggling mightily, but he was helpless under the control of the mechanical arms and the drugs. Doctor Connors watched as he was lifted up, given another scan, and then had his mouth pulled open so that a hollow gag could be inserted. I almost feel sorry for them, he thought, but it wasn’t like Connors had much of a choice. If he didn’t build these factories for Arianna, she would have done worse to him. As mechanical arms reached down to wrap the victims in thick, white diapers - designed to only need changing once every three days, to minimize downtime and increase humiliation - Arianna asked, “Tell me about the enhancements.” “Well, all of them will be encased in a latex-alloy bodysuit,” Connors explained. “It’s resistant to most firearms, cut proof, and shock proof. It’s also uncomfortably hot and sweaty, and it traps odors like nobody’s business. I tried wearing a glove made of the stuff and had to take it off in five minutes. An hour wearing the suit, with a full diaper and no chance at a shower, the odor’s going to be unbearable.” “But their mind won’t be intact,” Arianna pointed out. “Given that they’ll be under my control.” “Well, the part of their mind that controls their limbs will be under the commander’s control,” Connors hedged. “They’ll still be fully aware of their surroundings, and able to feel everything being done to them. It makes me shudder, a little.” “Good,” the Madame declared. “Let that be a warning to my enemies, then.” Connors hesitated. Guilt twinged at his consciousness, wondering if he’d done the right thing, and he had to jog to catch up to Arianna as she walked alongside, inspecting the now-diapered subjects as heavy, elastic materials were pulled over their bodies, starting at the leg cuffs and snapping tight to each drone’s skin, covering their puffy diapers and creating a bulge. The latex came up to their necks, stopping at the collars, so that everything except the drones’ hands, feet, and heads were covered. Next came… the helmets. Connors had designed them, of course. They would display a disorienting pattern of feedback into the subjects vision and hearing, completely demolishing their ability to employ rational control over their body, and then begin the process of reprogramming them. The drones would be completely blind and deaf, their motions dictated not by their brains, but by computers embedded in the helmets. The only opening on the helmet was for the mouth, so that a feeding tube could be inserted to keep the drone hydrated and fed. Combat robots were more efficient in battle, but they couldn’t live off the land or be fed organic materials, and they weren’t half so terrifying. A robot trying to kill you was something to fight against. A drone trying to subsume your thoughts and encase you in a torture made of latex and diapers was something to surrender to. The gloves and boots were perfunctory, practical things. They got put on, and then the drones were all dumped into a pile where they would wait as their brains were reprogrammed and their diapers were filled for the first time. By the time the muscle relaxers wore off, there would be no chance of escape or recovery for anyone who’d gone through the belt. “It’s good,” Arianna declared. “I’m impressed.” “Thank you, your magnificence,” Doctor Connors said. “And it’s all your own design,” she added. “But… your apprentice knows how it all works, yes?” “Well, of course. I taught him so that he could lead the factories on another planet,” Doctor Connors frowned. “Why?” “I was only thinking…” Madame Arianna tapped her chin. “That you’ve seemed hesitant, these past weeks. Nervous.” “I’m fully committed to the plan, ma’am. To the empire,” Connors said, taking a step back. “Not only that, though. These machines, they’re your inventions. Your glory, in a way. Not my own work.” She leveled her steely gaze on Connors. “I don’t like to share, Doctor.” He took another step away. “What… what are you saying?” “That you’re no use to me, not any longer.” Madame Arianna smirking. “Not as anything more than a pathetic, useless-” “Take her now,” Connors snapped. She blinked. “Huh?” Three drones in the immediate vicinity jumped on Arianna, tackling her to the ground. A quadruple dose of the muscle relaxer got shot into her neck, rendering her body totally limp, totally helpless. Connors squatted down, smirking. “You stupid little bitch, you thought I wouldn’t program them to follow me above you? I slipped it into the programming. You wanted them to follow you, or to follow their base programming if you got taken out, but I outsmarted you. Now you’re going to be a little, pants-shitting, helpless thing, and I’ll- Huh? Buh…” He fell to the ground limply, as a needle pricked his neck. It didn’t make sense. One of the drones had incapacitated him, same as Arianna, but he hadn’t told her to. It had no instructions, except… Except to follow it’s base programming, to find and assimilate drones. Oh no. No, no, no, no- The drones dragged him and Arianna towards the front of the assembly line, dumping them onto the belt with the other captives. Despite already being drugged, the servos hit them with another dose, and Connors felt his body go even more slack. No. There’s got to be a way out of this, he thought, as the belt carried him forward into the first scan. The laser started working its way up his body, removing layers of his clothing and rendering hair to ash. In the corner of his vision, he could see Madame Arianna behind him, glaring daggers his way, but she was as helpless, naked, and hairless as him. If they don’t have a leader, they won’t accept surrender, Connors realized. They’ll assimilate everyone. They can’t not. He’d made the perfect self replicating system, after all. Autonomous invasion forces that would conquer planets and send out more, larger, invasion forces. The collar, designed to choke just a little bit, latched tightly around his neck, and the chafing wrist and ankle cuffs were locked down. He could hear Arianna whimpering, terror setting into her for possibly the first time in her life, but he’d accepted his fate. There was nothing to do except try to deal with the discomfort. As he considered this, a steel cage was clamped tightly around him, squeezing his member and then immediately beginning to buzz, stroke, and tease. Despite his circumstances, his terror, he felt himself try to grow hard, strain painfully in the steel, fall limp, and then repeat the process. Next, he was picked up by cold, steel hands. The plug was rested against his back door, pressure applied, and then he winced as it was shoved inside him. Why did I make it that large? Just to be painful? … Stupid question. The diaper came next, though he was already having trouble focusing on it, between painful attempts at an erection and the uncomfortable fullness in his bottom from a plug that would never be removed. Still, thick padding was folded between his thighs, taped down with industrial-grade adhesive, and he was dropped back in place. Being gagged wasn’t so bad. He didn’t fight as the arms opened his mouth and forced in the hollow feeding gag, letting it rest between his teeth, waiting for the next step. One thing he hadn’t considered as a designer was that the latex being pulled over his body would be coming straight out of a formation vat. It was hot to the touch, like it’d been laying out in the sun, making him sweat as soon as the tight material was snapped over his body. As a torture feature, he’d probably have left it in even if he’d known, but the surprise was the first thing that made him whimper. There wouldn’t be any cooling down or getting better, not when his body heat was radiating into the suit. Then, finally, came the helmet, and Connors said goodbye to being the renowned doctor and scientist he’d been up until that moment. He was just one of the legion of diaper drones. The Drone Legions - Invasion Heat and fumes wafted from the autofactory complex, matched by the sound of whirring servos and bubbling pre-formation latex armor. Thousands had already gone through, and millions more would be next. The drone sentries guarding the line were an ominous warning of what would happen to the people fed into the machine. “Oh god…” Julie whimpered, forced to step up to the edge of the conveyer belt. “Oh god, oh god–” “It’ll be okay,” Kate promised. “Watch out for a moment to run–these things don’t seem too smart. And even if we can’t, someone will rescue us.” Behind her, Sarah made a choking sound. “Are they all wearing diapers?” The bulging puffiness between the legs and around the waist of each drone stood out–Kate had thought it might be some kind of battery, but now that she had it pointed out to her, she couldn’t un-see the silhouette of a diaper beneath the black latex. They were penned in by hundreds of figures, all in shiny skintight suits and diapers and helmets, and in a moment the three friends would be in the same boat. As space opened up, Julie was prodded forward onto the conveyor belt, and she gave Kate an excellent view of what would happen next: A needle on an arm pricked her in the neck and she fell limp, falling onto the belt helplessly. Her eyes still moved, and her chest still rose and fell with breath–she’d been paralyzed. (It’ll be okay,) Kate told herself. She’d already tried to run once, but the pain of being shocked by the drone’s weapons was enough to convince her not to run again. Stepping forward, she felt the needle, and heard Sarah’s whimper behind her. Kate fell forward, getting an excellent view ahead as her friend was rotated, had her legs spread, and ultimately fell victim to a dozen careful lasers went to work. They first cut away her clothing, scraps of charred fabric falling off in clumps, then went to work with a more delicate setting, burning away her hair one follicle at a time with a hundred thousand tiny blasts of focused heat, accompanied by quiet energy pulses that combined into white noise. Unable to turn her head or look away, Kate stared forward, up between Julie’s legs. She felt like she should avert her gaze and give her friend privacy, but she couldn’t so much as close her eyes, only stare as her friend was rendered hairless and smooth between her legs. A moment later she felt the lasers start to work on her own body. It stung, not quite hot enough to permanently scar her, but like she’d left the water in her shower all the way up and couldn’t reach down to turn it off–bad across her whole body, but particularly squirm-inducing as it cut away the hair over her sex. She’d never gone in for laser hair removal, never gotten a tattoo, and winced when she got her shots at the doctor–this made all those problems pale in comparison, and her throat let out an involuntary whimper. A fan blew away the remnants of her formerly luxurious head of hair, now a pile of char, and she felt the cool breeze on her own nether regions. She was as exposed to Sarah as Julie was to her, though indignity was the least of her worries at the moment. Metal collars and cuffs lifted Julie, Kate, and Sarah in turn, locking their bodies out spread-eagle, and with an emotionless whirr, another metal implement pushed up between their legs. Kate could not look down and watch, but she felt something like silicone push up into her sex, deep enough that she’d have moaned if she could move, and then felt steel snap in place over her. She couldn’t see any locking mechanism on Julie, just a pair of bead welds. The dildo inside her was permanent, and–it started to buzz. The second penetration came from behind, a barely-lubricated plug that forced her bottom open, heavy and solid, pulling inside her and resting there, enhancing the unwanted sexual desire that’d been forced upon her. Violated in front and back, she expected that the buzzing would rise, forcing her to orgasm, but there was no such relief–as soon as her body started to respond to sensations inside her, the imposition stopped, denying her relief. And then, before she could catch her breath, it began again. The diaper pushed up between her legs felt too thick, too wide, almost unreal–but she could see Julie’s, which looked like it could absorb an ocean with room to spare. She understood what it meant with an uncomfortable flash of insight, one that came just as the vibrator inside her pussy died again, leaving her on the frustrating edge of orgasm. (They won’t change these unless they have to.) Still dangling by neck and hand cuffs, her feet were released, and latex, hot like it’d been left out on the pavement on a summer day, began to slide its way up her body, forming tight against her skin, making her start to sweat and wish she could squirm. There was no relief, no chance of a cool breeze to waft through the factory, and even the sweat that began to pour into the latex didn’t help, only making things wet and stifling. It came up over her diaper, over her naked chest, and finally up to her neck. She noted two small tubes for air flow, and when she sniffed, she got a vague scent of medicated plastic. It was hard to think while being constantly edge, constantly left breathless and in a state of pure sexual torture, but she got the meaning. (My diaper. The only air flowing out of my suit comes from…my diaper.) She’d be breathing in anything she put out. Finally, a claw pulled her mouth open, making room for a deep gag that went to the back of her throat. Even if she had control over her body, her ability to make sounds beyond whimpers was stolen. She could see Julie in front of her, similarly gagged, and then a helmet came down, covering her head. (Please,) she thought. (Let it be over, let it be–) Lights began to flash, and sounds, in a chaotic, disorienting pattern. Her mind–already fragile from the heat, the sweat, the claustrophobia and the sexual agony of being edged by a perfect machine–broke. Drone #58008-PFLS came off the assembly line, falling into a heap with other drones. They would be left there until the chemicals wore off, until their brain was fully reprogrammed, and until their diapers were full. Then they’d be sent out to war, and to bring back new humans to be made into pliable, obedient soldiers. … Drone #58008-PFLS stepped forward into a new space, though their own personal torment remained roughly the same. Five steps forward, turn. They couldn’t properly tell where they were, not with a helmet sealing away their senses. Lights flashing in their eyes and white noise pumping into their brain had bypassed all their motor controls, anyways–some computer integrated into the helmet dictated their motions, leaving their limited remaining brainspace to do little except whimper and wonder. Scanning. Their head turned, slightly, so that the cameras on their helmet could get a look at the area–they didn’t even get to see any sort of video feed, the gesture was exclusively to benefit the computer that controlled their movements. The space felt vaguely familiar. They could tell they stood on carpet, and they’d walked up three flights of stairs to get there. Sometimes, their latex suit felt a little hotter, other times, it felt more stifling, though the sweat and body heat inside was never less than sweltering. Some of the heat came from the constant effort–they were rarely left idle, more often being sent to gather others, humans who would soon be given the same treatment. More heat came from their midsection, though, the foul muck stewing in their diaper and the constant, mind-crushing depravation coming inside their permanently filled pussy. They stepped forward helplessly, feeling their body get right to the edge, right up to the brink. A different kind of heat, the kind that promised crashing endorphins and incredible pleasure, rose up inside them–only for the vibrator to die completely, killing that ecstasy in the crib. Turn, open door. In the past…days? Weeks? Months? Since they’d been sealed into this suit, they’d been given diaper changes only sparingly, and the plug holding their bottom wide open, keeping them feeling permanently full, also ensured that it took little more than minutes before the diaper was radiating stink right up their suit into their helmet once again. Food came in bland paste forced through their gag, and water went right to the back of their throat, denying even that slight refreshment. They couldn’t remember what an orgasm felt like anymore, only that it was satisfaction like nothing else. Satisfaction they wanted so desperately to feel again, something to distract from the heavy bulk and mush between their legs–though they had no way of telling time, it seemed from the weight that they had to be in the worst point, halfway between changes. Too long to feel anything like clean, but with no hope of a reprieve for days. Inhaling deeply, Drone #58008-PFLS realized they’d started struggling–fighting with someone. Their latex armor and enhanced reflexes made the combat trivial, but it meant they had to breathe more heavily, all but panting, senses overwhelmed by the earthy, mind-numbing stench they’d poured into their suit, the only thing that could cut through the pure, thought-shattering frustration rippling up from their vibrator. (I…) they thought. They couldn’t quite remember their name, but they knew that they were a person. “I” was their last bastion of personal identity. (Want…) They still had desires, too. Weak, feeble, humiliating desires. They no longer had the capacity to want freedom, even a reprieve from the heat, the sticky, sweaty stink, or the captivity. They just wanted the bliss of an orgasm, if only… Their bowels shifted, something they felt as an extra weight on the plug. An indication they’d be filling their diapers further in just a moment, adding to the weight between their legs. Whoever they’d been fighting had fallen still. They’d won. All they had to do was drag the victim out, and… They could feel the victim’s hands, even through latex, as they tugged the unconscious body towards the door. They had on two rings, and a little notch on the back of their palm, and… (Friend?) They thought, unable to articulate anything more complex. They knew that hand. They knew the person attached to the hand, too, or they had known them, back when they had thoughts more complex than base desire and smell. The person they’d just knocked out, the person they’d doomed to an identical life of orgasm torture and filthy diapers and a complete lack of autonomy, had been their best friend. As they shuddered, riding to the verge of another denied round of pleasure, they tried–and failed–to think. (Why?) (I must…I want…I’m gonna…) They realized what they’d forgotten. As a machine made only to experience frustration and ruin diapers, it wasn’t that they couldn’t orgasm–it was that they’d misremembered what an orgasm was. Need grew inside them, as the vibrator brought them to the razor edge of climax. Their thoughts were always weak, but the lightheaded need of being edged this close rendered their brain as mushy as their diaper, totally vacant of thought. Then the vibrator cut out, but there was no denied pleasure this time–Moaning, they felt the muck spill out into the seat of their diaper. This had to be it. The reason they were kept from holding it was so that they’d experience the pleasure more often, the bliss and pure release of pushing solid, putrid mush into their pants. They couldn’t properly make sounds of pleasure, not with their mouth held