satyr

Chapter 5 Alera cringed as she watched her victory interview on video. She’d been drunk on success, and had made the mistake of being honest. Why did she have to mention Saehwong at all? At best, people would think she was arrogant. Worse yet, she might have given up a competitive advantage. Now, her opponents would know to study Saehwong’s games to prepare for her. The previous day had started terribly. She’d been down zero to two, and needed to win three matches in a row to secure advancement. To top it off, she’d woken in the early hours of the morning up to a weird, cold, clammy feeling between her legs. She hadn’t bothered to take off the diaper before bed, exhausted, and now she was glad: she’d wet herself in her sleep. Alera couldn’t even remember the last time that happened. Kindergarten, maybe. It had never been a problem for her. She couldn’t get so caught up in something that she forgot to go when she was asleep. But then again, she was under a lot of stress, and Alera vaguely recalled reading something about how bedwetting might surface under conditions of extreme stress, even in older children. Except she wasn’t a child. Wasn’t supposed to be a child. She’d cried, which she now recalled with a blush; she didn’t like Patrick seeing her like that. But Patrick knew what to do. He’d launched into a motivational speech which, frankly, didn’t motivate her so much as it shook her out of her self-pity. She remembered all the preparation she’d done, all the things she’d planned to do which she’d forgotten under the heat of the lamps and the roar of the audience. She’d worn noise-canceling headphones, which didn’t so much cancel out the noise of the crowd as transform it into a visceral bass roar. She could feel the weight of hundreds of pairs of eyes directed at her. Well, more probably, directed at the large screens showing her gameplay, but that distinction had not seemed important at the time. But she’d done it, and she was through—no matter how awkward her victory interview had been. Now, she had to do it all again, except in front of a larger crowd, with even more on the line. The thought filled her with trepidation, but also, somehow, excitement. Alera felt far more ready to take on the challenge now than she’d done just twenty-four hours previously. She crawled out of bed and nudged Patrick awake. She was wearing only a t-shirt and her diaper, which she hadn’t dared take off after the previous night’s debacle. It was clammy, but only from sweat. She hadn’t peed the bed again. Even half-asleep and bleary-eyed, Patrick had the decency to avert his eyes as she went into the bathroom to change. Her Butterfly jersey now smelled like two days’ worth of sweat, but she’d hung it over the shower door to air out overnight, and it would have to do. There was no way she wasn’t going to wear it. It wasn’t exactly a good-luck charm. But it was a physical representation of Patrick’s support. It reminded her that she wasn’t all alone in this. Alera looked at the package of diapers. Shook her head when she remembered that she’d disposed of one in the trashcan the previous day and now the can had been emptied. Someone, probably a maid at the hotel, had disposed of her used underwear, and might well have seen it. Thankfully, she wouldn’t ever have to meet this person. She considered forgoing a diaper today, but then she remembered the feeling of all those eyes on her. What if something happened? With a sigh, she stepped into the shower, rinsed off the night sweat, dried herself off, and affixed the shameful white square between her legs. At least nobody had noticed so far. Maybe she could go a whole weekend without anyone but her friend finding out. She found Patrick curled up in a chair, engrossed in something on his phone. He was smiling. “That James?” She asked, all innocence. Patrick blushed. “How did you know?” “The halo of light that appeared above your head was a nice clue,” she said, sticking her tongue out at him. Patrick covered his face theatrically with his hands. “Is it that obvious?” He asked. “It totally is. I wish I’d filmed you. I could use that video to tease you for months.” “Thanks,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Are you ready for the semifinals?” “As ready as I can be,” she said. Together, they walked down into the hotel’s restaurant for breakfast. Alera wasn’t hungry, but she knew she should eat. She picked some toast and smeared some jam on, not even bothering to check what kind it was. She didn’t have any allergies: what did it matter? It was fuel. Patrick spent most of breakfast texting with someone, probably James, while Alera tried to force herself to eat her toast with a spread that was probably very expensive and exclusive, but tasted like an unripe raspberry fucked a tadpole while slathered in a strawberry smoothie. She struggled to keep a straight face and nod as one of the hotel staff passed by the table and asked if the food was to her liking. James was completely oblivious. She really was happy for him, even a little envious. Patrick’s problem had been a single person’s acceptance; but, as she’d told him, even if that person rejected him, that didn’t mean there was anything wrong with him. It meant, simply, that a single person didn’t see all his wonderful qualities. Alera’s problem was far more quantifiable: she had to win, and if she didn’t, then it was because she wasn’t good enough. As simple and brutal as that. Alera pushed away the remains of her disgusting jam-that-might-have-been-something-else and sighed. “I’m going to the practice room,” she said. It was only three hours until she had to perform on stage. “Hold on,” Patrick said, trying to swallow far too much toast-with-fried-eggs for one mouthful. “I’m coming with you,” he tried to say, although it came out as “’m cmphing w’ yew.” “You go on texting your boyfriend,” Alera said, giggling. “One, he’s not my boyfriend...” “Yet.” “One, he’s not my boyfriend yet, and two, I really do want to see you prepare and just be present. You know, if you need something that is not in any way technical, because if it is, I’m afraid I can only tell you how to beat a dude who’s blind and lacks an arm and a leg, maybe. And I reckon your opponent’s going to be fully healthy and not disabled and smarter than me.” “Thanks,” she said. She gave him a smile that was all eyes and no lips. A smile that said thank you for being here for me even when you don’t know what I need, the kind of smile that can only pass between long-time friends or lovers. The practice room was actually a series of small conference rooms requisitioned by the tournament organizers. Each room held three high-end gaming computers with large 27-inch screens. She ducked her head into one, found there was already someone there, and backed out. She wanted to be alone to think, if at all possible. She always thought best alone. No, that wasn’t quite true. When she discussed the game with Saehwong, she felt as if she was a better version of herself, and yet she was as comfortable as if she’d been alone. He had a way of making her feel like she was unfurling her wings, a pupa escaping its chrysalis to discover it’s now a butterfly. She found herself smiling, for no good reason. They found an empty room and Alera sat down to log in to Vanguard. She was greeted by a message from Saehwong. It took her a while to piece together the meaning out of the hurried and ungrammatical sentence structure, but the gist of it was this: he had a very important game he needed to prepare for. The finals of the Korean team league. He was the team captain, and the player expected to carry his team to victory. But now, he had some doubts about his preparation. He needed a second pair of eyes. It was simultaneously flattering—he probably had a whole team of Korean analysts, and he wanted her input—and also really not what she needed right now. She had three hours to prepare for the most important match of her life, and needed every second to prepare. “What is it?” Patrick asked. “It’s Saehwong. He wants to discuss some strats for a big game,” she said. “Tell him you have your own big game you need to prepare for,” he said. “Patrick, I promised to help him. Besides, I can use his preparation for my own game,” she tried. “Alera, no! You need to focus on yourself. This is the most important day in your career. To be honest, this might be the start or the end of your career as a professional player.” It all made so much sense. She was a player, not a coach, and her job was to win her own games first, not lose her own games second, and maybe help some other players win their games a distant third. But on the other hand, there was no one in the world who could talk to her like Saehwong. In just a short time, she’d found herself craving those conversations. He understood the thing she cared about more than anything in the world—except possibly her mother and her best friend, of course except them, what was she thinking—on a level that no one else she had ever met did. He allowed her to lose herself in the game and be perfectly present in a world beyond the world she lived in. A world of strategies, of attacks and counterattacks, of defensive macro economy and aggressive militarism, of fakes and double-bluffs. And she had promised to help him, and he had helped her so much already. “I’ll give him thirty minutes,” she said. “Alera...” Patrick tried. “Only thirty minutes.” She responded to his message. He sent her a spreadsheet detailing a particular strategy, with notes in Korean (which she couldn’t read). She could immediately see the problem, though. It was a defensive strategy that relied on his opponent not being able to mount a decisive attack until a particular timing window, at which point the economic advantage he had built by forgoing early military would allow him to launch a superior attack of his own. Only, it was slightly too greedy. The strategy called for investing almost all your resources into building your economy, and almost none whatsoever in defensive military, and she could already see several ways in which his opponent could overwhelm him with military units. In practice, launching that attack would be difficult—she could see why Saehwong thought this was a viable strategy—but not impossible. Likely, he had won a lot with the opening in practice, but encountered someone who knew how to exploit the strategy’s weaknesses. It was a potentially brilliant strategy that was flawed, but not, she thought, irreparably so—precisely the kind of thing she lived and breathed for. Alera asked a series of questions, then began scribbling notes. Patrick was shaking her shoulders. “What?” She snapped, turning to give him a death-stare. “You have thirty minutes until you need to be backstage. Have you gotten any work done on your own preparation?” Her mouth fell open. She hadn’t played a single practice game, or reviewed her notes on her own preparation. All she’d done was waste two hours talking with Saehwong about a strategy he planned to use, which she couldn’t possibly use, since she only knew it theoretically, and had never tried it in practice. Fuck me. “No,” she said, blushing. “I got caught up.” “Figures,” Patrick said. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She said, irritable. She didn’t have time to argue with her friend, not if she planned to do any preparation whatsoever for her match, but his tone annoyed her. As if she’d confirmed something he’d long suspected, and now he was entitled to be smug about it. “I think you’re in love with Saehwong,” he said. “What?” What the actual…? “I’ve known him for a week, I’ve never met him in real life, and I barely even know what he looks like. Or what his real name is. I’m only ninety percent confident he’s actually a he.” Patrick put a hand on her shoulders and give them a squeeze. It was a tender gesture, not at all smug or superior. “There’s more than one kind of love, Al. I think you’ve found your platonic soulmate. Really, I’m kind of jealous.” She put a hand to her cheek to hide her blush. “Really, Patrick, you’re jealous of me? I’m jealous of you. You have a real person, with warm skin that you can touch, right in our hometown, and you envy me for having an internet friend thousands of miles away that shares my hobby?” Patrick put his hand on her cheek. “Alera, there’s falling in love and then there’s love. What do you think of before you fall asleep?” “What kind of question is that? What’s that got to do with anything?” “Just answer,” he said, with the patience of a monk. “You,” she said. “Also, Vanguard, I guess.” “And what’s the first thing you think of when you wake up?” “You, again,” she said. “Also, the game. Obviously.” “And what’s the last thing he thinks of when he goes to sleep, and the first thing he thinks about in the morning?” “The game, I imagine.” “See,” he said, satisfied, “I don’t tell James what I think about first thing in the morning and last thing before I fall asleep.” Huh. They were interrupted by Sarah, the tournament coordinator. She poked her head into the practice room. “There you are!” She said. She wore a smile somewhere between that of a businesswoman and a shark. “We need to get you to makeup, you’ve got forty-five minutes until showtime.” “Is that really necessary?” Alera asked. “Honey, you will look like a corpse under the stagelights without makeup, and you have such lovely skin,” she said, grabbing Alera’s arm. “I need to log out and...” She tried. “I’ve got it,” Patrick said. “I’ll meet you backstage. This pass is still valid, right?” He caught the access pass around his neck in his hand. “Sure thing,” said Sarah. Then she whisked Alera away for makeup. Makeup was a whirlpool of women descending on her face like a swarm of locusts. She felt the warmth of the lights on the mirror, and a sequence of brushes against her skin, and then she looked at herself and had to admit that she did look better than she had. Alera had never particularly cared how she looked. Her idea of fashion was her mother’s advice to make sure she didn’t look like a hobo with a heroin habit. She tried to live by that mantra, but it really was a low bar to clear, wasn’t it? She hadn’t had time to really think about the conversation she’d just had with Patrick, and Sarah Crowley didn’t give it to her. She was led away from the makeup room into a small area backstage. Patrick waited and gave her a little pat on her shoulder. On the other side of the room was her opponent. He was a pasty white kid with dreads and a tribal tattoo clearly visible on his well-developed biceps. She knew him only by his nickname, VioleNt. He immediately shattered her prejudices by walking over, shaking her hand, and wishing her good luck. “I liked your play in groups,” he said. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other at these events in the future. Good luck.” His manager or coach or fixer or, for all Alera knew, his coke dealer, also shook her hand. He wore a dark suit and sunglasses inside like he was auditioning for Men in Black, but he was courteous and oozed professionalism. Patrick also shook his hand, just for the sake of appearances. Alera smiled; at last, she’d found an arena in which her friend was less comfortable than she was. She pulled up her notebook and tried to memorize her openings. It was no use. She’d read and re-read the notes so many times that she’d have to suffer retrograde amnesia to forget. There was nothing new there that she hadn’t thought about a hundred times before. Sarah appeared by her side like a fairy. “We’re going to have you walk in this way,” she said, pointing at a side door. Go through the corridor and to the right, then you’ll walk through the audience to the stage. You’ll end up just on the other side of that door,” and she pointed at a door labeled STAGE, “but just walking through there wouldn’t be as epic.” “Oh… kay,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Don’t worry,” said Sarah, “it’ll all be over soon.” Alera didn’t know if that was comforting or scary. Did she mean, the scary bit will be over soon, and then you can do what you came here to do, or you will be out of the tournament soon and then you won’t have to worry about any of this, will you? “Go on,” said Patrick. “I’ll be here, waiting.” Alera cast a glance towards the door labeled RESTROOMS, then Sarah gave her a push, and she walked through the side door. The corridor was all white and featureless. She found herself at a fork. Did she say left or right? Left, Alera thought, and walked to the end of a side corridor, opened a door, and found herself standing in a closet full of laundry equipment. Right, then. She retraced her steps and met VioleNt, her opponent, in the doorway to the backstage room. “I, uh, may have gotten lost,” she said, and then turned right before he could reply. How embarrassing. Alera found the door that presumably led out into the walkway that ran down the length of the stands to the stage. She closed her eyes, briefly, and reminded herself that all of this was merely pageantry. She was here to win, and Alera knew how to win. Scratch that: Butterfly knew how to win. Alera had to be Butterfly, the hottest new player on the block, not Alera Vasquez, scared and confused high school senior. Alera opened the door. A rush of voices and lights. She stepped into the light. There were stands on either side of her, and spectators—fans—cheering, some looking down on her with something like pity, others with the wide-eyed enthusiasm of youth. Alera decided to put one leg in front of the other and just focus on the stage in front of her, just fifty yards down the steps and she’d be away from the overwhelming crush of humanity that enveloped her. She heard her name called on speakers, somewhere far away, and narrowed her eyes until they were focused on a small section of the stage. Then she remembered that she was wearing headphones. Alera stopped, ignoring the stares from the audience, and fished out her phone. She put on a song, Signatune by DJ Mehdi, a hard-hitting, repetitive French House banger. She took a step with each beat of the song. Each step filled her with adrenaline. Each beat was a step closer to winning. Each beat was an IV shot of adrenaline. Her synapses were firing. She barely saw the steps as she stumbled up the stairs. The crowd was a blur. She turned around, looked at the seething mass of humanity that was watching her as the song looped, crescendoed, looped again. She held up a fist. Alera didn’t know why, but it felt good. It was a sign, from her to the crowd. I see you, and I am not afraid. She stepped away from the edge of the stage, unplugged her headphones, handed her phone to an attendant who stowed it away in a sealed plastic box. The roar of the crowd entered her ears, but she ignored it. She walked over and took a seat by her computer, affixed the in-ear earbuds, put on the noise-canceling over-ear headphones. The drone of the audience fell away into a low-level murmur. Alera logged in and began adjusting her settings. She was vaguely aware of another roar as her opponent entered the auditorium. She focused, instead, on setting up her game. She imagined herself sitting at home, relaxed, in her bedroom. There was only her, a screen, a keyboard and computer mouse. She felt a twinge in her bladder, signaling that she really ought to have peed earlier. The adrenaline infusion of her walk-in and the music was still buzzing in the background, a synaptic drone that made her legs vibrate. Alera closed her eyes, shook her head, and prepared to play the game of her life.