open, but a guttural moan still escaped into their throat as the warm, soft mass forced its way into their diaper, spreading between their cheeks and adding further warmth and disgust to their personal environment of stink and satisfaction. It was, simply, a release. The highlight of their time in their latex prison; pressure relaxing inside them, sensory input beyond frustration. What more could anyone ask for in the world beyond the sheer bliss of using their diaper? Drone #58008-PFLS’s friend would be joining them in this, soon, and then they’d get to learn the truth: This was the real pleasure. They just had to wait until the next time they filled their diaper to experience it again. As their climax tapered off, a little fart rumbled into the diaper, a final addition to the smell growing thick and overpowering in their helmet. They could hardly wait until next time. … The dark smoke trails of landing dropships littered a new sky, a new planet. Another target in the galaxy, another ripe colonization target for the drone’s interstellar conquest. Forces tried to fight back, humans on the ground. They’d heard what happened to other planets, and they refused to let it happen to them. They’d had a scant few years to prepare for combat, but they did their best, and could only hope their countermeasures would be enough. Jo made a silent gesture to her companions, a small cluster of survivors, coaxing them forward. She’d kept them safe so far, on the quest for a safe house, some kind of refuge. Three others held back. Emmerich had a hesitant scowl on their face, and Ian outright refused to leave the safety of their hiding spot for the danger of a run across the courtyard. Arlynn, at least, raised up slightly and scanned for danger. “I promise we won’t go to a factory.” Jo whispered, standing up straight to inspire the others. “I’ll show the way, just follow m–” A taser blast hit her, and she fell prone. Drones swarmed in from all around, only distinguishable by the faint serial numbers printed on their helmets. The survivors scrambled away, taking cover, but they were surrounded. Their capture was inevitable. Drone #58008-PFLS stepped forward and grabbed Jo’s prone form, dragging her free. “We have to get her!” Emmerich called, looking at the others. “If they get her to a factory…” But Drone #58008-PFLS wasn’t taking her to a factory. Instead, right there in the courtyard, they tore the seat of Jo’s pants away, raised an oblong plug as thick around as their wrist, and forced it into Jo’s waiting exposed ass hole. Jo cried out, but the discomfort of the enormous plug inside her quickly turned to fear, shock, and pain as a black sort of ooze spread out from the plug. Nanomachines. The drone legion had made improvements of their own. In seconds, her clothes were burned away, along with her hair, leaving her girldick exposed for just a fraction of a second before it was covered by buzzing nanites, sealing her into the same orgasm torture as the other drones, just with a higher-tech veneer–which, in turn, was encased by black, shiny ferrofluid spreading over her whole body. She began to whimper on the ground, overwhelmed by the sudden erotic torture overwhelming her, the heat, the burning, the naked shame of it all. She had one moment to acknowledge her failure, helplessly looking to her friends for relief, then the suit spread its way up her neck, over her mouth, her nose, and finally over her eyes. Already, brain-crushing hypnotic patterns and sounds flashed in her eyes, erasing her thoughts, shutting out the ability to act independently. As a finishing touch, the space between her legs and over her crotch swelled, as nanites foamed into an efficient, hyper-absorbent diaper. And, as it finished puffing out, the plug opened her bottom, taking away her last ounce of control–hot, solid mush spilled out of her into the diaper, flooding her suit with putrid fumes. By the time the suit had encased her head and the diaper finished swelling, she was no longer Jo. They were Drone #40962-PFTB. Accepting a trio of plugs from the nearest drone, they began marching towards their former friends, helpless to disobey the commands. They stepped over the slight barricade, seizing Emmerich’s collar. “But–” Emmerich whimpered, but they couldn’t escape the drone’s iron grip. “Jo, you can’t–” Forcing them to the ground, Drone #40962-PFTB inserted the transformation plug into Emmerich. It spread quickly, penetrating them and covering them, destroying their clothes, taking away their identity. Their other former friends tried to run, but they were surrounded, with no escape. Ian managed to make it two steps, but was downed by a taser blast, left sprawling and helpless on the ground. Arlynn didn’t even make it that far–Drone #40962-PFTB caught his leg before he could make it two steps. The trip sent him sprawling, and in a second, the plug was forced inside him, eliciting a cry of discomfort and shock. Arlynn couldn’t recognize what was happening to him, but he could watch as Ian met the same fate a moment later. Ian had a small metal cage wrapping around his cock and began to pulse, sending him into spasms before the black ooze covered everything, and Arlynn felt himself penetrated by a similar device, a dildo filling his sex and sending him into torturously intense spasms of pleasure. Jo had been right–they wouldn’t be going to any factory. She made sure of that personally, and before two minutes had passed, four more recruits were added to the drone legions. … The scene was the same across every populated planet in the galaxy. Drones stood, idle, aimless and with no more worlds to conquer. Occasionally, one would moan loud enough that it could be heard through their helmets, not that there were any people around to hear it. The only other sound was the occasional rumble and squelch of a swelling diaper, as a drone experienced its next-best-thing to pleasure. Drone #58008-PFLS spent most of their time squatting out in a courtyard. In as much as she could like anything, she enjoyed it–the weather rarely made her latex unbearably hot, and she’d ended up near a feeding and diaper changing station. Her needs were cared for, allowing her to devote all her attention to the utter bliss that came when she poured muck into her diaper, and to savoring the heady smell that built up in her helmet between rarer and rarer changes. If she could have been asked what she wanted to be done to her, she’d have had no response. Nothing she could imagine would be any better. The universe was at peace. ... I you have a couple bucks to spare and like the content I write, please consider donating a couple bucks over on Patreon! https://www.patreon.com/PeculiarChangeling https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

Chapter 25: Conflict Pearce spun in place, head spinning with everything he had to do. He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up big time. It was four in the afternoon, on a work day–and sure, he freelanced from home, but that didn’t mean he could just ignore his job all day without consequence. Waiting anxiously for his phone to charge, he booted up his desktop, wondering if he had time to go make a pot of coffee and take an aspirin for the headache that was starting to pound a hole in his– “Pearce,” Grace demanded, standing by his door. “I need a change.” And she did–her diaper had been utterly decimated; flooded so thoroughly that the tapes were struggling to hang on and all the padding had clumped and fallen to the bottom of the diaper. It was a miracle she hadn’t– “I’ve already leaked twice,” she added, emphasizing the depth of his failure. (Oh.) “I’ll get to that soon,” Pearce said. If she leaked again, it’d cost him fifty bucks–a price worth paying to get his day back on track, to recover from the death spiral he’d flown into by losing eight hours. It was one thing to talk to Grace about being chill, about skipping jobs if they didn’t spark joy, but he’d screwed up badly with a client he actually liked, and he had to do damage control before they decided not to renew his contracts. He hated doing the mental math on what took priority. He’d already screwed up enough as the babysitter, already let Grace down hard, and he was actively choosing to let her down more. That made him sick, but Grace’s petulance was making it easier to stomach–the more she irritated him, the less he cared. “Did you eat?” he asked, as his phone chirped to life. “I made myself food, yes,” she said. “But that was around lunchtime–I still need dinner.” (Okay. I need to–fuck. Eight missed calls. I need to listen to these messages, return the calls, reply to the texts, check my email, see if that build got uploaded–dammit, I said I’d give feedback today. So feedback. And Grace needs a change, and dinner, and I need to figure out when I’m going to redo the meeting from today, and–shit, she probably needs a drink, too, and she’s not dressed, and…I need to listen to these messages.) “Pearce–” Grace snapped. “Look at me.” He looked at her, frowned, and looked away. “Pearce,” Grace insisted, demanding his attention. “What?” he snapped, wheeling on her. “Grace, I have five thousand things to do, no time to do it, and none of our shit takes priority right now. You need to leak? Go leak.” “Are you giving up?” she demanded. He ran his hands through his hair, exasperation growing by the second. “No, I’m not–Grace, are you fucking kidding me?” Grace’s face registered shock, and he hesitated. He hadn’t meant to be that harsh, but it wasn’t half so harsh as the crueler thoughts rolling around in the back of his head. He simply could not believe that Grace had left him out to dry, and though he buried his worst impulses, he couldn’t contain his rant completely. “You seriously fucked over my entire day so you could get leverage for the bet?” he continued. “You’re that petty? It’s a game. I haven’t tried to screw any of your work stuff up or mess with your jobs, I’ve made sure you have space and time to work, and, what? You were just waiting to get the right leverage on me so you could fuck me over?” He knew he was yelling, he knew Skip could probably hear him if they hadn’t left for work already, but he didn’t care. “You did screw my work.” Grace didn’t need volume to convey her anger, every word had an icy edge. “You were supposed to be the one to wake us up. You had one job.” “I have like fifty jobs! I’m doing everything!” Pearce shot back. “So I screwed up one thing. Sure. Whatever.” “Whatever? No.” Grace glowered, refusing to give him an inch of empathy. “You don’t get to be in charge and then ‘Whatever’ everything away when you screw up. You either need to own up and take care of your responsibilities, or admit that you can’t actually do this and tell me you’re done. Only two options.” Her words hit him like a warning shot, an indicator that if he didn’t back down immediately, she’d go for his throat. He didn’t care about what she wanted him to do. “Grace,” Pearce shot back at her. “I know you want to be the center of attention, but I have so much work to do, and you cannot be up my ass about this right now!” “No, we’re going to talk.” Her gaze was steel as she attacked him again, more insistent. “Are you going to give up?” (Shut the fuck up and leave me–) “How many things did I miss?” Pearce demanded. “Eight.” Grace began counting on her fingers, loading up her verbal cannons for the finishing strike. “Two leaks, bedtime, wake up, bathtime, breakfast, lunch, and I haven’t had a single thing to drink today I didn’t get myself. Four hundred dollars. Pay up, or give up.” There it was. Her ultimatum–he could take the verbal torpedo head on, or he could sink. Preparing to take it on the chin, he readied his return salvo. “You got out of your crib on your own, made yourself two meals, got yourself drinks, and you just told me you needed a diaper change.” Her eyes narrowed. “So?” “So,” he attacked, ready to blast her confidence out of the water. “You want me to play the game, respect the bet? Fine.” Swiping his wallet off the desk, he fished in it for cash–of course he didn’t have enough. Instead, he scooped up his phone, sending a digital payment to Grace–four hundred dollars. Twenty hours of his life, labeled ‘Penalty Beer Money’. “I’m paid up,” he announced, dropping his bomb. “You broke five rules, that’s five hours in time out. Go away, sit down, shut up, and leave me alone.” Grace’s eyes widened, her face drawing tight as she balled her hands. “You aren’t serious–” “Completely.” He felt a sting of satisfaction, and couldn’t help but add, “Are you going to give up?” When her face fell from shock to sadness and she backed away, all that vindication washed away, and he felt only shame. … Grace genuinely could not believe him. Pearce. Fucking Pearce. He’d left her alone, skipped out on his responsibilities, and he apparently had the gall to throw it right back in her face that she didn’t waste her entire day sitting in her crib, waiting for him to demonstrate basic life skills. She stared at the corner of the wall, wriggling uncomfortably. Her leaky, swollen diaper wasn’t getting any more comfortable, and she couldn’t even get Pearce in further trouble by going again–she’d just be making puddles on the floor. Her stomach cramps hadn’t gone away, either, and sitting in a low stool that effectively left her in a constant crouch didn’t do much for her control. (Five hours. It’ll be bedtime by then.) Grace wouldn’t have any trouble holding it for five hours, but she’d already been holding it all day. She couldn’t remember going yesterday, either–after she and Pearce had started talking, she didn’t want to kill the mood by stinking up the room and forcing him to change her; she doubted either of them could rebound back to sexy from ‘cleaning up her poopy bottom.’ Now she was stuck fighting cramps. For five hours. She blamed Pearce for this, but she blamed herself, too. This could all have been avoided if she’d just… (Woken Pearce up?) (No.) (I should have set an alarm on my own phone.) The stupid thing had been to let her guard down, to assume that just because Pearce was fun to hang out with, and fun in bed, that she could rely on him. She’d lowered her guard, fully relaxed, and been punished in response. And maybe–maybe–she could admit that refusing to step in and wake him up had been an overreaction, but she wasn’t in charge of him. They were just…she wasn’t sure. Friends with benefits sounded wrong. She squirmed again. Her bottom was starting to itch from the prolonged time in a saturated diaper. If she’d been a real baby, she would have probably just bawled her head off when she woke up stuck in her crib, not snuck around and stayed quiet. (Now I’m making excuses for him.) She couldn’t check the time. She couldn’t do anything, except squirm, pout, and reflect. (Is this why time out’s are a popular punishment? So kids will think about what they did wrong?) (Not that it works when I didn’t do anything wrong.) (Goddammit, how long has it been?) (Brains gets home at around six, usually. Seven at the latest. It was like five PM when I got stuck here, so...it hasn’t even been an hour.) (Should I just pee? I feel like I should just pee. I can’t hold it for five hours.) (Oh god I hope time is passing faster than it feels like. It feels like it’s only been a few minutes.) (How the hell could he do this to me when he’s the one at fault?) More than the boredom itself, or the discomfort, it was the injustice that ate at her. He’d failed her, and then when she confronted him about it he found an excuse to abandon her again. Paying lip service to the rules of the bet didn’t justify this, he just wanted to eliminate an inconvenience by any means necessary. Her stomach gurgled and cramped again, painful fullness rearing its head. A reminder that she’d been holding it for almost two days, and that she wouldn’t be able to keep it held much longer–certainly not while she had to sit in a near crouch. She had to choose between physical discomfort or humiliation, and even if she chose the former, she didn’t know if her body would comply. (Fuck.) … Brains returned home late, only to find himself confronted by a smell, like someone had just squatted down and gone right onto the floor in the living room. He saw Grace on her time out chair, in a flooded diaper, sitting over a puddle of urine. That explained the smell, then. If Melody was there, she could’ve probably gleaned a lot more from Grace’s body language, Brains could largely only intuit the fact that she was upset from the facts–if he were in a wet diaper stuck in time out, he’d be upset too. “Time out?” he asked, before quickly catching himself. “Sorry–don’t answer that.” He didn’t want to get her in trouble. “I’ll go ask Pearce what happened.” He took his phone out while navigating upstairs, taking the time to text Melody, ‘You on a date tonight?’ ‘Yeah, what’s up?’ ‘Grace is in time out. Peed on the floor. Might be awkward to bring someone home to.’ ‘Noted, thanks.’ Heading upstairs, he briefly considered Not Getting Involved. Instead, he knocked on Pearce’s door. “Grace?” Pearce called through the door. “If you got out of time out–” “Brains,” he corrected. Pearce opened up. “What’s up?” “Grace leaked onto the floor,” Brains said. “What did she do?” “What didn’t she do?” Pearce replied. “I…don’t know,” Brains said. “I’ve been gone all day.” “Sorry.” Stepping back, Pearce let Brains into his bedroom. It looked more chaotic than usual. “She broke like five rules today.” “Oh, damn,” Brains said. “Why?” Pearce seemed to be thinking about his words for a long moment. “I broke eight.” “Oh, damn.” Doing the math, he said, “Four hundred bucks. Can you afford that?” “Sorta. If I don’t lose this client that I ghosted for like eight hours.” “Hold up.” Brains shook his head. “I need you to explain what happened.” Pearce explained, starting with the morning–he’d forgotten his phone, missed his alarm, and Grace had woken up sometime that morning well after their day was supposed to begin…then she’d refused to wake him up in turn. “Five hours, though,” Brains said, finally. “That’s…Pearce, that’s a lot.” “I know,” Pearce shrugged. “But, like…if she’s going to insist I do the whole thing, I can’t really back out, can I?” “Honestly?” Brains said. “You shouldn’t. She deserves it.” Pearce stopped to look flatly at Brains. “That’s unusually harsh.” “You messed up by accident,” he replied. “She let you sleep on purpose. Intention matters. If anything, she should be apologizing to you.” Sighing, Pearce looked back at his computer, then at Brains. “She’s still mad.” “That doesn’t mean she didn’t purposefully hurt you.” Pearce shrugged. “You’re right.” “I am?” Brains said, almost surprised at saying something insightful. “You are, but I’m going to ignore you anyways,” Pearce said. “It all comes back to the bet–I’d been thinking of it as rules, but it’s more than that. Grace really has the emotional regulation skills of a toddler, and I shouldn’t have been expecting her to handle an adult relationship.” That surprised Brains less–he was used to that. “Then what are you going to do? Let her out of time out?” “No,” Pearce said. “She made her diaper, she can sit in it. But I’m the adult here, the one in charge. I just need to start following the rules.” ... The good times couldn't last forever, could they? 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Art by Omopurr!