Yes, I follow CS:GO. It’s the one esports game that I personally play a lot (not at a high level, mind). This story is more heavily inspired by the Starcraft scene, which I used to watch way back, like, ten years ago, although not so much recently.

In chess, you play a move with tempo, meaning a move that gains you a tempo. I chose to call that a tempo move for clarity, as I don't expect most readers to be familiar with chess terminology. It was a simplification for the sake of not being too technical. It's actually kind of hard to write about technical stuff in a story, because you always get those whose eyes glaze over because it's too technical, and other people get upset that it's not precise enough. The thing with video games is that they tend to be updated for balance and new content quite often. At least yearly, sometimes monthly or even weekly. This means that strategies are constantly evolving. Chess hasn't updated its ruleset in any significant way in the past two hundred years (when it was formalized that stalemate=draw). So naturally, when you have a game that's unchanging for hundreds of years, the pace of change is quite slow. You're right, people don't really come up with entirely new openings in chess, they just come up with small novelties in old openings. Vanguard is a fictional game, but I based it on existing game like Starcraft and Age of Empires 2, that have been around in some form for two decades, but they evolve strategy-wise partially because they're so complex and partially because they get new updates that change what strategies are viable.

Chapter 4 Alera woke up to a message from Patrick: “Did you make sure you have the weekend off work?” Shit shit shit. She hadn’t. She’d cut back on her hours when she could finally afford her gaming PC, but she hadn’t stopped working completely. Alera and her mother still depended on her income to make it each month. She looked at the time: 8:05 AM. Alera picked up her phone and dialed her manager, Sarah. “Hey,” said a sleepy voice on the other hand. “It’s early as fuck. What’s up, Al?” “Just calling to make sure I have the weekend off,” she said. “Let me see...” Sarah said. “Nope, you’re on for Saturday and Sunday. Got plans?” “Sarah,” Alera said, “I need the weekend off. There’s a… competition I have to go to, and I can win fifteen thousand dollars.” “Damn, girl,” said Sarah. “The only prize I can offer you here is getting stared down by Old Albert.” Old Albert was an elderly gentleman who seemed to come into the supermarket solely to ogle the young female staff. “Tell you what, I’m not working this weekend. I can take your shift if you take mine next weekend.” “Thanks a million, Sarah.” “No problem. So what’s the competition? What are you competing in?” “It’s, uh, a video game…” She trailed off. “You wouldn’t understand.” “Try me. What game? It’s not Fortnite, is it?” “Uh, no? It’s Vanguard.” “Really? I was gonna watch the Rising Stars tournament tonight, but I guess I’ll watch your tournament instead,” Sarah said. Alera shook her head, as if her conversational partner could see it. She’d had no idea Sarah was into esports. “I, uh,” Alera stammered. “That’s the tournament I’m going to.” “Wow,” said Sarah. “I’ll be watching you! What’s your nick?” “Butterfly,” she said. “I just read an article about you!” Sarah said. “Good luck. I’ll be checking my phone in-between customers.” “Give Albert a kiss from me!” “Shut up or I’ll make you work tomorrow,” Sarah said. “Okay, bye.” An article about me? Alera pulled up her phone and entered vanguard-news.com. There it was, at the top: Vanguard Rising Stars Spring Finals Announces Last Participant. She clicked on the article: The Vanguard Rising Stars Spring Finals kick off tonight, but they had yet to announce the final participant to complete their 12-man tournament roster. But it seems the last participant will not be a man, but a woman. Rising Stars has announced that the final participant in the tournament will be online star Alera “Butterfly” Vasquez. Vasquez has been tearing up the ladder in the past weeks, but her only tournament result of note is a 3rd-4th place in the online Rising Stars Spring Series. Said Vanguard News analyst Roger “dAnger” Adams, “Butterfly is an exciting young prospect. Despite her lack of tournament results, I am excited to see how she does on LAN.” Butterfly will be the first woman to participate in an elite Vanguard LAN tournament. The Loot.bet Vanguard Rising Stars Spring Finals start at 6:00PM tonight. Wow. It was a brief article, but it was an article about her. About her being “an exciting young prospect.” Alera pumped her fist at nobody in particular. She wanted to tell someone about this, but her mother wouldn’t understand. Patrick was probably getting ready for school. As should she, she realized. Alera jumped out of bed ran downstairs. She barely had time for a five-minute shower before she had to get ready for the school bus. Still, it was worth it. On the way to school, the only thing on her mind was strategies, approaches, and tactics she could employ in her first match. If she did an aggressive first game, she could fake an aggressive push in the second game and gain a huge economic advantage; but on the other hand, if she went too aggressive, her opponent might simply turtle up and play the economic game himself… It wasn’t until she stepped off the bus that she realized she’d forgotten to put on any socks. Alera met up with Patrick in the schoolyard. He looked somehow diminished. His usual cheer was gone. It wasn’t what she’d expected after his long awaited date. “Hey! How’d your date go?” She asked. “It was okay,” Patrick said, not looking at her. “What do you mean, just okay? Did it go badly?” “You know how when you really look forward to something, and you hype it up for months, when it actually happens, it’s hard to live up to the expectations?” That was exactly how she felt when a new game released. Alera nodded. “Yeah, it was kind of like that.” “So, are you going to see him again?” “I don’t know,” Patrick said, and the look he gave her made her want to cry. She put an arm around her friend’s shoulder. “Aw,” she said. “I’m sure it’ll work out. And if he can’t see how amazing you are, he’s an asshole and doesn’t deserve you.” Patrick looked over at her, hurt in his eyes. “He’s not an asshole,” he said quietly. “It just didn’t click right away like some fairytale romance.” Alera had very little experience with romance, so she didn’t know what to say. Instead, she pulled Patrick into a hug. “Well, I love you, bro, and I’ll be there for you no matter what,” she said. “Thanks. We’re late for class,” he said. Alera couldn’t concentrate for the first two classes. It would have been one thing if she was distracted by her plans for the tournament, which was actually important. Maybe more important than her classes. But no: she was busy trying to figure out just what had happened during Patrick’s date, and how she could fix it. She’d been certain, in some teenage fantasy way, that the moment they admitted their feelings for one another, they would each realize they were madly in love and be happily ever after. Obviously, this was a silly fantasy, but it was what she’d wanted for her friend. She had her game, which was, to be perfectly honest, her first, second and third loves, but Patrick had nothing but her. And she couldn’t be what he needed, nor was she what he actually wanted. But she couldn’t come up with a solution. When Alera started working on a problem, she worked until she had a solution. Not only a solution, but the solution, superior to all possible solutions. She hated being wrong almost as much as she hated being ignorant, and when her mind focused on something, it would not let go. But this was another kind of problem, a human problem, and it wasn’t one she could solve just by brains and willpower. In the break between the second and third classes of the day, Patrick came over to her. “Hey, champ,” he said. “I can tell you’re distracted. Get your head in the game!” “Sorry,” she said. “I was thinking of your date.” “Stop it!” Patrick said. “It is what it is. You can’t fix it. It’ll either fix itself or it won’t. It’s nothing to do with you.” “But you’re my friend...” She tried. “And as your friend, I’m telling you, it’s none of your business. Okay?” He put his arms on her shoulders. “You have to focus on your tournament and the fifteen kay you’re gonna win for yourself and your mom. By the way, we have to leave after lunch or we won’t make it in time.” “Oh shit! We’ll have to skip classes!” “Yeah, let’s be Bonnie and Clyde, driving down the highway,” Patrick said. “I’ll be Bonnie and you be Clyde,” she said. “Nuh-uh,” Patrick said. “Clearly, I am Bonnie, and you’re Clyde. You have that murdering sociopath look on you.” “Thanks, I guess.” “One more class,” Patrick said, “then we leave, pick up your shit back at home, and drive off into the sunset. I packaged the shotgun and you bring the bullets.” “Did you really?” “No, but I kind of wish I did.” “Did you pack everything?” Patrick asked as she hauled her suitcase to her mother’s car. She nodded. “Got it all. Clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste, keyboard, mouse, strategy notebook...” “Did you bring the diapers?” “I, uh… No?” “I think you should. Just in case.” Alera bit her lip. “Fine.” She climbed out of the car, walked upstairs to her room, and rummaged through the back of her closet where she’d hidden the shameful undergarments. They really were huge, and she didn’t know how many she should bring, so she packaged the whole package in a backpack. “All done,” Alera said, sliding into the passenger seat. “By the way, you’re driving.” “Because you’re gonna be too obsessed with planning for your games to keep your eyes on the road?” “Yes. Also, because I don’t have my driver’s license yet.” “What? I thought you got done that ages ago?” Patrick asked. “I haven’t had time to schedule the final test.” “Figures.” “Yeah.” “Hey,” Patrick said. “I thought you were Clyde. Or Bonnie. I forget.” “Touché,” Alera said. “Now drive.” They pulled out of the driveway, and then they were on their way. Alera picked up her strategy notebook and began scribbling. She had a lot of ideas from her last practice session, but she hadn’t had the time to put her thoughts in order yet. She’d identified several flaws in her game which should be simple fixes, but she needed to get the details right. In Vanguard, timing was everything. Doing the right thing one second too late could lose you a game. She scribbled down a word: tempo. It was a chess term. In chess, a tempo is a move which demands that the opponent respond immediately. This essentially grants the player delivering the tempo a free move, since their opponent must abandon their plan to respond to the threat, while you can continue with your plan. In a real-time game, where both players make simultaneous moves, one could not gain a “free move”, but one could gain free time by delivering a threat to temporarily distract one’s opponent from their plan. She had several strategies which almost worked. She had devastating attacks which would be a few seconds late against a good opponent. If she could only figure out a way to gain a few extra seconds to prepare, she could make the strategy work. She needed a tempo move which would delay her opponent’s response without compromising her plan. And now, scribbling furiously, she thought she had it. “Let’s stop for a restroom break,” Patrick said. Alera looked up. The clock on the dashboard showed that they’d been driving for three hours. “I don’t need to pee,” Alera said, picking up where she left off. If she pushed a small force towards this particular chokepoint, she could… “You’re squirming,” Patrick said. Alera put down her notebook. She looked down at her thighs, which were indeed shaking, and realized that she did, indeed, need to pee. Her bladder was pushing against the waistband of her jeans, pushing to release. She hadn’t even noticed. Patrick had stopped at a gas station. Blushing, Alera unbuckled herself and powerwalked into the gas station. She found the restrooms towards the back. Sitting on the toilet, she counted the seconds as she peed. One, two, three… Forty-five. Come to think of it, she hadn’t peed since that morning. She could easily have stayed engrossed in her planning for the next two hours, and she didn’t think she could have held it two hours. She’d have ended up peeing in her mother’s car. Alera felt her cheeks warm. She was supposed to be an adult, not a child, and yet she needed Patrick to tell her when to pee. Maybe I’m, like, an autistic savant at video games. Maybe I’ll be winning championships but I’ll need a live-in caretaker to make sure I eat, drink, sleep, and pee. Alera shook her head. It wasn’t that bad. She hadn’t peed herself. And she had been unusually focused because of the upcoming tournament and what it could mean to her future. She wasn’t usually like this. Self-conscious, she bought a sandwich and a bottle of lemon water. She’d at least make sure she had eaten and was hydrated when she arrived. “You’ve barely said a word the past three hours,” Patrick said when she got back into her seat. “Just occasionally mumbling to yourself. ‘Hmm, yes,’ or ‘no, that won’t work.’ I know you get super focused when you’re in the zone, but I’ve never seen you like this before.” “I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I just figured out my opening strategy for the first game. I shouldn’t have ignored you.” She took a sip of her water. “It’s okay,” he said, pulling out of the gas station. “This weekend is about you, and I want you to be focused on what matters right now, which is winning this tournament. Let me worry about taking care of you outside the game.” “That’s sweet,” she said, “but also wrong. I can’t rely on you to be, like, my daddy or something. I need to take better care of myself. You can’t be with me for the rest of my life like a… zookeeper.” She took a bite of her sandwich. “Tell me about you. What did you do on your date?” “Went for ice cream. Went for a walk and talked. It wasn’t very exciting, to tell you the truth.” “Ice cream and a walk and talk can be really romantic together with the right person,” she said. “You would know, with all your extensive dating experience?” Patrick shook his head. “Sorry. That was unfair.” “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re right, I haven’t really dated much. But give me some credit. I am, after all, a girl. I do have some notions of romance.” Patrick chuckled. “Really? You’re dreaming of romance and it’s not about marrying your video game?” Alera smiled. “I do, as a matter of fact. I dream of finding the right person, and the things we would do. It’s just that I have no clue what that person looks like. I don’t even know if the person is a woman, a man, or something else.” Patrick took his hand off the steering wheel and rested it on her shoulder. “I know there’s somebody for you out there, and you have plenty of time to figure out who that person is.” “I want someone like you,” Alera said. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not in love with you. I love you as a friend, but I don’t have the hots for you. I just want a person who I can be myself with and trust totally, like you. But who also, you know...” “Gets you all hot and bothered?” Patrick offered with a smirk. “Something like that,” she admitted. They said nothing for a minute. “James was everything I’d hoped for,” Patrick began. “We talked about movies, and music, and about friendship and how important it is. But I don’t think it’s going to work out.” “Because he wasn’t as enthusiastic about you as you’d hoped?” He nodded. “Look,” Alera said. “I saw him sneaking glances at you months ago. He’s shy. You had to ask him out. You had to take the initiative. Just because he didn’t spill his heart on the first date doesn’t mean his heart isn’t throbbing.” “You should write advice columns, Al,” Patrick said. “I’m serious.” He nodded. “You’re right. I shouldn’t give up hope just because he’s not showering me with flowers.” “Right,” she said. “If he wants to reject you, let him. Don’t reject yourself for him.” Patrick’s phone pinged with a message. He looked over at it. “It’s him,” he said. “I don’t know if I can bear to read it. Also, I should probably look at the road when driving.” “Is it okay if I read it?” She asked. “Sure. But don’t tell me if it’s bad. But, wait, if you don’t tell me what it says, I’ll know it’s bad. Crap.” Alera grabbed the phone and read the message. It was only one sentence. “I want to c u again.” She beamed a smile at Patrick. “He says he wants to see you again!” Patrick’s eyes seemed curiously moist. He looked away from her for a moment, and when he turned back he was smiling. “Really? What else did he say?” “Nothing else, just that. But this is great news. I told you to be patient!” “Whoa,” he said. “Wow, wow, wow.” “High five,” Alera said. They ended up awkwardly bumping fists. They arrived at their hotel around 5:00 PM. The tournament was being held in the convention center attached to the hotel, which was why they’d chosen it. Patrick parked the car, and Alera pulled her bag out of the trunk, a bit self-conscious when she remembered she also needed to bring the backpack that contained her diapers. Alera had never been to a tournament like this before, and she had no idea how it was supposed to go. She’d gotten an e-mail saying she should meet at the hotel at five for a player check-in and orientation—which meant they were just in the nick of time—but she didn’t know where she was supposed to meet, who would meet her, or what was going to happen. Patrick took her backpack, and she rolled her suitcase into the lobby. Once there, she was immediately greeted by a woman wearing a badge around her neck that said “SARAH CROWLEY / RISING STARS COORDINATOR”. “Alera Vasquez?” She asked. “I… yes?” Alera said. “How did you know?” “Your Facebook is public. Might want to change that, if you plan on doing well in this tournament,” the woman said. She was dressed slick in a gray striped pantsuit, with brown hair pulled into a bun on the top of her head, not a strand of hair misplaced. A pair of cat eye glasses completing the business look. She smiled at Alera and handed her two badges similar to the one she wore. “This is your ID badge. Wear it to get access to the backstage area. There’s one for you and one for your coach. If you go to many of these events, the staff will eventually know you by sight, but since it’s your first time, they might not know who you are unless you wear the badge. Now, are you staying at this hotel?” Alera felt a bead of sweat slide down her neck. This was all a little much. Patrick stepped in to save her. He must have seen the confused look on