Chapter 24: Coming Down “Fuck, yes–yes–” “Don’t stop–” “Oh god–” … “I…” “What was that?” “Hmm?” “I couldn’t hear you. You were mumbling.” “I didn’t say anything.” “Okay.” … “Scoot closer.” “Can’t get enough of me, hmm?” “I’m cold and you’re sharing the blankets, casanova.” “If it gets any cozier, I’m going to fall asleep.” “As long as we don’t doze for too long…” … Grace dreamed of a warm embrace, sunshine wrapped around her body, comfort and care. She awoke to an empty bed. She’d fallen asleep with Pearce, that much she’d remembered–after a long night together, breaking occasionally to eat, to bathe, to change, they’d dozed in her bed, nestled against each other. That feeling of being wanted had carried her off to sleep, wishing her earthly needs away. Now a laser beam of sunlight was blasting her in the eyes, forcing her to wince awake, an indication that the morning was growing long. She’d overslept, and she had work to do. “Pearce?” Rolling upright, she looked around. Pearce hadn’t put up the crib bars, so no awkward climbing was required to stand up. She felt emotionally hungover; there was no blinding headache or physical pain, but she felt fatigued, drained. Abandoned? Her phone was on the ground by the crib, and she knelt to grab it, pressing the on button to check the time. It didn’t take long to recognize that the phone was dead, or that it wasn’t hers, but Pearce’s. Hers was on the nightstand a few feet away, and she’d remembered to plug it in even through the haze of cuddling. Past ten in the morning. (Goddamnit,) she thought. (Pearce was supposed to wake me up.) Worse–she had a phone meeting she was supposed to take half an hour ago. She’d missed it completely. Heart rate spiking, Grace quickly texted the client apologizing for her tardiness and asking if they could reschedule. She told herself not to catastrophize–it was just a phone call, it probably didn’t matter too much, she wouldn’t lose work over this–but in the space between reaching out and getting a response, it was hard to feel anything except anxiety. By the rules of the bet, she was probably supposed to crawl back into her crib and wait–maybe she could shout from the other room until he woke up, but Skip would be home by then, and asleep, and she didn’t want to wake them up after a long shift. Besides–she had more important things to be doing. So, dropping Pearce’s phone back onto her bed, she waddled out of her room. Her diaper squished slightly–she was fairly sure she could remember wetting it in the night, waking up for a moment to relieve the pressure on her bladder before dozing off again. Since Pearce hadn’t properly put her in pajamas, she just had on a T-shirt over it. Opening her door, she looked at the entrance to Pearce’s room. His door was shut, and she could hear gentle snores from the other side. (I should wake him up,) she thought. Then she considered why he was snoring in his room–he’d left her side at some point in the night to go back to his bed, without a thought in the world for her. No alarm, no text, he’d just left. Her phone buzzed–a response from the client she’d accidentally blown off. ‘I’ll see if there’s a time I can reschedule to, we’re on a pretty tight deadline but I might be able to shift things around.’ (Translation: They already hired someone else. Stupid. I should have set my own alarm.) She looked back at Pearce’s door again. (He can sleep.) Mentally, she racked up the rules he’d broken–no bathtime, no bedtime, no waking up on time, no breakfast. She could probably get away with making her diaper leak before he woke up too. He was in for a hefty bill. It might be enough to finally make him balk, to give up, and then she wouldn’t even have to worry about her punishments for getting out of the crib. And, besides–she had other reasons to believe that she was safe from punishment. Toddling downstairs, she made a beeline to the coffee pot–still half full, Brains or someone must have left it percolating before leaving for work. The house was still and empty, she was the only one there, the only one awake. Smirking to herself, Grace poured a cup of coffee into a mug. If Pearce wasn’t going to enforce the rules, why should she obey them? That was just another tally against him, more proof he was going to lose the bet. He’d just left her, anyways. She wasn’t going to keep the song and dance going, drinking from a bottle when she had to fix the drink herself. Sipping it, the coffee tasted cold and bitter. Even a run through the microwave and a healthy helping of cream and sugar didn’t fix it, the drink offered her no satisfaction. It just felt…off. (Brains probably used the wrong setting,) she told herself, setting aside the mug and pouring herself a glass of water instead. That, at least, just tasted like water. From there, she got to work. Real, on her own time, work. Sitting at the desk in her room, she buckled down, focusing on the project she most wanted to get out of the way. Since there was no call that morning, no chance to set client expectations, her intended work for the day wasn’t available. She didn’t like switching on the fly, but the poorly conceived blockchain metaverse nightmare wouldn’t take care of itself, and it was something to do. Pearce’s advice to ditch the project completely echoed in the back of her head, but then his snores drifted in through the wall they shared and chased away all her other thoughts of him. Eventually, she checked the time. (It’s past noon. Is he seriously still asleep?) Her diaper had filled to the point of full saturation, and if she wanted to avoid leaking she’d have to start doing some sort of yoga poses to ensure things trickled into the few dry bits of fluff. Rather than do that, she squelched to the bathroom, squatted in the tub, and let her diaper leak onto the porcelain. (And that’s another penalty for Pearce,) she thought, grabbing a towel off the rack. She thought about stripping out of the diaper, but changed her mind. It was better proof of Pearce’s failings if she kept it on. When he woke up and saw the state he was in, it’d be clear: (Look how badly you failed.) She could have woken him up then–it’s not like there was a penalty for double leaking. He probably had work of his own he could be doing, things he was missing. Grace waddled precariously past his door and into her room. Throwing the towel over her chair she sat back down and got to work. Loading up her work, she stared at the screen, eyes glazing over. (What am I doing?) She remembered Pearce’s arms around her. Even calling it just ‘friends with benefits’, they’d shared something last night. She probably owed him the courtesy of a wake-up knock, if not because they were friends, then at least because she no longer stood to gain–she was out of penalties to amass for him, unless he slept so late that he missed her bathtime as well. She checked her phone. Nothing from the client she’d burned, no indication that they were going to reschedule. (He couldn’t even set a stupid alarm,) she told herself. (He thinks he can be responsible, and he can’t even set an alarm. I can’t afford to lose this client–) she had to cut herself off, because it wasn’t true. She wanted the money, but she could muddle through without, she’d just be thin on cash for a while. (I wanted this client a lot. He could have just set an alarm.) Something deeper niggled at her. A little cold, bitter feeling in the pit of her stomach, like she’d swallowed an ice cube made of vinegar. That wasn’t true either. Grace remembered falling asleep with warmth and comfort next to her, with… There was only one word she could think of. She’d fallen asleep with her caregiver next to her, and woken up alone, and neglected. She didn’t care about the client, not really. She didn’t care about an hour of extra sleep. She just wanted to know that Pearce would be there for her when she needed him, but she’d woken up alone. Putting him out of her thoughts, Grace dove furiously into her work, blocking out everything else. She could code in her sleep, she could do design with her eyes closed, it just had to occupy her thoughts. Work. Problem solve. As long as she had something she could fix, something to create, she didn’t have to think about her feelings. A couple hours later, she had to drag herself away to the bathroom again, to repeat her stunt of leaking into the tub. Sighing, she got to her feet, waddling out, stretching out her hands as she bumped right into Skip. They came out of their bedroom with headphones on, and she was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she only stepped out of the way at the last second. “Woah,” she said, stumbling and grabbing the wall for support. “Morning,” Skip said, pulling an ear bud out to say hi. “How are…is that what you were wearing last night?” “It is,” Grace said. Skip looked her up and down, eyes lingering on her particularly heavy diaper. “Did Pearce put you in the same clothes? Or–where is Pearce?” “He’s still asleep,” Grace said, in a tone meant to convey, ‘Can you believe this guy?’ Skip blinked. “It’s four in the afternoon.” Grace nodded. “Yeah.” “You didn’t wake him up?” Skip asked, looking at her like she had two heads. “Not my job,” Grace replied. “He wanted to be the babysitter so much, I’m not going to do that work for him.” Pushing past her, Skip pounded on Pearce’s door. “Hey! Wake up!” The snoring stopped. Pearce’s footsteps approached the door, and he opened it, bleary-eyed and confused. “Skip?” he said, blinking at them. “You’re home early. Or…” He looked around. Even sleep-drunk, he recognized something was wrong pretty quickly. Maybe what tipped him off was that she'd gotten out of her crib, or the light filtering in through the hallway window, but his eyes widened. “You slept all afternoon,” Grace said. “No,” he said, though it was hard to deny. “I–my alarm never went off.” “Your phone was in my room,” Grace said. He stared, uncomprehending. She recognized the panic, the ‘oh shit I missed so much’ look that she’d felt earlier that same day. He summarized the feeling shortly. “Fuck.” ... Toss a few dollars in my diaper fund and get early access to all my writing, exclusive content, and discounts on commissions! https://www.patreon.com/PeculiarChangeling https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

The Rules for Tabitha: If Tabitha is in a permission window, she may use the potty. Otherwise, she may not. If a permission window ends and she hasn’t used the potty, and Tabitha is not in front of a stranger, she must pee immediately. If she is in front of a stranger, she must seek privacy and immediately pee her pants. Tabitha must wear a diaper to bed, since she won’t know when to wake up to pee. That’s it. Those are the rules. The app: if (windowtimer == 0) { current_timer = pottytimer; pottytimer = random_range_minutes(15, 30); } if (pottytimer == 0) { play (ringtone_pottypants); current_timer = windowtimer; windowtimer = random_range_minutes(120, 480); } draw string (current_timer); It’d been simple enough to program–a randomized timer, a simple UI, and a notification sound. Anita had put it together in twenty minutes; the hardest part was installing it on Tabitha’s phone. Permission windows would last between fifteen and thirty minutes, and appear every two to eight hours–simple. Tabitha had gone along with it, too, despite all the potential pitfalls–she was confident that she’d win out against her girlfriend, and get back on top. Cocky, even–’Just you wait, in a week you’ll be the one in potty pants’. There were no tricks, no ‘gotchas’ built in. If Tabitha checked her phone regularly, watching for permission windows, making it to the potty would be trivial–but without a notification chime to signal the start of a window, only the end, she’d need to be constantly vigilant. A window could pop up at any time, and she desperately wanted to avoid missing them. If she went the whole week without a single accident–not counting the mandatory bedwetting–Anita would have to wear diapers for a month. If, however, Tabitha at least managed to keep it under three total daytime accidents, they’d call the bet a wash. For every accident beyond the third, though, Tabitha would be the household baby for two days longer. “You’re ready, potty pants?” Anita giggled, grinning at her girlfriend. “I’m going to keep my pants perfectly dry, thank you very much,” Tabitha retorted, sticking out her tongue. “The potty pants here is you, just you wait.” “Mhmm,” Anita gloated. “I’m not the one practicing her potty training.” As an act of defiance, she’d worn pale white jeans, so that any accident would stand out starkly. She wouldn’t be losing, after all. She’d put timers on her phone to remind her to check for permission windows, and her drive to win would see her through the week. They’d deliberately started on a Sunday–So that their bet would start and end on the weekend. Anita wanted to see Tabitha’s first scrambles to get to the bathroom, her desperate rush when she realized she only had a couple minutes standing between her and a soggy bottom. She got her first thrill of pleasure a couple hours later. Halfway through making lunch together, maneuvering around each other in the kitchen, one of Tabitha’s reminders beeped. Anita watched with a smirk as her girlfriend checked her phone, canceled the timer, and swiped over to the potty app. “–fuck,” Tabitha blurted, all but dropping her phone onto the counter and tearing across the kitchen, eyes huge. The bathroom was only about fifteen feet away, but Tabitha crossed it in less than a second, trying to fumble the door open and strip out of her pants at the same time. Anita burst out giggling, watching her girlfriend half stumble into the bathroom. Tabitha didn’t even shut the door, throwing herself onto the toilet instead, the sound of splashing water sending Anita into laughing fits. Not ten seconds later, she heard the pleasant chime notification she’d chosen, indicating how narrow the margin had been between success and pants-ruining disaster. Tabitha sulked out of the bathroom a minute later, blushing profusely. “Not funny.” “Aww, did you dribble into your panties?” Anita teased. “Maybe you should just start wearing diapers right away.” “The app cheated!” Tabitha fumed. “You programmed it wrong. “I did no such thing. How regular are your reminders?” Anita asked. “Every fifteen minutes,” Tabitha replied. “So there’s no way I can miss a window.” “There is, though,” Anita pointed out. “If you get the shortest possible window right after your reminder goes off–you’ll never see the window until it’s too late.” “Ugh,” Tabitha groaned, resetting her phone timer to give her alerts every twelve minutes. Anita giggled all the way through the afternoon. Tabitha had two more potty trips, and though neither of them were so dramatic as the first, she still enjoyed watching her girlfriend’s eyes widen in alarm before the inevitable rush to go. “What?” Tabitha demanded, after catching Anita’s nearly-permanent smirk yet again. “The timer,” Anita explained. “It’s just like one of those potty training watches. Y’know, the ones they make for toddlers.” “Ugh,” Tabitha said. “I am so looking forward to seeing your face when you lose.” Anita strongly doubted that would happen, so she just smirked. She knew Tabitha, and could guess how long Tabitha’s focus would last. And–maybe, if she were pressed, Anita would admit to cheating a bit. At the very least, she put a thumb on the scale when she picked out a long movie and turned up the volume. It didn’t quite drown out Tabitha’s phone alarm, but it came close–and, more than once, Tabitha missed her personal reminders. What she didn’t miss, near the end of the film, was the chime that cut through the on-screen hero’s stirring monologue. Tabitha blinked, looking down at her phone. An ignored timer languished, and the notification on screen read, ‘POTTY TIME.’ Her mouth opened, slack-jawed. “Uh–” “Oh noooo,” Anita said, feigning shock. “You didn’t make it!” Cheeks flushing, Tabitha started to stand, but Anita grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down onto their old thrift-store couch. “Oh no, you’re going right here–and you’re doing the cleanup, too. Just be glad I scotch-guarded your side of the couch.” “But–” Tabitha started. Anita shook her head. “You know the rules.” Balling her hands into embarrassed fists, Tabitha shut her eyes and kept her promise. A brilliant yellow stain flowered on the crotch of her jeans, quickly spreading down her thighs, pooling around her butt. The water resistant spray held up admirably, so that more urine ran down her white jeans onto the floor than got on the couch cushions, though it’d still need a round of cleanup to get it back to good. “Awww,” Anita cooed, reaching over to pause the film. “It’s alright, potty pants–you just didn’t make it in time!” “I–” Tabitha stammered. “This isn’t fair.” “Well, you get to wet yourself two more times before you’re in real trouble,” Anita warned. “And there’s only six days left–so I’m sure you’ll be fine, right?” Getting to her feet, the shocking yellow all the more visible around her butt, Tabitha stamped her foot in petulant annoyance. “Yes.” Neither of them believed it. And especially not when the weekday rolled around. Tabitha hadn’t been completely dumb about things–she worked at a tiny cell phone repair store that typically had her in front and a coworker working the front counter, and on the off occasions where she had to man reception, it wasn’t for long. She typically had schematics and instructions open on her phone anyways, and rushing off to the bathroom wouldn’t get in the way. She got through work just fine, with nary an accident in sight. But the commute–that caused a problem. Her drive to work had gotten lucky; even with a lengthy stint in traffic, she never had a potty window open up. The drive home, though, went differently. She checked her notifications before she left and ensured no potty window opened up, but what she couldn’t account for was the rush hour traffic on the way home, turning a fifteen minute drive into a thirty minute slog. Parking behind Anita’s motorcycle, she took out her phone and– (Fifty seconds?!) Scrambling, she threw open the car door and ran down the sidewalk to their home, grabbing the handle, reaching to her pocket for– Her keys were still in her car; she’d forgotten to take them out of the ignition in her mad dash. With thirty five seconds to go, she ran back to her car, but the driver's door was locked. She’d need the spare key, which was inside, and– She had no time for that, and she knew it. Running back to the front door, she tried the handle, desperately, then ran to the window. Both locked. Panic rising, she looked around–nobody was outside in their neighborhood, at least not that she could see, except a dog walker a block and a half down moving away from her. At a loss for what else to do, she hooked the waistband of her pants with her thumbs, jerked down, and squatted next to the door, barely saving herself the embarrassment of wet pants before she heard the chime. As she watered the flowers, she heard a knock on the window, and looked up to see Anita smirking down at her. Voice muffled by the glass, her girlfriend called out, “That still counts as an accident!” If Tabitha hadn’t been so mortified, she might have argued, but all she could muster up the strength for was a meek nod. Two days in, and she only had one accident left before she’d start accruing diaper time. And, just to rub things in, when they watched TV that evening Anita made her sit on the floor–”In case of little baby accidents”. Tuesday was better. She was diligent–she never missed a window, always caught it right away, and even loitered after work a bit to ensure she wouldn’t hit rush hour traffic again, hitting up the grocery store near the shop to kill time. What she failed to account for was not that she’d miss a window, but that one simply wouldn’t appear–by the time she got home, it’d been six hours since she’d had a window to pee, and her bladder was full to bursting. Anita misread her expression when she walked inside, taking the desperation on Tabitha’s face as embarrassment. “Aww,” she cooed. “Did you have an accident at work?” Tabitha shook her head, thighs pressed together, shifting her weight. “No, it’s just…whatever.” It was her subtle dance that tipped Anita off. “Oh, you can’t hold it much longer, can you?” Cheeks puffing up in indignation, Tabitha nodded. “Yes. You set the maximum time for too long.” “You can’t even hold it for eight hours?” Anita asked. Tabitha shook her head. “Um…it’s only been six, I just had too much to drink.” Anita snorted, walking over to greet her with a hug and a kiss. “Well, I promise not to play any waterfall noises to make your situation worse.” Shifting in her partner’s embrace, Tabitha smiled and hugged back, arms wrapped around each other. “Thanks.” “But I never said anything about tickling,” Anita said. It was too late for Tabitha to escape, Anita already had her. Hands sliding up, her fingers tickled beneath Tabitha’s armpits, her touch just gentle enough to be excruciatingly tickly, pulling giggles from deep within Tabitha’s soul. She fussed and stomped her feet, but it did nothing to keep her bladder in check, control bursting at Anita’s touch. Her pants flooded, and for the third time in as many days, she peed somewhere far, far away from the potty. That’s when Anita proposed the deal–while Tabitha was still blushing and humiliated, hot pee freshly staining her trousers. “You know,” she said, “since you’ve clearly failed your potty training, you can just be a potty pants for the rest of the week. I’ll even change your diapers for you, and then you can just pee whenever the timer tells you, or when you need to, and you won’t even have to do any laundry.” It was said so matter-of-factly, so evenly, that Tabitha just nodded. She’d lost the bet, she could see that, it would be better to cut her losses and admit defeat. If she kept this up, she’d have four more days of wet pants, and at least that many days in diapers after the fact. She missed the hidden meaning in Anita’s words. From the tone, Tabitha assumed that they were calling the bet off, but Anita had never said those words, never made that promise. Every accident would still add to Tabitha’s time in diapers, per their promise to each other, whether she peed in her jeans or went full-time potty pants and peed in diapers. Too humiliated to think straight, Tabitha said, “Okay–that’s…that’s okay. I’ll wear diapers.” In her head, she was agreeing to four days padded, give or take, but those weren’t the rules she’d agreed to–the rules were a simple algorithm, and they didn’t care if Tabitha peed into her pants or a diaper. All that mattered was whether she made it into the potty or not. Anita just smiled, and led her upstairs, before sealing her girlfriend into diapers for weeks. ... This story features my favorite pair of switchy diaper girls, who've appeared in several other stories of mine - Including an exclusive over on Patreon. If you like pants wetting and power play like this, "The Holding Challenge" features these two girls in a battle for dominance - whoever keeps their pants dry the longest gets to be the Big for a week. Subscribers can read it over on Patreon! https://www.patreon.com/posts/holding-patreon-52901536 Or on SubscribeStar! https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

I can't think of other examples in my own writing... for now! I might do something else with it, though, it's very fun as a blushy idea. (If I have used this idea before, it'd have been in a commission and I can't remember it!) Come to think of it, a story with hand-me-down diapers could be... 😈 Good. There is a short twitter smut I recall that hit this topic, though! (Not written by me!)

Alright, then - is it fair play to ask if you'd lean more towards a fun kind of feeding or punishment/mean feeding? (IE, 'You've been good so we're going to get you dressed up and feed you ice cream and give you lots of treats' versus 'You've been naughty/I just don't like you, so here's ten jars of strained peas - and you're not getting a change until you eat them all!')

Would 'Force feeding' in which someone has to suck cock and eat the cum afterwards qualify for this? (IE, they have to swallow cum at least once a day as part of a well rounded diet)

🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

It's a good trope. I understand it's not everyone's bag, but in the right circumstances, it's very, very... 🥵

This was written as part of a collaboration with another prolific producer of extremely kinky shit, @Sissy Becky! Sissy Becky used to run an ABDL website way back on the day. Now they write “Adult Baby Research Institute” a long form serial about a ABDL BSDM sex asylum where everything is turned up to 11. Catch their work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sissybecky And, they also wrote 'Part One' to this story! If you want the full context and backstory of what's going on here, I highly recommend you go read the very huffy, blushy prequel to this piece of writing! Baby's Date, the first half of the story by Sissy Becky, can be found here: https://www.legitfic.com/o/836-babys-date---collab-with-peculiar-changeling ... Baby's Date “So… who are they?” you ask Mommy, while she lathers up your hair with tear-free shampoo. Since promising that you’d get your very own ‘Grown-up date’, she’s been uncharacteristically coy about any details. All you know is to expect a blind date, and that everything has been prepared for you. You’ve got concerns. It could be someone else from the kinky community–a friend or at least an acquaintance with similar interests. Or, heck, it could be someone you’ve never so much as met, a real grown-up with no idea what your bedroom looks like. You might get some clues as you get prepared, though–you haven’t even been told what you’ll be wearing. You’re excited, anyways. The anticipation–the possibility of actually getting some proper grown up fun–is enough to put up with the dog and pony show Mommy and Daddy are putting you through. “Arms up,” Mommy instructs, ignoring your question completely. You lift, and she scrubs under your armpits with a soapy washcloth. “Can’t have you all smelly before we even get you dressed, can we?” (Is that a clue?) You wonder. (Or is she just teasing about the state of my diaper last night?) You could just safeword and ask, but what’d be the fun in that? You didn’t want to be told plainly, you wanted to guess it. It had to be someone she knew well, didn’t it? After you’re washed, rinsed, and helped out of the bath, she pats you down with a towel, then pats your bottom with her hand. “Go see daddy, he’s in your nursery.” Squeaky clean and naked from tip to toe, you’ve got no choice but to toddle out of the bathroom, arms crossed over your chest, hurrying to get to your nursery and get some clothes on. The transition from tub to air always makes you think you’re going to freeze, conjuring image of a ‘you popsicle’, and without any clothing to help warm you up you’re shivering in moments. Daddy is waiting next to your changing table when you get to your room, and your heart sinks, just a little. That isn’t a guarantee that you won’t be going out with a real grown up, but it does mean they’ll find out if you want to have any naughty fun. More likely, it’ll be one of your kinky acquaintances or friends, taking you on a pity date. “Bottoms up,” Daddy instructs, patting on your changing table. A bright pink Bunny Hopp diaper is already laid out, for you to lay upon. You obey–what else can you do? If you refuse, you don’t get your date. Taking Daddy’s hands, you crawl up onto the table and get on your back, diaper laid below your hips. Instead of the expected sensations, though–powder and cream and then ruffly padding pulled over you–Daddy surprises you with something else. Watching, you can only squirm anxiously as he bends to the shelf below the table. He unscrews a plastic lid, comes out with a small object, and stands again, holding a little bullet of glycerin. “But–” you start to say. “Do you want to go on your date gagged?” he asks in reply. You shake your head. “Then the only ‘butts’ tonight should be the one in your diapers.” You swallow, but lift your bottom a little to give Daddy free access to you. He pushes the glycerin suppository deep inside, so deep that you whimper, then pulls his finger free and cleans it off with a baby wipe. Only then do you get the cold, soothing cream, and the thin dusting of scented powder, and finally the diaper being folded over your waist. Your anticipation of the night recalibrates. If you’re going to be in a smelly diaper–and you will be, you’ve never once managed to hold it for more than thirty minutes after a suppository came into play–it can’t possibly be a vanilla person. It has to be one of your friends, and one who doesn’t mind poopy diapers. The options shrink, and you realize you’re most likely in for a night of teasing at the hands of one of Mommy or Daddy’s dommy friends. “Stay there,” Daddy says, bending over at the edge of the changing table. “Now, when grown ups go on dates, they try to dress up in sexy clothes for each other. You want that too, right?” You nod. “Uh-huh.” “Of course you do. You’re just like a little grown up,” he assures you, and you hear a lid open. You know what’s over there on that end of the table, and what that lid sound was. In confirmation, the smell of old diapers assaults your senses a moment later, and you screw up your face, reaching to cover your nose. He comes out with an overnight diaper–your diaper, the one you’d been put to bed in, the one that the prunes and castor oil had already done a number on. It’s heavy and sagging in his hands, smelly from the mess you pushed into it. “Bottoms up.” You almost–almost–say the dreaded ‘B’ word, ‘but’. Before you do, you catch yourself and just say, “That’s not sexy!” “You thought it was, though, didn’t you?” he asks. “Last month, while you watched Mommy and I without our permission, you had a stinky diaper just like this one and you were about ready to burst in it! If you didn’t think it was sexy, why were you doing that?” You’ve got no argument, no defense, no excuse for why you were rubbing yourself so desperately the night before. Sheepishly, it’s all you can do to raise your hips, to allow him to slide the mucky old diaper beneath your current, fresh padding. The sides of it are cold, and you shiver as he folds it over, using the restickable hook-and-loop tapes to seal the clammy, putrid diaper onto you. “How’s that feel?” he asks, pulling you into a sitting position. Your weight sinks, and you hesitate. It’s a lot of bulk, and you can smell it plain as day, but it’s different from normal. “Weird,” you admit. “It’s clean and dirty at the same time.” He chuckles. “Don’t worry, that won’t be a problem for you for much longer. Up!” Responsively, you hop to your feet, and he bends again, picking up the prepared outfit he’d stowed beneath the table. First comes a pair of fabric training pants–they’re almost as bulky as a diaper, and though not as absorbent, it’s not like he perforated your inner diaper anyways. It’s clearly not to prevent leaks, just to add even more poof to your already heavy, bulky baby bottom. You step into