her face. “We’re staying here,” he said. “Excellent. You must be Patrick O’Brian, the coach?” “Yes,” he said. “Great. Listen, you can check in and put your things in the room, but at 5:30 there is a short photoshoot—we’re going to be using portraits of all the players in the live broadcast. Then I think our media producer wants to get a quick interview with you on video. Everyone is very excited about you, since you’re a rookie. Also, you’re the only woman here. Very marketable. Females 16-27 is a growing demographic in esports. Matches start at seven.” Her voice was excited, but it sounded like she was more excited about demographics than she was to meet Alera. Patrick nodded. “Got it. Where should we meet for the photo shoot and interview?” “Just come back to the lobby and myself or someone else from Production will meet you. Hey! Carlos!” As soon as she’d delivered her information, she turned to greet a young man entering the lobby. Carlos? Could it be Carlos “ManslaughteR” Alvarez? If so, this was her first look at her competition in person. Carlos looked like an average kid, maybe nineteen years old, wearing a black THRASHER hoodie, a cap covering long black hair, and carrying a suitcase in one hand and a keyboard under his other arm. He didn’t look very impressive, but then, Alera suspected, neither did she. She knew him as a kind of journeyman, a guy who got invited to tournaments because he tended to place around the middle of the pack every time. He never made any particularly good placings, but he didn’t make any last-place finishes either. A player she couldn’t underestimate, but definitely not one she should fear. Patrick took her arm and dragged her to the reception. “Let’s get checked in quickly, we only have fifteen minutes,” he said. They got their room key. They’d skimped by getting one double room instead of two singles. Alera didn’t mind sharing a huge hotel bed with Patrick. She’d shared her much smaller bed with him when they were kids. It wouldn’t be their first sleepover, but possibly their most exclusive one. Their room was on the third floor of the hotel. 304. “I think you should put on the diaper,” Patrick said when they were alone. “What? People will see me! Thousands of people online! Someone will notice. I can’t do that.” “Hear me out. You brought slacks, right? They’re loose enough that nobody will notice. Truth be told, when you remember to put on pants, nobody can really tell unless they’re looking for it. And who will look for it? On the other hand, you don’t want your first tournament performance to be remembered because you peed your pants live, do you? I’m sure it won’t happen, but please, Al, just do it.” “Okay. Fine. Fuck it.” She threw off her jeans, and Patrick barely had time to turn around in modesty before she had her panties out. She fished out a plastic rectangle from her backpack, folded it out, fluffed the sides like Patrick had taught her, then sat her bare bum on top of it. She positioned herself centered on the rectangle, then pulled up the sides and fastened the tapes. Truth be told, although she was loath to admit it, there was a certain feeling of safety when she’d gotten it fastened. She didn’t have to worry anymore. She knew this thing could contain everything she’d reasonably expect to throw at it. Not that she planned to actually use it. Definitely not. Alera put on her slacks, then shrugged off her shirt and put on the jersey Patrick had made her. The one that said her name and nickname on the back. Patrick turned around and gave her a golf clap and a grin. “You look great!” He said. She looked at herself in the mirror. Turned around, craned her neck, admired the Butterfly on her back. She really looked like a pro. “We gotta go now, photo shoot’s on!” Patrick urged. They arrived in the lobby just in time for Sarah Crowley to hurry them down a corridor and into a small conference room that had been turned into a photo studio. There was a black background mounted on metal stands, several studio flashes with various accessories mounted, and a guy wearing a huge camera around his neck connected by cord to a computer. He had wild hair and was waving his hands at a guy in front of the studio backdrop. He looked to be about twenty years old, wearing a Team Liquid jersey. The guy flashed a smile at a camera, then shifted to a menacing look, hands crossed in front of his chest. The photographer waved him off. “Hey!” The guy said. “You Butterfly?” She nodded. He extended a hand. “Cool. I’m Railgun, Jake to friends. Good luck.” They shook hands. Wow. This is probably the second or third best player in the country. And here he’s greeting me like a colleague! Alera didn’t have time to fawn, as the photographer directed her to stand in front of the backdrop. She felt slightly self-conscious about the diaper strapped to her waist, but the photographer appeared oblivious. After the photo shoot, Sarah appeared at her side again to direct her to another room where a big video camera was set up. She was introduced to Carmac, who was apparently a media producer for the tournament. “Look, I know you may be nervous about your first interview, but you just sit there,” and he indicated a chair in front of a green screen, “and answer a few easy questions honestly. I won’t hit you with any hard questions since it’s your first time. Just make sure to answer in complete sentences, because we’re going to cut out the questions in post.” He flashed a smile at her. “Oh… kay,” she said. “Don’t worry,” Carmac said, giving her a pat on the back. “Everyone’s nervous their first time.” Carmac asked her whether she was excited about being at her first LAN tournament. He asked whether she had any thoughts about the fact that she was the first female player to make it to the big leagues, and she answered honestly that she hadn’t really thought about it. “I’m just here to compete. I don’t really think about stuff like that.” “Excellent,” Carmac said. “Good work. Now, you don’t have to answer the next question in detail. Do you have any hidden tricks up your sleeve for your first tournament?” Alera smiled her most charming smile. “I’m sure I do. I’ve been working really hard on some new openings with my practice partner.” “Oh?” Said Carmac. “This practice partner, is it someone we would know?” “I would imagine so,” said Alera honestly. “It’s Saehwong.” “What?” Said Carmac. “Your practice partner is Saehwong, the recent runner-up in the world championship?” “Yes.” “Please answer with a complete sentence.” “My practice partner is Saehwong.” “Wow,” said Carmac. “Can you say that again, but, like, look a bit more menacing?” Alera pulled down her brows and crossed her arms. “My practice partner is Saehwong, the second best player in the world according to the rankings. But I believe he is actually the best player in the world, and he helped me develop several new openings. You wanna beat me? Then you have to beat the best player in the world’s strategies.” “That was fucking brilliant,” Carmac said. “Strictly on the D-L, how’d you swing that partnership?” “I beat him on the ladder and asked him if he wanted to practice with me.” “Wow,” said Carmac. That night, Alera lost her first two matches. She was uncomfortable in front of the cameras. There were about two hundred people watching in the audience—which was a far cry from the world championships, but still two hundred more than she was used to—her chair was unfamiliar, and she couldn’t get into the zone. They were close matches, but her opposition were people she had easily beat from the comfort of her home. She wanted to cry. “Don’t worry about it,” Patrick said. “That was the warmup. You’re not out of it yet.” “I’ll have to win three matches in a row tomorrow, against better opposition.” “Good thing you have three hundred pages of strategy in that notebook of yours and the most brilliant mind of anyone here,” he said. “Look, you have to block out the people watching. Go to that place you go when nobody can reach you, even if the house is on fire. Go to that place and roast their asses.” Patrick bit his lip. It was Saturday afternoon. Alera had gone down 0-2 in her group, and she’d been quite dejected. But he’d kind of expected that. It was her first LAN tournament. She needed some time to adjust. He’d tried to cheer her up the night before, but she’d refused to listen to his motivational speech. I don’t have a future in sports coaching or mental training, he’d thought. Things had gotten from bad to worse when she woke him up at five in the morning and informed him that she’d wet the bed. Well, kind of: she had wet the diaper she hadn’t bothered to take off to bed. The bed was dry, but she was not. She’d cried on his shoulder, shoulders shaking, and told him that she was useless. She couldn’t hold her piss through the night—which, as far as Patrick knew, had not been a problem before—and she couldn’t even win her games. “That’s fucking it,” Patrick had said. “You’re not allowed to reject yourself. You told me that yesterday. Now, you change and go to sleep, and then when you wake up, you’re gonna be in that place where nothing matters but winning the game, and you’re gonna win the game. Come on, Clyde, you’re better than this.” She’d fallen asleep again with red eyes. But when she woke, it was a different Alera. Alera had crushed her opposition in the first match of the day 2-0. Then she had defeated her next opponent 2-0. Now, she was competing against Railgun. Alera had told her that this was the best player in her group. The score was 1-1. Alera needed to win this game to go to the semifinals. Patrick was seated in the front row, right in front of the stage. He could have been backstage, but he felt like he’d just be a distraction. Instead, he seated himself in the audience, where he could hear the commentators. He had played Vanguard enough to know the basic principles, but he had no clue about high-level strategies. Instead, he watched the big screen and listened to the commentators cast the game. “Oh my god,” said one of the commentators. “Butterfly’s behind! Railgun is already hitting tech 2 and she hasn’t even started her tech upgrade! She’s still on tech 1! Looks like the rookie is cracking under the pressure!” “It was a good run, and a solid rookie performance, but this looks like the end for Butterfly,” said the other commentator. Patrick put his thumb in his mind and bit hit. Come on, Alera, do something! She wanted to yell at her. Of course, she was wearing noise-canceling headphones and couldn’t hear him. “Railgun is about to launch an attack on the north flank,” said the first commentator. “Wait!” Said the second commentator. “Look! She’s… I think she’s deliberately delaying her tech! She’s going to upgrade directly from tech 1 to tech 3! This is a strategy that’s been spearheaded by Saehwong on the Korean servers just in the past week!” “She did say in her interview that she’s been practicing with Saehwong,” said the first commentator. “Truth be told, Roger, I thought it was just boasting from a rookie. Leaching off the name of a more famous player. But she’s playing the strategy exactly like Saehwong!” “Wait!” Said the second commentator, Roger. “Look at the timer! She’s going to be fifteen seconds too late.” “Railgun is advancing with his Reaver-Menacer force from the south. If he hits in the next thirty seconds before Butterfly gets tech 3, he’s going to win.” “Butterfly is sending half her army to the north. She’s pressuring the second base of Railgun! Railgun pulls his army back to defend. His second is vulnerable, but he really needs to attack Butterfly’s bases now or he’s toast. He doesn’t know what we know, of course...” Patrick looked at the timer on the screen. If she hits tech 3, she’s winning. Five seconds, four seconds, three… two, one, zero. She did it! “Butterfly is sacrificing half her army! Railgun is destroying her army, but what he doesn’t know is she’s building a new, better army at home...” “Butterfly is advancing on the third base of Railgun...” “She’s attacking the second...” “The second is falling!” “There goes the third!” “Gee-gee! Good game is called!” “The rookie has done it! Railgun throws in the towel, and with that, he’s eliminated from the tournament! Butterfly advances to the semifinals with a 2-1 victory in the match and a 3-2 record in the group stages!” People rose from their chairs around Patrick, cheering for his friend. He rose, too. Alera stood on stage, drinking in the jubilation of the crowd. Her Butterfly jersey was drenched in sweat, but she didn’t care. Her diaper was damp under her slacks, but she didn’t care about that, either. A guy she didn’t know was asking her questions which barely registered. He was wearing an exciting smile and a suit. “The casters are saying this is a strategy you picked up from Saehwong,” the man said. “How did it feel to pull it off in such a pivotal game?” Alera shook her head. “That’s not correct,” she said. “I didn’t pick up the tech-delay all-in from Saehwong. I developed that opening. He picked it up from me.” Alera flashed a smile for the crowd. She was on top of the world.

Chapter 3 By Wednesday morning, Alera had deep bags under her eyes, and she could barely keep awake through her classes. She’d stayed up until 2:30 AM playing practice games against Saehwong, which must be a lot earlier his time. The moment she got back from school, she’d sat down to fulfill her end of the deal: She needed to come up with an improvement to Saehwong’s opening strategy that nullified the counterattack she’d come up with. After a few hours, she’d come up with a partial fix. It didn’t completely rule out that her counterstrategy would be successful, but it made the timing window for it to succeed much smaller. She sent her notes on the newly improved strategy to Saehwong, who popped online an hour later, and spent thirty minutes picking apart the weaknesses in her approach. My God, she thought, he’s amazing. The way he analyzes strategies is on another level. She would ask, what is wrong with what my opponent is doing, and how can I counter that? Then she would be satisfied when she found the answer. He would ask, supposing there is a way to counter this, can I fake that I’m countering, and bait my opponent into countering my counter, only to secretly switch into an entirely different strategy? Could you do the same, and how could I identify that? For every answer, he had another question. It required an extreme kind of focus, difficult even for her, to keep up with the Korean phenom’s rapid stream of thought. It didn’t help that she spoke zero Korean, and his English was rudimentary at best. At least he knew most of the game-specific terms in English, even if all the bits in-between required a while to parse. All of this was possible only because her mother had relented, slightly. When she came home from work, she’d called Alera down and told her they were going to have a serious talk. Trembling with anticipation, she made her way downstairs. Thankfully, she hadn’t put on a diaper yet. “Alera, I’ve thought about this a lot,” her mother said. “You’re serious about this? Making money and… a career in video games?” “It’s called esports, Mom,” she said. “But yes. I am. And I intend to go as far as I can go with it. I’m already one of the best players in the country, Mom. And this tournament I’m going to,” and here she refused to even acknowledge the possibility that she wouldn’t be, “is small fry. It’s a gateway. If I do well there, I will be invited to even bigger tournaments, with even bigger prize pools. And if I show what I’m good for, I may even be able to get a sponsor or two. You could get that back surgery you’ve been putting off for two years because it’s so expensive, and we could eat at Wong’s or Hmong’s or whatever, whenever we want. I want this for me, but I also want this for you.” Alera almost wanted to pat herself on the back for how grown-up and mature she sounded. Her mother sighed. “Okay, here is how I’ve decided it’s going to go. You can continue playing your games, and go to your tournament, provided you pay your way there yourself. If you agree to see a counselor after the tournament, to make sure your games aren’t having a negative impact on your health. You will continue to see the counselor until he or she says that you no longer need their help. You understand?” Alera nodded. She felt giddy already. She’d been ready to defy her mother, to run off to play in this tournament, but it had been a girl’s fantasy. She didn’t really know if she had it in her to pull it off, and she hadn’t even considered that she needed a home to get back to after the tournament was over. “Good. Also, you will not slack off on schoolwork and you will finish high school. You will improve at least one of those B’s from last semester into an A. If I think you’re not putting your all into school, I’m pulling the plug on the games. Understood?” She nodded. Thankfully, she’d finished most of her homework for that week during home room and over the lunch break. She’d anticipated that she needed every waking hour that she wasn’t at school practicing. “Okay. And for the love of all that is holy,” her mother said, “go to the bathroom if you need to pee. I do not want to find my nearly grown daughter sitting in a puddle of urine because she was too obsessed with video games to go to the potty. Ever. Understood?” “Yes, Mom. It was a one-time thing, and it was really embarrassing, so can you please, like, not make such a big deal out of it?” She let her lip tremble slightly, as if she were about to cry. It was an old trick she’d perfected around the time she was twelve, to disarm any motherly disappointment with a show of vulnerability. She felt dirty, manipulating her mother emotionally like this, but it was necessary. “I’m sorry, honey,” her mother had said. “I know that must have been really humiliating. I won’t mention it again, if you make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Alera nodded. Mom doesn’t need to know I’m making sure it won’t happen by wearing adult diapers. She trudged upstairs again to practice more with Saehwong, only to realize that now she needed to actually put on the diapers, and she had no idea how. She’d kept her eyes closed when Patrick put them on her the previous day, and her own attempt had been a disaster. Finally, she decided it was time to get professional help. She called up Patrick on her computer, and had him guide her through how to put it on. Alera spent most of the call motivating her friend to actually go through with his promise to ask his crush out the next day. In between all that, he managed to guide her into putting the diaper on herself. It didn’t fit quite as snuggly as it did when Patrick put it on her, but it wasn’t sagging down her thighs, and she thought it might actually be good for