them, and when he pulls the puffy training pants up, the bulk makes you feel like you can barely close your thighs, let alone walk. After this, comes the onesie. The onesie, the one Daddy likes to parade you around in, decorated with cartoon strawberries and stitched with a bib that reads, clearly, ‘Crybaby’ in big swoopy letters. He pulls it over your head and has to stretch the elastic fabric almost to its limits to button the snaps around your very impressive padding. But he’s not quite done. As the final pièce de résistance, a pair of frilly pink plastic pants, with rhumba ruffles on the seat, are tugged up your legs. They seal snugly around your diaper, completing the ensemble, and one thing is certain: You’re not even leaving the house tonight. Your ‘date’ is going to be coming to you. You’re not getting a real grown-up date at all, you’re going to be treated to dinner and humiliation. That’s not what you were promised, and you start to tear up, highlighting the truth of your ‘crybaby’ bib. “There you go,” Daddy says, pulling out his phone to snap a photo, preserving your moment of deep humiliation and frustration forever with a little camera ‘click’. “Now, just one more thing…” You don’t even know what he could add to the outfit. Maybe a bonnet? Or a bib? But instead, he steps forward and reaches down, rubbing his hand against the front of your diaper, eliciting a desperate moan from between your lips. In a whisper, he asks, “This is what you really wanted, right? Do you really think you’re big enough for a grown up date, or would you rather admit you’re nothing but a bitty baby and have fun in your play clothes?” It’s unclear where he produced the vibrator from, but you hear it kick to life in the same second you feel it pulse through your layers of padding, transmuting your words into juvenile mumbles. You cover your mouth with your hands to stifle your whimpers, legs locking up as you ride the pleasure. But you don’t say, ‘Yes’, you don’t admit anything, and after riling you up just enough to get you horny and purge your head of any coherent thoughts, Daddy kills the vibrator. “There. Grown ups need to get in the mood before their dates sometimes. You’re all ready now!” You swallow, and your belly grumbles. “Are you gonna tell me who it is yet?” He shakes his head, taking your hand. “Don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough. You wait here, and I’ll come get you when she arrives, okay?” She! That’s a clue! You almost don’t notice that he’s steered you into the corner of the room and pushed your nose against the wall, quietly asserting your time-out without even needing to say those words, because your brain is reeling with the implications. That cuts down the options by more than half, and the list of possible friends who could be coming by rolls through your mind. Some are meaner than others—you’re expecting mean, someone who will tease you and mock you to put the idea of ‘grown up dates’ out of your head, even as you still quietly hope that it might be someone who will treat you gently, someone who will take you as you are and pretend—no, not pretend, but see the truth—that you’ve still got a bit of ‘grown up’ in you. You swallow. Maybe you’ll at least be able to come say hi before the suppository does its work and you fill your diaper—though, the reek wafting off your old diaper, the one sandwiched between your new one and your training pants, will likely dash any hope of dignity before it can even be formed. Still, you’re going to try, if for no other reason than that Mommy and Daddy will point out your inability to hold it if you lose control while your nose is in the corner. It’s not long before you hear footsteps—the light flappy thwip-thwip of Mommy’s flip-flops—and feel a hand on your shoulder. “Your date is here, sweetie.” There’s a slight giggle, and she adds, “Don’t worry, I don’t think she’ll say anything about the smell.” You turn pink as you get out of the corner. Mommy offers you her hand, and you take it, waddling awkward after her—you can’t tell if she’s moving faster than normal to make you struggle in your triple-layered, heavy padding, or if the difficulty you’re having is just from the sheer bulk and tight fabric pulling it against you. Either way, you’re led downstairs, towards your dining room, excitedly anticipating who will be… Oh. Oh. Sitting at the dining room table, which has been lit with candles while mood music sets the tone, is your favorite stuffy. Peaches, a thirty inch plush fox that’s shaped roughly like a big pillow, with a permanent cutesy smile printed on her fabric face. Your stomach drops, and the suppository takes advantage, overpowering your bowels and forcing warm, semisolid mush into the seat of your previously clean diaper. Mommy giggles. “Don’t be shy, baby, go introduce yourself–once you’re done going potty, at least.” A grunt escaped your throat and your face screws up, tears showing. This isn’t fair. It’s not what you wanted, or what you promised! You were supposed to go on a grown up date, you weren’t supposed to muck your diapers in front of one of your stuffies and be teased for it. Mommy nudges you forward, and you waddle up, sitting in the chair across from Peaches. Your weight sinks into your newly-deposited mess, and you squirm, reminded that you weren’t given any satisfaction during Daddy’s teasing earlier. At least you weren’t put into a high chair. “Say hi,” Mommy prompts. You blush. “Mommy, I can do this myself!” She makes a ‘tsk’ noise in her throat. “You thought it was okay to watch Daddy and I during our grown up fun, I think it’s only fair that we get to be here for yours.” You squirm, but tamp down before you can say the ‘B’ word. Squirming, you look at Peaches. “Um…” “It’s polite to tell your date about yourself,” Mommy instructs. “Why don’t you tell her how many stinky diapers you’ve made this month?” “Um…” You flush, trying to mentally consider–over the whole month? While you were being teased and punished and made to be as flustered as possible? One a day seems reasonable, so you guess, “Thirty?” “It’s not nice to lie,” Mommy chides. “Be specific–tell her about all of them.” Pinkness spreads up your face, until you’re certain your blush has reached past your eyebrows. “Um–well–uh–last night, I went in bed, ‘cuz mommy and daddy gave me castor oil…and the night before, I just couldn’t hold it, cuz they hadn’t let me use the potty at all and I didn’t want to go in my daytime diaper, and…ugh, they gave me a suppository the day before while I was in time out, so…” You feel yourself sink deeper and deeper into your seat as you have to regale Peaches with each stinky accident–and, worse, as you go back further and further, you start to feel certain you’ve forgotten some. You’ve been so helpless to use the potty this past month that you can’t even remember all the accidents–the times you’ve been allowed to use a toilet are far, far more noteworthy. Finally, though, you get to the beginning of the month, to the accident you couldn’t forget even if you wanted to. “Um–and, a month ago, I…I was sitting in my special chair, in Mommy and Daddy’s room, and–” The humiliating confession is cut off by Daddy’s entrance, carrying a little clipboard. The ‘Waiter’, it seemed, for the ‘Date’. “Welcome to our restaurant, may I take your order?” he says, smirking and wrinkling his nose at you. Rather than ask what you want, though, he turns to face Peaches. “Excellent choice, ma’am. And what will your date be having?” Your eyes widen. You–Peaches is even ordering for you. You won’t even be allowed to pick what you eat! “Oh, your date needs a high chair? Of course,” Daddy says, nodding. “I’ll be right back with that, and your drinks.” He walks away, leaving you to sniffle and wipe at your face while Mommy captures more photographs of your predicament—you weren’t even getting the one dignity you thought, the grown up chair. When Daddy returns a moment later, he’s dragging your high chair with one hand and carrying two cups in the other—one, an icy glass of cola which he sets in front of Peaches, the other, a plastic sippy cup decorated with teddy bears, and the fluid inside is a chalky white. He sets the high chair next to your chair—it’s your chair, you don’t need to move, it’s not fair! Expectantly, he waits. When you refuse to budge, he reaches down, grabs you by the ear, and tows you up, forcing you into the high chair. Unlike grown-up chairs, the seat is a little rounded, conforming to your thickly padded bottom, squelching everything more tightly against you. The tray is locked down over your lap, and your sippy cup is placed in front of you. “Daddy…” you whimper. “I’m just making sure you and your date are comfortable,” he promises. Mommy laughs at your confounded, defeated expression, and snaps another photo. Daddy takes food orders—again, listening exclusively to Peaches and ignoring what you want—and then leaves the room. “So, um…” you start to say, to Peaches. You don’t know why you’re talking to her, but it just seems like the thing to do. Nervously, you pick up your sippy cup and take a sip—it’s formula, with a chalky aftertaste. You stick out your tongue. “Gross!” Off to the side, Mommy giggles. Fumbling for words, you squirm, but that only makes you more aware of the mucky state of your diaper, and the after-cramps that are still sending wracks of discomfort down your belly–possibly a coincidence, possibly as a result of whatever chalky medicine Mommy and Daddy put in your bottle. Instead of words, you only let loose a little grunt, your bowels squelching a bit more ick into your padding. “Dinner,” Daddy declares, sashaying into the room, “is served.” Two bowls are set out in front of you both. Peaches gets a slice of rich, savory meatloaf, with perfect, fluffy mashed potatoes, butter dribbling down the sides. In front of you, a bowl full of white slop with a spoon poking out. You eye the contents suspiciously, sniff, and–yogurt. It’s plain yogurt, and your nose wrinkles at the sour odor instantly. Gross, gross, gross. “N-no, I want what Peaches has,” you protest. “No alterations or substitutions,” Daddy insists, tilting his head as though listening to your stuffy. “Oh, your date needs a little assistance? Of course.” Bending slightly, he picks up the spoon, lifting it towards your mouth. You seal your lips and turn your head, pouting, but he gives you The Look. If you continue to fuss and refuse to eat, you know you’ll regret it. There are much, much worse things he could be forcing down your throat, and you both know it. You open your mouth. Sour, slimy yogurt fills your cheeks, a little brushing on your lips, assaulting you with the sharp, unpleasant taste. You swallow, desperate to get the slime off your tongue, but before you have any relief, a new spoonful is waiting. Unable to do anything except accept the sludge as it’s spooned into your mouth, your eyes lock on Peaches. On her ‘dinner’, the plate of tantalizing grown-up food only a few feet away. The smell makes your stomach growl, but the only satisfaction you’re going to get is from not having to swallow any more yogurt. The bowl is deeper than you thought, and Daddy’s piled-high, sloppy spoonfuls don’t seem to deplete it as fast as they should. You can feel the slimy yogurt on your lips, wet and clammy, and know there’s a little that’s dribbled onto the stitched-on bib of your onesie. The bib that reads ‘Crybaby’. The one you’re about to prove true yet again as you fuss and debate closing your lips to any more of the goopy dinner. But, just as your belly feels a little too full and you’re ready to scream, the bowl runs dry. Daddy scrapes out one final spoonful, taking his time to get as much as possible, and plops it between your lips. You swallow, gag, and it’s done. Finally. Quietly, Daddy says over to Mommy, “Do you think our little one’s earned grown up time?” You sit up straight, suddenly the model of obedience. You don’t even wipe off the last bit of yogurt on your lip–you just want a yes, even if that ‘grown up time’ is with Peaches. Mommy takes a long pause before answering, drawing out her, “Hmmmm…” You can’t help yourself. Looking over your shoulder, eyes huge, you give your most helpless pleading look. “Please?” She smiles and nods. “Alright, I suppose.” Excitement completely drowns out all the discomfort–yes, yes, yes! Beaming, you start to try and get up, only remembering a second later that you’re still strapped into the high chair and can’t actually move under your own power. “I’ll go get her ready,” Mommy says, reaching over to pick up Peaches while Daddy wipes your face down, doing an unnecessarily thorough job. “Do I–” you stammer. “Do I really get to? You’re not going to stop me or tell me ‘no’ right as I’m almost done?” Daddy notices the slight anxiety in your voice. It’s barely there, but it’s there—the uncertainty is almost to the point of not being fun anymore. Reassuringly, he pops the latches on your high chair. “You might not like how it happens,” he hedges, “But you’ll get to make a sticky diaper if you’re obedient.” That’s good enough for you, you practically jump out of the highchair into giving Daddy a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank–urp—” You’re interrupted by a heavy pat on your back, drawing out a belch you hadn’t expected. Face turning pink, you drop right back into the situation, reminded of what you’re wearing, the bulk and weight and squelch between your legs, and the thing you’ve gotten so excited for—a few seconds of humping a plushie in your ruined diapers. You look down, and Daddy pulls you by the hand towards the stairs. “Let’s go up, ok?” What are you going to do, argue? You follow, hand outstretched in front of you as he takes the lead. You want what he’s offering, you want it so badly that any humiliation is worth being suffered. Waddling forward in double-thick ruined diapers and puffy training pants, eating anything they feed you, throwing out your dignity for their entertainment. Or…if you’re being honest with yourself, the humiliation isn’t being suffered at all. It’s almost as indulgent as the sex you’re hoping to get in a moment. Mommy’s already in your nursery, leaning over the side of the crib, and you spot what she’s done instantly—Peaches has been adorned with a strap-on, just like the one Mommy had worn a month ago, an intimidating dildo extending from the midpoint of her plush body. She rests on your crib, the side bars held open so you’ve got access to her. “Be a good date,” Mommy encourages. “Show her a good time—don’t just worry about yourself.” “O-okay,” you say, looking at her, then up at Daddy. “Um–can I have a little privacy?” Mommy giggles, as though you just asked for a pony and a magic wand. “Of course not, silly—you thought it was okay to watch us during our grown up time, right? So that means we should get to watch you, too.” Oh. Oh. Oh. That’s what Daddy meant by, ‘You might not like how it happens.’ “But…” You say, forgetting the rule for a moment. No, ‘Buts’. “Oh, you’re worried we won’t enjoy the show enough, aren’t you?” Mommy asks, reaching for her pocket. “It’s okay—I’ll make sure we can enjoy it, again and again.” She produces her phone, directing the camera lens right at you. You flush, but you know you’re getting off light–for using the B word, you could have had your pleasure denied completely. Still, you cover your face with your hands, mortified. “Aww, baby’s all shy now,” Daddy says. “It’s alright–go show Peaches you know what grown-up sex looks like… even if you can’t do it yourself.” You drop to your knees. Walking just doesn’t feel appropriate right now. On all fours, you shuffle across the room, your layered, poopy diapers swaying between your thighs, barely held in place by your straining onesie. Reaching to the side of the crib in front of Peaches, you feel another cramp. Maybe from all the yogurt causing a glitch in your system, maybe another aftershock from the suppository, but you have no will to fight it. Sticking your bottom a little higher, you push, and– Pop! The onesie’s snaps, though they fought admirably, pop open–first just one, then the rest in a rush. Too much bulk, too much straining mass and poof, your onesie just can’t contain it all, and your mushy diapers and padding all flop out between your legs. “Awwww,” Mommy coos above you, crouching slightly so your bulging bottom is right in the video’s frame. “You had to go so bad, didn’t you? Well—that’s why you wear baby diapers and Peaches gets to wear grown up clothes.” “It’s a good thing Peaches doesn’t mind the smell,” Daddy adds. “I can’t imagine a real grown up having sex like that–— so nice of her to put up with your poopy bottom.” You look down and burying your face in the fabric of your mattress, hiding your blush. “Thank her,” Daddy says, in a tone that’s not-quite warning. You look up, staring at Peaches’ smiling face, at the looming dildo strapped onto her. “Thank you for putting up with my poopy bottom, Peaches.” Mommy laughs, and your head feels so devoid of maturity that her laughter has plenty of room to echo in your thoughts. “Now show her how grateful you are.” Scooting up, obedient, your lips find the edge of the dildo. Gently at first, pulling it all into your mouth until you feel the tip at the back of your throat. You go a little faster, then, pulling your mouth back, swallowing, running your tongue along it. “It’s like the baby wants to act like a real grown up,” Daddy says. “Do you think we should let that happen?” You can tell Mommy’s shaking her head from how it sounds, but your eyes are closed, focused on the rapture of your task. “No, I think the baby prefers poopy diapers to real grown up time, can’t you hear all the moans?” And that’s true–you’re moaning into the dildo, caught up in the feel of it in your mouth, the submission, the desire to give Peaches pleasure when all you can feel is mucky diaper squelch around your baby parts. Daddy snickers. “At least the baby isn’t being shy anymore.” “I think the baby made all the snaps pop on purpose–to show off what an impressive little mess that diaper is!” Mommy agrees. You take Peaches’ cock into your mouth, again and again, feeling it thrust—or, rather, feeling your head thrust—onto it in a desperate rhythm. There’s no real indicator of when she’s done, but you know. You can tell, when you’ve done enough, when you’ve given your stuffie the ‘pleasure’ she deserves, as she rolls back onto the crib bed, flopping plushily. Exhausted, mouth a little sore, you flop back and look her in the eyes—not Mommy, or Daddy—but Peaches herself. “May I please make stickies?” “The baby is so polite like this!” Mommy says, almost shocked, moving her phone to capture your face, your ever-so-kind request. “Maybe grown-up pretend time should only happen with Peaches,” Daddy agrees. “Call it a monthly date night.” You’re vaguely aware of the threat, there—that you’ll only be allowed to make stickies once a month, and never like a grown up—but you don’t care. You just want to hear… “Well, I think I heard her say, yes,” Mommy confirms, speaking for Peaches. That’s all you need to hear–clambering up onto Peaches, so the front of your thickly layered diapers presses against her cock, you start to hump, moaning in desperate ecstasy. “So, so precious–” Mommy starts. You last all of a second. That’s all it takes—one moment of thrusting, and then bliss. A part of you is disappointed—you wanted to make this last longer. You wanted to savor it, to really enjoy your brief chance at grown up fun time. But when Mommy realizes by the sound of your gasps, she laughs and you feel so helpless that your pleasure skyrockets. Overwhelmed, exhausted, you collapse onto the crib next to Peaches, holding her in one arm. “Awwww,” Daddy says. “The baby’s all tuckered out.” “Should we let the two lovebirds rest?” Mommy asks, lowering her phone, ending the recording. Daddy thinks for a moment, then reaches down through the bars of your crib and squishes the front of your diaper. Still in the phase of post-coital sensitivity, you spasm and your leg kicks, eyes going huge. Snickering, Daddy says, “Sure. Baby, you nap with your girlfriend—we’re going to go have some adult time, some real grown up sex.” Quietly, as she shuts the side of the crib and seals you in, Mommy adds, “If Peaches says it’s okay, you can show her your pretend sex again—just don’t leave the crib.” You smile, and nod, and pull your stuffie closer. A minute later, you hear the baby monitor come to life. Mommy and Daddy’s sounds carry through, their moans and flirting—they’re having real grown up sex in the next room. The kind you’d been denied. Smiling, you roll onto all fours, getting on top of Peaches again, mimicking Mommy and Daddy’s actions with your own smelly, squelchy emulation. Maybe it wasn’t real sex, and maybe Peaches wasn’t a real girlfriend, but you didn’t care. This was just where you wanted to be. ... 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I'm not sure what your question is, so I can't really answer it! Chapter 23: Logistics Grace lay next to Pearce on his bed, staring at the ceiling. They’d exhausted their collective energy on making out, and now, even as she knew they should have a conversation about what’d just happened, she couldn’t bring herself to it. She just wanted to sleep, savoring the lingering buzz of sensation that Pearce’s lips had left on her own. Pearce shifted his body, and for a moment, Grace thought he might start snoring. She expected herself to get annoyed with that, but when she sought out the familiar emotion, she found nothing. It was charming, from the right viewpoint–he was so comfortable next to her that he didn’t mind dozing off. But, instead of a snore, she heard his voice. “Do we want to call off the bet?” And there it was–logistics. Something to break the spell. She saw the logic in it–calling off the bet would simplify things. They wouldn’t be in contest with each other, constantly bucking for advantage, trying to trick the other or push them into frustration and humiliation. Trying to compete and kiss in the same breath could lead to deeply regrettable choices from everyone involved. “How would we explain that to everyone?” Grace asked. “That we just decided to give up?” “I don’t know, we could say that,” Pearce replied, moving his arm so that his fingers brushed against her skin. “We realized we were too stubborn to lose, so we compromised.” “I’m not sure anyone will believe that. We’re too committed.” Grace pursed her lips. “What about…the truth?” Pearce floated. They both lay in silence for a moment, thinking about how that conversation would go. After a lengthy pause, Grace said, “I like this being our secret.” More candid, Pearce said, “I don’t even want to imagine the giggling.” Exhaling sharply through her nose, Grace nodded. “I don’t think we’re ever going to live this down, are we?” “Only if they find out.” Pearce shrugged. “Still, we could come up with an excuse.” Another bit of niggling doubt ate at the back of Grace’s thoughts, something she deflected with a more tangible objection. “I don’t think we could.” “You’re smart, you could come up with something,” Pearce said. “I’m smart, but Brains is a logic machine and Melody’s uncannily observant. I don’t know if I could invent an excuse that can slip past both of them.” She shook her head. “I want to keep the bet going for now.” Pearce leaned up a little bit, turning to look at her face. (He noticed,) Grace realized, her heart skipping a beat. He said, “You still want to win, don’t you?” Face twisting into a crooked smile, Grace nodded–she’d only halfway been caught, but it was better to admit a partial truth than the whole thing. “I don’t like losing, and I do like making you do my chores.” “You mean, you like doing my chores,” Pearce retorted. “Since that’s what you’ll be doing once you lose, baby butt.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky you can pull off the ‘charmingly cocky’ thing, because otherwise you’d be insufferably wrong right now. As it is, you're just wrong.” He laughed. “Of course, maybe I am wrong…” “Oh yeah?” Grace admitted. “Ready to quit?” “No, that’s not it,” Pearce snickered. “Maybe you just like having poopy pants and you came up with this whole bet as a cover story.” Grace forced out a laugh–she had to force it, because he’d come disturbingly close with his guess. She hadn’t invented the bet as some deliberate ruse, and she still didn’t have any love for dirty diapers; those parts were completely off base. However, she wasn’t ready to give things up just yet, and she didn’t want Pearce to walk out either. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she said, forcing a smirk. “It’d give you an excuse to quit without admitting defeat.” “Stinker,” he replied. “We still need to figure out what we’re going to do about…this, though,” Grace said, pulling his blankets up a little more over her body. “What do we want to do?” “I’m not sure what ‘this’ is.” Pearce raised his hands, making air quotes. “What are we? Friends that like to kiss?” “I think the term is ‘friends with benefits’, usually,” Grace said. “Though…usually that comes with different benefits.” “I see you naked a couple times a day,” Pearce pointed out. “A lot of guys would count that as a ‘benefit’.” Grace turned so that Pearce could clearly see her raise an eyebrow at him. “And you don’t?” “‘Seeing you naked’ hits different in the context of ‘cleaning up your potty pants’.” He shrugged. (He didn’t say ‘no’,) Grace thought. (Is he being coy, or am I reading too much into that?) Aloud, she said simply, “Okay, fair enough.” “So, friends with smooching benefits.” Pearce moved on in the conversation, rolling around the words to see how they felt. “Sure. I think I like that.” “And otherwise, nothing’s changed,” Grace said. “The bet’s still on. You’re still going to lose.” “Sure, uh-huh.” Pearce rolled his eyes, sitting up. “It’s getting to be about dinner time. Do you want anything special?” “Just whatever you were already making,” Grace said, “I’m not feeling picky.” “Strained peas and mush it is.” Pearce winked and got to his feet, straightening his collar. “Shouldn’t take long.” Grace shook her head and smirked, sitting up. “Hold on–you’re so rumpled you look like you just got run over.” Reaching out to him, she straightened his shirt, smoothing out the aftereffects of their makeout marathon. Running her fingers through his hair, she got rid of the worst of the birds' nests that’d formed. “There, that looks better.” “Thanks,” he said, leaning in to give her a surprise kiss. Though they’d been doing roughly the same for the past hour, the gesture still sent a blush running to Grace’s cheeks, flushing bright pink while her heart fluttered. “I’ll be back.” “Uh…” Grace said, smiling stupidly. “Uh huh. See you soon…” He left her there, sitting on his bed, and she wasn’t sure if or when her heart would ever stop racing. … A warm buzz had settled over Pearce, a feeling reminiscent of being high without any of the impairment. He didn’t know how to name this feeling, but a weight had been lifted as so many details came into focus. Emotions and reactions he hadn’t known how to parse had been clarified, uncertainty had crystallized into meaning, confusion was meaning. He liked Grace. He like liked her. When they met, when they kissed, he didn’t feel anxious or unfocused, he didn’t feel like he was forgetting things and worrying about what he had to do. He found calm, and that calm came from someone he cared for on a deep level. All but floating past Melody and her date, he waltzed to the kitchen, preheating the oven to cook a frozen pizza. Friends with Smooching Benefits. Beaming, he leaned against the counter, mostly on autopilot. His thoughts kept returning to Grace, and the perfect calm he found with her. There was just… (Screw it,) he thought. (Worst thing she can say is no.) Emboldened by his good mood, he left to go back upstairs–he didn’t want to wait any longer for answers. Grace was still in his room, on his bed, snuggled underneath his blankets. She looked up when he came in though, smiling at him. “That was fast.” “Food’s not ready yet,” Pearce replied. “But…I wanted to ask you something.” “What’s that?” she asked, tilting her head. She seemed uncertain, as though worried, and that made Pearce worry in turn. (Should I drop it?) “You’re fine saying no,” Pearce said. “But…would you… Eh, do you want to be friends with more benefits?” Her mouth opened in a little surprised ‘Oh’, like she’d been expecting a different question entirely. It took her a moment to process, and when she responded with words, she just said, “Pearce…I don’t know.” “That’s fine,” he said. “Don’t worry about it then, I just…wanted to ask, I guess.” She glanced down, then back up, nodding. “That wasn’t a ‘no’, I genuinely don’t know.” He nodded again, spirits lifting a little. “So…okay. Let me know once you’ve thought about it?” “I’m not sure if I can think my way into an answer,” Grace admitted, sitting up. “It might require…a test.” His eyebrows shot up another half inch, surprised yet again. “Oh! Well–Yeah, that’d be cool. I just don’t want to push you.” “After dinner?” Grace asked. “We can…run some tests.” “Yeah, yeah,” Pearce agreed. “After dinner.” He shuffled his feet, and Grace fidgeted with her hands. “Maybe–” Grace started. “Maybe before?” He nodded, more excitedly. “Before is good.” Blushing, Grace said, “So–how do we do this?” A smile broke across Pearce’s face. “Well, when two grown ups love each other very much–” She rolled her eyes. “Just get over here, smartass.” He crossed the room, sitting down on the bed next to her. He’d done this before–plenty of times, even–but with Grace, he felt like he was back at prom night, fidgeting and nervous about whether he could perform–this was a step beyond what they’d been doing, and even as smoothly as things had gone so far, the escalation worried him. (What if I screw something up?) “So…” he said. “I guess…” “First,” Grace said, wrapping a hand around his chest and leaning in to kiss him. Bliss. Calm. Uncertainty washed away, he pulled back and whispered, “Do you want me to finger you?” She bit her lip and nodded. “Mhmm.” Reaching down, he had to undo the snaps on her onesie and pull it up, granting access to the top waistband of her diaper. Unsure if he should take it off or not, he went with his instincts, sliding his hand down the top of the diaper. Grace was already wet–in both ways that mattered. She bit down harder on her lip in response to his touch, muting a moan so it wouldn’t carry out of the room, and then leaned forward to kiss him, hiding her moans in his mouth. He felt her fingers against the front of his jeans, fumbling with the zipper–he was already hard, and just a little touch was enough to steal his attention. “Good?” he asked in a breathy whisper, lips an inch from hers. “Good,” she replied. “Very good.” “Want to keep going?” he asked. She nodded emphatically, pulling him back onto the bed before locking their lips. Together, the two of them experimented, explored, and learned about each other by their touch. ... If you like my writing and want to support it, please consider donating a couple dollars over at Patreon. Just two bucks a month gets you discounts on commissions and early access to my writing! Patreon SubscribeStar

T'was a good quip!