something if she did have an accident. This time, she reminded herself to actually put on some pants, in case her mother unexpectedly showed up while she was deep in a game. She found a pair of sweatpants that sat loosely on her. Almost too loosely, as she’d lost a little weight recently, something Patrick attributed to her obsession with games interfering with the natural instinct to eat when you’re hungry. It’s not like you were fat before, Alera, he’d said. You were skinny and now you’re even skinnier. You don’t need to lose weight, and you definitely don’t need to lose weight because you were too obsessed with Vanguard to remember to eat. She blushed at the thought. Did she really have a problem? Was she actually, truly addicted to video games? Alera took the thought and stuffed it into the back closet of her brain. Now, she needed to focus on her practice games. Around midnight, Saehwong told her in his usual broken English that he needed to take a bathroom break. At that point, she realized that she, too, seriously needed to pee. In fact, she wasn’t sure that she hadn’t already leaked a little into her diaper. It was so absorbent that she figured she’d need to pour—or urinate—a whole milk-glass’ worth of liquid into it before she even noticed it was wet. Alera shifted in her seat, trying and failing to ascertain the state of her diaper. What an absurd situation, she thought. One week ago, I would have called you crazy if you even suggested I’d even be in this dilemma. What was certain, however, was that she was desperately in need of a restroom break. And her practice partner had just gone for just such a break. It was perfectly reasonable for her to do the same. Why, then, did she not feel like it? I’m wearing this because I expect to use it sometimes, she reasoned. And I have yet to actually do so. I don’t even know if it will hold a full bladder. What if I’m in the grand finals of a tournament, and I wet myself thinking I’m safe, and the diaper leaks all over my pants? What if I win, and during the winner’s interview, my wet pants are on display for half a million viewers on Twitch.tv? It was, she had to admit, an absurd kind of logic, but it made sense nonetheless. I should really test this thing to make sure it actually holds up under pressure. And so she resolved to deliberately pee her diaper. It was stupid, from an outsider’s perspective, with the bathroom a mere twenty feet away. Just down the stairs and to the right. But it made sense to her. She closed her eyes and willed herself to pee. But despite how her bladder ached, it wouldn’t come. Despite how she could barely sit still with an ocean of pee in her, begging to be released, nearly two decades worth’ of potty training prevented her from releasing. Alera closed her eyes. She envisioned herself on the porcelain throne, she imagined a sink slowly filling next to her, the spatter of drops, the shhhh sound of the water. And the floodgates opened. It was strange, to feel herself do this: When she was deep in a game and she had an accident, she didn’t even notice, except for a vague discomfort she quickly shuffled away for later reference. Now, she felt the full brunt of what she was doing, the wetness spreading from her crotch, catching on the absorbent padding but not quite at the rate at which she wouldn’t feel it; the feeling of warmth enveloping her nether regions, of a slowly expanding puddle underneath her bum. She peed for a minute, and then she looked down at her pants. She rose from her chair and felt the backside of her sweatpants. They were dry. She sat down with a squish, and then she felt the absorbent padding start to swallow her urine. Alera looked down on her crotch, and knowing what was under her pants, she could she somewhat of a swelling, but nothing she thought would be immediately noticeable if you didn’t know to look. She got up and pirouetted to see herself in the mirror. Yes, there was a slight bulge around her midsection; yes, her flat butt suddenly looked unnaturally curvaceous; but if anybody were to look, they would just think she was naturally endowed with a big butt. Moving around, she felt the slight squish of the wet padding, but it wasn’t that distracting. And now, she realized, she was unencumbered by biological needs; the feeling of relief from something she had been ignoring for hours was immense. And then Saehwong reappeared from his bathroom break, and they continued to play. That was why she was now sporting unfashionable bags under her eyes. But Alera didn’t care. She was sitting in the cafeteria, watching as Patrick mustered his courage. He was walking alongside James, a tall, lanky boy with a handsome face and just a hint of muscle in his chest and arms. Alera knew the two had AP Biology together. They were talking, and laughing, and then Patrick turned so he had his back turned to her. The two talked in hushed tones, and she couldn’t hear what they were saying, but after five minutes, the two separated. Patrick came over to her, and from the way he walked, a strange and excited spring in his step, she could guess how it had gone. “He said yes!” Patrick said, giving her a pearly white smile. “Oh my god,” she said, leaning over to hug him. “I told you! I told you to do it, and you did, and look where it got you!” She almost felt like she’d already won the tournament. She had butterflies in her stomach on her friend’s behalf. “I told him I had to do a thing this weekend,” he said, casually referencing the tournament she spent every waking hour obsessing over. “So he said, why don’t we go for ice cream tomorrow? Tomorrow, Al. I’m going out with James Monroe tomorrow. For ice cream!” He couldn’t stop smiling. She beamed a smile back. “Amazing,” she said. “See? Nice guys always win. It might take them six months, but they win in the end.” It was a typical discussion they’d repeated all the time. Patrick believed that if you wanted to get ahead of the game, romantically, you needed to be a bad boy. And he didn’t have it in him. Alera, though she was a young woman, and so, stereotypically, the one who was supposed to fall for the bad boys, had little experience dating. She hadn’t even decided yet which gender, or genders, she was actually into, romantically. But she had always insisted that you didn’t need to be a bad boy to get a boyfriend, or a girlfriend. All you needed to do was be confident and kind. Though Patrick struggled with the former, he had a way about him, when he finally committed to something he’d been anxious about—a sort of serene calm, almost fatalistic, that she’d always admired. And he was kind to a fault. “By the end of that date, it won’t be an ice cream cone he’s licking,” she teased. “Oh, shut up,” Patrick said. But he was smiling as he said it. She was about to message Saehwong when there was a knock at her door. Patrick stepped in, holding something behind his back. “What’s that, dude?” She asked. “Come on, show it here!” “I’ve got a present for you,” he said. “Close your eyes.” “Seriously?” “Seriously.” She did so. “Ok, you know the bicycle shop I work at sells a lot of other sports equipment, right?” “Yeah?” She said. She wasn’t quite following. “Well, we supply the jerseys to most of the local sports teams. Meaning, we have a t-shirt printer.” “Oh… kay,” she said. “Open your eyes,” Patrick said. She did so. He was holding a blue shirt in his hands. She recognized it as the same color worn by the local soccer team. He turned it around so she could see the backside. It had a butterfly on the middle and lower back, and on top, it said, Butterfly, and below that, in a smaller typeface, Alera Vasquez. There was an American flag next to her name. It looked slightly amateurish, but at the same time, it made her feel strangely proud. “Say something!” Patrick said. “Oh my god,” she said. “I think I’m in love.” “You like it?” “I fucking can’t believe you made this!” Patrick handed her the shirt. “Let me put it on. Turn around. Actually, screw that, you’ve already seen me nuder than this.” She shrugged off her shirt, which, she noted, had a coffee stain on the lapel. Then she donned the new jersey Patrick had made her. She looked down and noted that a smaller version of the butterfly on the back now adorned her right breast, and her left breast had an American flag. “Oh my god,” she said again. “You know that’s not an Alera butterfly, right?” Stupid. Why did I say that? “Oh, shut up,” he said. “It looks awesome on you.” She studied herself in the mirror. From a distance, she couldn’t tell the difference from the Evil Geniuses and Team Liquid and SKT Telecom T1 jerseys her favorite players wore at all the biggest tournaments. There were dark rings under her eyes, and she could see the effects of not eating properly for the past few months. At one point, she had begun to develop curves, but now, everything about her was flat; the only part of her that still accentuated her femininity was her chest. Most of her pants were now too big, and her shirts hung loose on her. At least it would make it easier to hide diapers under her clothes. But Alera didn’t care all that much; she had never dreamed about being admired for her looks. The jersey represented something deeper and more important: it represented mastery. She was going to a tournament to play for fifteen thousand because she was that good. “Jesus effing Christ,” she said. “I’m really doing this. I’m actually going to a