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Part Two Esmay delighted me. I had to admit–I’d initially spent time with her largely to keep an eye on Louis, and to play the role of service top. Esmay had little experience with a partner who cared about her needs, let alone safe words, and I felt a responsibility to ensure that my stunt with her partner wouldn’t lead to more unhealthy patterns developing. However, though I didn’t push for things to go past what she wanted, my heart still jumped whenever she directed a booty call my way. I didn’t even care about the sex all that much–the preceding dates were becoming highlights of my week. She was wicked smart and had a whip-crack sense of humor–clever and quick, in all the ways that could make me smile. And, in fairness, I enjoyed watching Louis squirm. Knowing how much he’d been taking advantage of his position before, how much he’d been taking advantage of Esmay. My punishment wasn’t justice, it wasn’t fair, but a little malicious part of me enjoyed watching him squirm when I walked past with his wife, while he had to give me puppy-dog eyes and whimper to change his diaper. He’d occasionally made a show of joining me and Esmay when we had nights out, but that ended after one too many public poopy accidents, after I’d made a show of checking his dirty bottom in the bar, after he’d been left sulking in the car because Esmay and I wouldn’t call it a night early after his humiliation. Now, he stayed at home, sulking, sending me desperate texts when he needed diaper changes–texts that I routinely ignored. Call me malicious, I just loved to come back to his home, pinch my nose to comment on how badly he’d ruined his diapers, and then whisk Esmay off to make her scream in pleasure without letting him change. Still, one sultry, sweaty night, after our roll in the bed, Louis banished to stink up the living room while she got her pleasure and I got my satisfaction, she finally brought it up. “Can I ask you about Louis?” she asked, laying on the bed next to me. I knew the question, but I dodged anyway. Perhaps because I felt a bit of guilt at overdoing it, or perhaps just for the sake of the game. “What about him?” “I looked at your profile on Fet more,” Esmay said. She was naked, with only a thin sheet tangled around her legs, letting the air cool her skin. “You are big into hypnotism play–mind control. Consensually taking someone’s control away. Did Louis ask you to do that?” There were a couple ways I could answer. I chose simple honesty that deflected my guilt. “No, he didn’t.” “But you hypnotized him anyways,” Esmay said. “Didn’t you?” No getting around it. I rolled onto my side, looking at her. “Yes, I did.” She looked at me. “Because you thought he was a creep.” “He was a creep,” I said. “I saw how he talked about you. How he regarded the kink community.” “Mmm,” she said, thinking about it. “But he didn’t ask for it.” “He didn’t,” I confirmed. Guilt twisted in my chest–consent was the bedrock of our community, and no matter how much I enjoyed it, what I’d done to Louis violated that. Even if I hadn’t done anything to him directly, it still counted in my head. “So you can hypnotize someone who doesn’t want it,” Esmay said. I saw where her thoughts were going. “I can, but…” I started. “I shouldn’t.” She looked at me. “You shouldn’t. But do you want to?” Swallowing, I glanced away, thinking of how much I enjoyed watching Louis wriggle in his diapers. “I…shouldn’t want to.” “Because,” she continued. “I can think of a lot more fun things to do to him. I’d like to do more things to him. Could you show me how to do that?” Esmay wanted it, and Esmay didn’t accuse me of doing wrong by doing what I’d done to Louis. Further, I knew how cunning she could be–I wanted to see what she’d make of him. “Sure,” I agreed. … It was slow going, at first–Esmay was a quick study, but we were working with an unwilling practice dummy. Most hypnotists learned on a participant eager to have their thoughts stolen. For Esmay to learn from Louis, I first had to get into his head again, compelling him to sit perfectly still on command, to watch her. So, Louis would sit on the floor, legs spread, diaper on display, while Esmay swayed my watch back and forth. At first, her commands were simple–making him sit down or stand up on command. Pavlovian reactions, little more. But then, she started making it fun. She undid a bit of my work, allowing Louis to get hard, but not to cum. Then, she made it so he’d have to sit at the end of the bed, rubbing himself through his diapers whenever Esmay and I fucked in his bed. Hearing him whimper was pleasure untold. I’d taken his potty training, but she did one worse. Forcing him to evacuate his bowels whenever it was most inconvenient, most humiliating, making him unaware of how soggy he was until someone pointed it out. With my permission, she took over when he could ask for diaper changes. If I was malicious in making him wait, she was downright cruel. My little Esmay was quite the sadist, it seemed. She liked it when he was at his lowest, and I helped her facilitate that at every turn. Slowly, more things started to change. His Fet profile was no longer ‘SirDominant7’, Louis was now, ‘DiaperCuck14’. I still cringed at the unoriginality, but at least the unoriginality was pathetic, and came with new profile photos, showing off his degradation. I started noticing other changes, too. Louis became her live-in servant. At home, he did her chores. When I came over, if he wasn’t left humiliated and helpless for me to gawk at, he was sweeping or doing dishes or tidying. As often as not, he was doing those things in a drooping, exposed diaper, despite the open windows. Maybe she’d gone too far–this had gone from humiliation to full control–but she was Esmay, and I really, really didn’t like Louis. Watching how he was dropped a peg with every visit was thrilling, as Esmay found lower and lower places to push him each time, digging deep to drop the pegs. She showed him off to her friends, even when I wasn’t there. She brought a few other men over, which was fine by me–we were never monogamous with one another, and the more who could laugh at Louis’s pathetic pamper packing, the better. There was one line I wouldn’t cross. One night, she tried to bring him into our bed, to make him suck my cock–I said no. Esmay was disappointed. She protested. But I held fast to the one rule I’d kept–I wouldn’t use him for sex. Three months after I told her the truth, and almost four since I’d first met her, I came to her home and found Louis grinding in his diaper in the living room floor, suckling his thumb with one hand, rubbing on an erection through tented, sodden padding with the other. Changing supplies sat right next to him, a fresh diaper and powder, but for Louis, they may as well have been an eternity away. I smirked down at him. “There you are,” Esmay said, walking in with a smile. “Good–I wanted to show you something.” “How long has he been like this?” I asked, nodding to Louis. “A few hours,” She smiled wickedly. “I wanted his brain to be helpless mush before my next session–I have something wonderful planned.” “What is it?” I asked. I should have known. Stupid. Stupid. “A surprise,” she replied. “Just watch.” She sat next to Louis, and I sat next to her, and she began the induction. She started from scratch–not necessary, for someone as scrambled as Louis, but if she wanted to do things right I could understand the discipline. And then she snapped her fingers. Said “Drop”. And I dropped. By the time I realized my mind had fuzzed, it was too late. I’d been listening to her words. I’d seen her watch–my watch–dangling in the corner of my eyes. Maybe I’d looked at it. Maybe I’d stared. But I’d fallen into her hands. Esmay looked at me, giggling. I just sat there, unable to move, only able to watch and listen as she crawled onto me, pushed me down to the floor, pinning my immobile body down with her hands and staring me in the face. “You,” she said, “Aren’t going to tell a soul about this, my little one. Because I realized–what’s the fun in having just one plaything when I could have two? No more saying ‘No’, no more telling me what I can’t do with my toys, just two little stinkers who have to do whatever I tell them.” (No. She wouldn’t–) but I knew she would. I’d seen how far she could go with Louis. “You’re going to forget everything you know about hypnosis,” she said, sliding her hands down to my jeans, unzipping them, pulling them away. “That control is mine now. You just need to know how to obey instructions.” My boxers came next, so I was naked, and Esmay continued her monologue. “You’re going to be just…like…Louis. You’ll sit when I tell you. You’ll stay. You’ll beg. No big boy squirties for you, just a tiny, hard cock grinding into your diapers. You’ll potty when I tell you, and you won’t even notice until someone else points out how bad you smell.” She picked up a diaper–one that I’d assumed had been for Louis–and slid it beneath my hips. “You’ll do whatever I say,” she said. “You’ll be all mine, really. You won’t be able to change your own diapers at all–you’ll have to beg and whimper and ask me to let you have fresh diapers, and then I’ll make Louis change you. But don’t worry, you’ll be allowed to return the favor.” Giggling, she folded the diaper around my limp cock, rubbing the front of the padding. I twitched, involuntarily–the contact did it for me, even as my heart pounded in horror. She taped the diaper onto me, pulled away, and smiled. “I think that’s enough for now. I can always go back into your head and change whatever else I need, of course. When I snap my fingers, you’ll do your best to make your diaper match Louis’s, and feel all your little ‘big boy’ thoughts of resistance melt away. She snapped. I obeyed. Pulling my legs up to my chest, I grunted, squeezed, and felt the seat of my diaper swell, the plastic back crinkling as solid, smelly mush ballooned my padding. My bladder released, almost as an afterthought, and I turned the yellow indicator strip blue all along the front, completely unable to resist. Esmay giggled, pointing at Louis, then at me. “Now…you two, kiss.” We were hers to command. Getting to my knees, I shuffled forward, putting my lips on his. We were both repulsed, hating each other as much as two people reasonably could, but our bodies did as they had to. My lips against his, my dick getting hard inside my diaper. “Good, good.” She snickered. “Grind on each other, too–rub each other, try to get desperate.” His body slipped close to mine, arms wrapped around each other, rubbing the tents of our sodden diapers together. Already I wanted to explode from the need to release, and my body simply refused–it wouldn’t let me, even as I felt on the edge of orgasm. “Good.” She got to her feet, laughing down at us, sneering, pinching her nose. “Okay, you two stink, so I’m going to get out of here–I’ve got a date with a real man. You stay like this, and when I get back, maybe–maybe–I’ll let you watch what it’s like to have sex. God knows that’s as close as either of you are ever going to get.” ... 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Chapter 22: The Kiss Their lips met, and a thousand anxieties exploded in Grace’s head. (This is stupid. Oh god what is he going to say? What if he reacts badly? What if he laughs? What if he tells everyone? What if–) Pearce returned the kiss, leaning into it, reaching up to cup the back of Grace’s head with his hand. They embraced on the couch, bodies pressed against one another, making the kiss last. Once they pulled apart, once they broke the spell, they’d have to talk about this, but for as long as their lips touched– Click. The front door lock turned, and the two of them broke apart like a pair of magnets with opposed fields. With a whole pillow’s worth of spare bulk crammed between her legs, Grace nearly toppled off the couch, while Pearce sat up so straight he looked like he belonged in a prep school. The door opened, and Melody waltzed in, some girl on her arm. “Hiii,” she said, drawing out the greeting. “This is Nina.” Nina put a hand to her mouth, tittering. “You must be Grace! Why’re you wearing that?” Grace’s eyes widened, but before she could explain, Nina’s titters broke into giggles. “I’m just joking,” she explained. “Melody told me about the bet.” Grace was so flustered she didn’t even remember to blush, she just nodded, trying to explain what they were doing that didn’t involve lip contact. “Yeah, I–this is Pearce. We were just sitting here–um, we were going to watch TV, that is.” “We were going to watch a movie,” Melody said. “Were you turned on?” “Wh-what?” Grace asked, her eyes widening. “What were you going to turn on?” Melody repeated. “Or were you just planning on watching ‘something’?” “Oh, whatever,” Pearce said, underlining Grace’s comments with his own defense. “We weren’t doing anything in particular. Just sitting here. Thinking about TV.” “We’ll give you two privacy,” Grace added. “So you can watch the movie together.” “It’s okay,” Nina added in a soft voice. “There’s room on the couch, we can share. Have you watched Redline?” Grace shook her head. And, stupidly, said, “I’ve been meaning to check it out.” “Then scoot over!” And that’s how she ended up pressed right up against Pearce, the two of them so close she could feel his pulse, utterly unable to talk about what had just happened. Grace should’ve just excused herself. Said, ‘I have work to go do’, or invented some other excuse, but paranoia told her that if she said that, Melody would know what was up. Maybe Pearce could come up with something better–but as every moment passed, the awkwardness of coming up with a reason to leave grew, and by the time Nina had queued up the movie on their TV, Grace felt utterly trapped. She tried to communicate with Pearce via anxious glances, but if he got her messages, his replies didn’t translate. (Is he–does he like me?) she thought. (Why did I do that? What does this mean for us?) Pearce sat stiffly next to her, trying to keep to himself, but as Nina and Melody spread out on the couch, that became increasingly difficult. Grace couldn’t close her legs on account of the waddle-inducing onesie she’d been zipped into, and she couldn’t help but be acutely aware of every point where she found herself touching Pearce, her leg against his, their arms touching, their fingers brushing against each other… An eternity passed. Every second, a thousand questions rolled through her mind. Every second, she feared Pearce might say something stupid and reveal what they’d done. Moments stretched on into an endless stream where time had no hold or meaning. The opening credits finished playing. The lovebirds, Melody and Nina were only half watching the film, as interested in each other as in the narrative and animation playing out, but now anxiety had paralyzed Grace to the point that she couldn’t even take care of their distraction. They were trapped, caught– “Grace and I need to go,” Pearce said, cutting in. Melody barely spared them a glance and a shrug. “Sure.” “It’s just, I just realized it’s been a while since she’s eaten because of her meeting, and I don’t want to get in trouble–plus if she…” Pearce started, before realizing that not a soul in the room actually cared about his excuse. He cleared his throat, got to his feet, and helped Grace up. Gratefully, she waddled after him, out of the living room and upstairs. Once they’d evacuated to his room, Grace whispered, “Thank you.” “So…” Pearce said, looking at her. “Do we want to talk?” She rubbed at the back of her neck. “That was stupid, I–I don’t know.” He looked away, and both of them avoided eye contact for a long moment. “I just–you were saying you cared about me,” Grace said. “And I think…I don’t know. I liked that.” Glancing back at the door, Pearce searched for his own words. “I liked it too, I guess.” They both stood there a while longer. Finally, Grace said, “I…I have work to do. And I need to think about this.” “Do you want to change first?” Pearce asked, uncertainly. The farthest thing from Grace’s mind was the bet; rigging the moment to her advantage didn’t even occur to her. “I…yeah. Probably, I’m going to leak if I don’t.” He nodded, gesturing to the changing mat in his room, laid out on the floor by his bed. “Okay…um. I guess go lie down.” She waddled over, obeying, holding her arms over her chest while Pearce retrieved the changing supplies. He knelt by her side a moment later, with a diaper, powder, and cream in hand, setting them all aside. “Oh,” he said, looking down at her. “I–my bad. I need you to sit up, this onesie doesn’t have snaps.” She obeyed, blushing. He’d done this dozens of times now, but this felt different, more personal, as he unzipped her onesie. Nudity no longer felt perfunctory–as he pulled the sleeves away from her body and down her chest, she felt acutely exposed and moved to cover her breasts. She had to lie back as he pulled the onesie off completely, freeing her of the pillowy, waddle-inducing bulk, but leaving her naked save for the sagging diaper she’d saturated to fullness. “Are you cold?” Pearce asked, scooting down so that he knelt by her waist. “Do you…want a blanket or something?” Grace shook her head. “No, just…um. Don’t take your time?” He nodded, popping the tapes on her diaper and peeling it away, leaving her utterly naked and exposed. Again, something she’d experienced many times, but now his touch and her completely exposed state made her shudder and flush. Pearce did as she asked and didn’t waste any time, wiping her down thoroughly and efficiently, cleaning away any stale pee residue from her thighs and between her legs. He dusted powder in a thin, pale sheet, and finally slid the fresh diaper underneath her, taping it up. “Do you want just a normal onesie?” he asked. She nodded, struggling to find precise words, and he got up to get her different clothes from his closet. He brought back a baby blue onesie with white frills around the leg holes and sleeves, one of the more mundane options from his suite of clothes intended to humiliate her. Grace lifted her arms so he could pull the garment over her, then lifted her freshly pampered butt off the ground so he could reach down and do the snaps. She felt his touch through the thick padding, and her anxiety spiked again. Fully dressed, she sat back. Her heart pounded far more than felt reasonable given the circumstances, and she mentally scolded her body for having such a reaction. “Are you okay?” Pearce asked. She nodded. “Are you?” He shrugged. “I guess.” “I’m…look, I’m sorry,” Grace said. “I wasn’t thinking, it was just impulsive, and now we’re both stressed and it’s a whole thing, and I shouldn’t have put you in this situation but I did, and–” Pearce kissed her. Her eyes widened in surprise, but that moment of shock vanished in an instant, replaced with the warmth of his lips, the satisfaction melting out into her. When they met, her stress vanished with her fear, and it was just the two of them. She wrapped her arms around his back, pulling herself close, feeling her way through the kiss. It was less anxious than the first, more explorative, curious, learning how he tasted when they were together. After an infinite heartbeat, they separated just far enough to breathe, and she saw his smile by how his cheeks lifted. “There,” he whispered. “Now we’re even, and you can stop apologizing.” “Pearce, I…” she started. Words failed. She kissed him again, relishing the fireworks. When they separated once more, she began, “Did this surprise you as much as it did me?” “I didn’t…” he said, leaning back against his bed. “Well…” He kissed her again, another lingering moment of passion where thoughts and fears needed not apply. “We’re going to have to have a real conversation eventually,” she said as they pulled apart. “Maybe,” he said, exhaling in a not-quite laugh. “Only if we stop.” Moving up onto him, sitting on his legs, Grace took his face in her hands. “Then let’s not stop. I don’t want to deal with this, I just want this.” No more separation, no more breaks. Their bodies pressed close, she kissed him, and he kissed her, and at least in that moment, they were happy together. ... Getting close to being caught up from the Great Laptop Dowsing - thank you to all my supporters who helped get me through the trouble! If you want to read ahead on The Baby Bet, support me, and get other cool perks, consider pledging a couple bucks on Patreon! https://www.patreon.com/PeculiarChangeling https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

Part Two; "New Year's Baby Girl" I was only fifty percent sure I’d come to the right house party. The thing about the strip of frat and sorority houses on campus was, nearly all of them had some kind of celebration going on. My grasp of the Greek alphabet was shoddy at best, and so when I came upon the Alpha Beta house, I couldn’t be confident it was where Emily had told me to go. ‘Right on campus, just look for the New Years party,’ she had texted me. ‘You can’t miss it–see you there at 11?’ She had deeply underestimated my ability to get lost on a single one-block stretch of road. I picked a house and entered. A bare-chested guy at the door opened it, halfway through a beer and smelling like he’d already drank several. “Uh…” I said. “Alpha Beta?” “WOOO!” he replied, toasting with his cup. Uncertain if that was a yes or a no, I crossed my arms over my chest and entered. It boggled my mind how he could be shirtless and not be cold, even inside–as often as the front door was opening and closing, a cool draft had begun to billow. Taking position in a corner out of everyone’s way, I texted Emily again. ‘I think I’m here? A drunk guy let me in.’ She responded with a hand-over-face emoji, which I couldn’t for the life of me parse, so I added, ‘Are you here?’ ‘You’ll see me soon, just don’t tell anyone.’ Her reply was as cryptic as the emoji. I hadn’t seen her since our first meeting, though we’d chatted a few times. My proposal, to finally take her out on a proper date, had been countered with an invitation to this party. While I’d have preferred something more private–a little time together, just to chat and get to know each other–I accepted. Parties weren’t my thing, but I’d been trying to get out more, and this seemed like a good opportunity. I played the part of the wallflower for a solid ten minutes, waiting and watching for Emily, resisting the urge to just bury my face in my phone. I didn’t know anyone, and all the other partygoers were standing in various enclaves, friend groups that I’d never be able to pierce. In a one-on-one conversation, or maybe a game night, I’d have had a good shot at endearing myself to them. In a situation like this, where they moved in packs, I had no chance of picking off a straggler for conversation. Then I saw her–coming down the frathouse stairs, she looked utterly stunning. Her top resembled a sort of halfway between a toga and a shirt, white and billowy, and overtop it she had a blue sash with the year written on it with big, bold letters. She’d adorned her head with a fancy top hat, which almost completed the look, but to cap it all off… My eyes drifted down to her waist, where–completely visible for the world to see–she had on a puffy cloth diaper, held in place with a comically large baby pin. She’d dressed up as Baby New Year, and she looked the part–chubby and adorable, with an enthusiastic smile that almost pulled my gaze away from the diaper-shaped elephant in the room. (How is she not cold?) I wondered. I tried to walk up to say hi, but was overwhelmed by a dozen other partygoers–friends of hers, I had to assume–getting in the way. Compliments on her costume, and general greetings. She made eye contact with me and beamed, but still had to work her way through the thick of acquaintances before she could get to me. Finally, though, she broke free. “Sam, you came!” Eyes wide, I responded, “You’re wearing a–” “New Year’s costume!” she replied, cutting me off. “I just love dressing up for the holidays.” A wink told me everything I needed to know, and I mentally slapped myself for not thinking about discretion. “Well, you look great.” I rubbed at the back of my neck, awkwardly fishing for something to say. Looking down at my own ensemble–jeans and a sweater–I said, “Now I feel a bit underdressed, honestly.” “Everyone else is just in casual clothes,” she said, glancing around the room. (Yeah, but I’m not here with everyone else,) I thought. Knowing better than to stuff my foot in my mouth quite that hard, I said, “So are you in this group? The Alpha Betas?” “No,” she giggled. “This is a frat house, silly; I’d be in a sorority. I’m just friends with some members.” “Oh, right. I–” As I spoke up, music began to thump, and one of the frat bros cheered so loudly I forgot what I’d been saying. “So–how was your Christmas?” I asked. “What?” she replied, raising her voice over the music. “How was your Christmas!” I repeated. “Yes!” she replied, nodding in time with the thumping bass. I could only assume she’d misconstrued my question, so I repeated, “No, how was your Christmas!” “OH!” she said. “It’s kind of loud! Do you want to go somewhere else?” Nodding, I waited for her to lead the way, ultimately moving towards the kitchen where beer, soda, and snacks were laid out. A bowl of cherry red punch sat in the middle, and I eyed it, wondering if it was alcoholic. Deciding it was better to be safe than sorry, I went for the soda. “So–” I started again. “Did you–” “Emily!” someone squealed, and Emily looked over her shoulder to see another girl her age rush up and just about tackle her with a bear hug. “Deirdra!” Emily replied, half-returning the embrace. “How’ve you been?” The two of them fell to chattering, and I shrank back again, waiting for the conversation to pass. They exchanged chit-chat and a few short bits of gossip, before Emily added, “Oh–this is Sam, my friend!” “Oh yeah?” Deirdra asked, turning her gaze to me. “How did you two meet?” Grateful for the segue into the conversation, I started, “Well, Emily was doing a fundraiser for the animal shelter, and–” Dierdra seemed to be listening intently, for a couple seconds at least, until I got about a sentence in. By then, though, a guy had come up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist in a hug. “Guess who?” he asked, snickering. “Dummy,” Dierdra responded, rolling her eyes. “You’re supposed to cover my eyes and ask that, Brad.” Brad moved his hands up to her eyes. “Guess who?” They both snickered, and I shrank back once again. It didn’t really matter how we’d met. The three of them–Deirdra, Brad, and Emily–exchanged a bit more conversation while I drained my first cup of soda. Finally, as I refilled my cup, Emily checked her phone, and I thought the conversation with the couple might be ending. Hoping to get a chance to ask her about her choice of costume–or about anything, really, I started to open my mouth. Before I could, she brightened. “Bee’s here! Sam, you have to meet Bee. “B?” I asked. “Like, the letter?” “It’s got a couple ‘E’s,” she replied, smirking. “Come on!” I again followed her, back to where the music was thumping, all the way out to the porch, where I once again found myself wondering, (Is nobody else in the world cold except me?) Bee was, it seemed, a cheerleader or something. I pegged her as athletic at a glance–nobody got that toned naturally–and an exchange with Emily confirmed something about ‘the team’ and ‘the game’. The sounds of conversation and thumping music that filtered from inside were draining my focus by the time Emily prompted me in the conversation. This time, I managed to at least finish recounting the hot chocolate fundraised, and my save with the cups, though my ability to tell a compelling story had been blunted somewhat by social fatigue. To her credit, Bee at least had the courtesy to smile and nod her way through it before politely changing the subject to something she found more interesting. I got the point. Casually excusing myself to the bathroom, I made my way through the thick of the partygoers once more, noting the time–fifteen minutes to midnight. The line for the bathroom was four drunks deep. I sighed. My dorm was only a short walk, and I could tell when my company wasn’t wanted. Taking out my phone, I texted Emily, ‘I’m going to head out. Happy New Year.’ Rather than attempt navigating the party once more, I ducked out the back door and walked around the frat house. It added thirty chilly feet to the walk, but was better than the noise and the chaos, and before long, I was on the sidewalk. A little part of me felt disappointed, but I shoved that down and spoke reason to myself. I could tell when I wasn’t wanted, and– “Sam!” I turned, looking back at the scantily-clad New Year’s Baby in front of me. Unsure what else to do, I waved. “Hey.” “Is something wrong?” she asked, walking away from the house. “Yeah, just–parties aren’t really my thing,” I said. “I figured I’d stop making you babysit me.” She snickered, assuming I’d been joking. “Pun intended?” “Not really.” I shrugged. “I just…I feel like I should go.” Emily didn’t quite frown, but her smile faded into disappointment. “Did something happen when you went to the bathroom?” I shook my head. “Nothing like that, just…I wanted to spend time with you. I don’t know anyone here, and they don’t really want to know me.” She took a step closer towards me, onto the sidewalk. “These are my friends. I’m sure nobody was trying to ignore you.” “That’s not what I’m saying.” I shook my head. “It’s not, like, an intentional snub, it’s just that they don’t know who I am, and they’d rather hear what you, or Brad, or whoever else have been up to–the people they care about. I’m not interesting enough for them to care about me, and I don’t have the energy to try and convince them otherwise.” “It didn’t seem like that when we met.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “That was different.” I pressed my lips into a line, searching for the words. Her face took on a slightly weary aspect. “Because I was wearing a diaper, and they aren’t.” I frowned. “No, because I wasn’t competing for your time; I wasn’t trying to shout over music or being interrupted every time I open my mouth. I like that we have that…shared interest, I guess, but that’s not why I came here. I’m here because I thought you were funny, and kind, and I liked that you work to make the world better–none of that’s affected by what’s in your pants.” She didn’t have a response for a moment, and guilt hit me in that pause between words. I swallowed. “I’m sorry,” I started. “I’m just…not good with crowds, or parties, and–” “No, I’m sorry,” she responded, shaking her head. “I didn’t even think. I just…in my head, I knew hanging out would be fun, and the party would be fun, so I assumed doing both would be more fun. I didn’t think how it would be for you.” I exhaled through my nose in a not-quite laugh. “I wish the math worked out that way.” She gave me a little half-smile. “Want to call tonight a mulligan and try again some other day? Just me and you next time. No competition.” “I’d like that,” I said, shivering. I needed to either go back inside or go home, I was getting cold. Stepping closer, Emily got close to me. “Can I give you a kiss?” All my frustration with the evening vanished. A blush rising up my cheeks, I said, “Um–yeah. Yes.” Emily gave me a hug, and planted her lips on mine, and we kissed. With her arms wrapped around me, for that moment, I felt warm. And, while our lips were together, I heard cheers from inside the party, raucous excitement. She pulled back, eyes sparkling at me. I was just trying to recover my senses. “Sounds like I’m late,” she said, gesturing with her eyes down to her costume. “I’d better get inside, but…Happy New Years, Sam.” ... I finally have a functioning laptop again and am back to writing! It feels so good to be creating again. This was a challenge to write - trying to find a direction to take these characters that didn't just rehash the plot of the first one - and I think I like how it turned out. If you want to support my writing, you can chip in a couple dollars over on Patreon or SubscribeStar! My ability to write as much as I do is entirely thanks to readers like you. https://www.patreon.com/PeculiarChangeling https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

Not filling out the form because I want to ramble more than the form allows: I really can't say what a 'fair' asking price is without more information. I'd happily contribute 3-5$ a month, potentially, but I do want to add some context to that: When I subscribe to a Patreon, I'm typically not *just* subscribing to get content in exchange for money. Also, when it comes to video game production, the returns are often kind of intangible in the moment. There are very few games that I actually want to play various build states of as they come out, and while I don't mean this as a negative in the slightest, Perpetual Change is a game that I think is not well built for playing iterative versions and demos - It's heavily story driven, and while the branching paths offer some replay value, it's not the sort of mechanics-focused game that would have me playing it to try and achieve systems mastery. There's no gameplay loop. I generally only want to play the chapters when they're complete, and I can experience the whole story. (Or at least the whole 'available' story.) For my mileage, playing partial chapter demos would be like reading half a chapter of a book, except that when the full chapter is out I can't even properly start in the middle and have to re-read that section. To reiterate, this isn't a bad thing about Perpetual Change, but it does mean that, if we're talking purely about paying a monthly fee to get access to a product, the patreon doesn't offer as much. Cynically, I get exactly equal benefit from waiting until its out and then paying once for the whole thing as I do from paying monthly, because I am personally not going to play the demos. There's also the question of production speed - how much is 'fair' in exchange for a monthly dose of content depends on the volume of content. (And video games are often notoriously difficult to measure too. How do you measure a game that doesn't take long to play but has massive replay value versus a massive open world game with a ton of repeated content?) But... I'm not paying for the demos, I'm paying to support the creation of a game I want to play. And that's way more important to me than my Monthly Dose of Content.

This was a commission/request, so it probably won't be seeing a sequel. I wish all of my micro fiction could get sequels, but there's just not enough time in the day.