LAN with an actual fucking jersey with my name on it.” Patrick smiled. “Now all you need to do is go win with that jersey. By the way, that thing cost me forty dollars.” “I’ll pay you,” she began. “No,” he said. “No way. I’m your first sponsor, okay? I can only do forty dollars, but goddamn if it won’t be the best-looking forty dollars you ever saw.” Alera nodded. “Now, as your coach, isn’t it time to practice?” “Yes, coach,” she said, smiling. “Wait a minute,” Patrick said. “About your underwear...” Alera blushed. She’d been so excited by the jersey, she’d completely forgotten about the package of diapers in the back of her closet, next to a double-tied garbage bag contained one very used adult diaper. “I know how to put it on now,” she said. “Let me be the judge of that,” Patrick said. And for some strange reason, she relished him saying that. She wanted him to approve of the way she put on the diaper. He put his back to her while she removed her pants, her panties, and then fluffed out the adult diaper the way he’d taught her. She took her time, remembering everything he’d told her in the video call the previous day: make sure the tapes fit snuggly, make sure the leak guards are facing the right way… Finally, she was done. “You can turn around,” she said. Patrick eyed her. He was like a surgeon, analyzing her childish undergarments and the way they fit her body like it was some kind of cast for a serious bone break. “Looks good,” he said, walking up to her, “but these,” and he adjusted the leak guards, “need to be placed so they actually catch any leakage.” Alera blushed. There was something strangely intimate about this. “Thanks,” she said instead, too casually. “Now you can get to practicing. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” “I’ll be sure to give you a pep talk so you don’t back out of your date!” “No way,” he said, blowing her an air kiss as he left. Damn, Alera thought. Better take off this shirt before I get it all sweaty. It needs to be clean for the tournament. She logged in to see an impatient message from Saehwong. He had some new ideas that he wanted her to try, and he was wondering where the hell she was, since she’d originally promised to be on twenty minutes ago. Apparently, Korean pro players were really particular about deadlines. Good, Alera thought. I can’t get lazy. She messaged him, apologizing, explaining that her friend had brought her a new jersey for her tournament. She thought he wouldn’t care, would tell her there were more important things than jerseys, but he seemed—underneath the barely intelligible English—to be excited for her. She sent him a selfie of herself wearing the jersey. “You look good,” he wrote. Wow, she thought, the second best player in the world just told me I look good in this jersey. That has to be sign, right? “Now, about strategy we talk last night…” Alera dove into a world of build orders and strategies and didn’t emerge until it was long past midnight.

Chapter 2 “Let me get this straight,” Alera’s mother said, “I tell you I’m worried about your health and that you’re not to play any more video games, and your response is to tell me you want to travel hundreds of miles, stay in a hotel for three days, and play video games?” “Mom, you’re not getting it. It’s an invitational tournament. There’s money on the line just for showing up. If I lose all my games, I still get enough money that the trip practically pays for itself. If I win, I get fifteen thousand dollars. And I can pay for the trip myself.” She’d waited to gauge her mother’s reaction before she pulled out her real trump card. Now, with a flourish, she produced the check for fifteen hundred dollars. She handed it to her mother without a word. Her mother said nothing. She held the check up to the light, as if to verify that it was a forgery. She looked at the blank back. She peered intently at one part of it that, Alera guessed, said how much money she had won. Finally, her mother put the check down on the table. “Alera,” she said, “is this really true? You didn’t make some kind of fake check to fool me into letting you play more?” “It’s true, mom,” she said. “That came in the mail today. Remember when I told you last month I had placed third in that online tournament?” Her mother nodded. “That’s what I won. I thought I got scammed, because it never showed up in the mail, but it came today and it’s real.” Her mother shook her head. “This is a lot to take in,” she said. “Let me… think about it.” As long as you don’t take my computer away, Alera thought, think about it all you want. I’m eighteen years old, and you can’t stop me. Even if I have to steal your car, I’m going to that tournament. She left the check on the table and walked upstairs to her room. Her computer was thankfully still sat in its usual place. She almost sat down to log in, but then she remembered what she’d hidden at the back of her closet. The solution to her little problem. The one that Patrick nearly died of embarrassment to get for her, and even paid for with his own money. How many hours had Patrick spent working in the bike shop just to pay for her… Diapers? She’d been too embarrassed to look at the price, but she could imagine they weren’t cheap. She took a deep breath, then plunged her head in among her old coats and dresses that were too small on her, and fished out a large plastic package. The front of it displayed a plain white rectangle suspended between the legs of what looked to be a quite mature lady. She shuddered. These were meant for old people. Not teenage girls who were overly obsessed with video games. Alera almost chucked the package back in the closet, but then she noticed the back side. It was a similar picture, showing the offending undergarment suspended around the midsection of a woman, but this woman looked like she was Alera’s age, and she was smiling. Incontinence protection for women of all ages, read the label. She put the package on her desk. It was big enough that she needed to use both hands to carry it. Just how many… diapers… were in this thing? She shot a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure her mother hadn’t somehow sneaked up on her, then she grabbed a pair of scissors and cut open the package. She stuck her fingers in and managed to wriggle loose one of the tightly packed diapers. She pulled hard, and the thing came loose so suddenly and violently that it flew out of her hand and nearly knocked over her desktop lamp. Alera picked the diaper up off of the lamp and placed it on her bed. It was a huge rectangle. She couldn’t imagine how she’d possibly wear that under clothes without looking like, well, like she was wearing a diaper. The front had no colorful designs, like baby diapers; it was plain white, except for a yellow strip on the front. Alera blushed when she realized what that was for: it was a wetness indicator. To show off if and when she used her diaper. She took the cursed thing and flung it off the bed. Fuck this. I’m not a baby and I don’t need it. But then, as she was about to stomp on the diaper in defiance, her eyes flickered to her laundry basket. Alera walked over and took off the lid. The pungent aroma of old urine invaded her nostrils. There lay the evidence of her latest accident, which she’d been so upset about that she’d forgotten to put in the wash. Rummaging under the smelly, wet pajamas, she found two other pairs of panties with faded stains in the gusset from when she’d leaked on the way to the bathroom after a long gaming session. Cursing herself, she carried the whole pile of wet clothes into the laundry room and put them in the wash. Then she returned to her room and picked up the diaper. If I win fifteen thousand, who cares if I do so wearing a diaper? She gingerly unfolded the diaper. If it looked huge when folded up, when she’d unfolded it, it looked positively gargantuan. Do I even have any clothes that could cover this? Alera pulled off her jeans, then, with a sigh, she threw off her panties. They were light pink, and when she studied the insides, she saw, to her horror, that there was a discolored, faded stain in the middle. As if even her underwear was trying to tell her she needed this. Alera realized she had no idea how to put on a diaper. She had changed her baby cousin’s diapers, a few years ago when visiting her aunt, but one, he was a baby, and two, she wasn’t putting it on someone else, she was putting it on herself. And the thing she was currently hovering her bare butt over was about ten times the size of her cousin’s baby pants. She lowered herself onto it. It was surprisingly soft, like sitting on a pillow. Except normally, one didn’t strap a pillow between one’s legs and keep it there for the rest of the day, which was what she intended to do. She tried to pull the thing up and fasten it with the four tapes, but she couldn’t get it to sit properly on her hips. Alera cursed inwardly. Why is this so complicated? She only had a limited number of hours in the day, and if she was to have any shot at winning the fifteen thousand dollar grand prize, she needed to practice all night for the rest of the week. She didn’t have any goddamn time to spend on putting on this goddamn diaper. But on the other hand, if her mother caught her in wet pants again, she wouldn’t be able to practice at all. Finally, she’d fastened the tapes well enough that the diaper didn’t slide off. But when she rose from the bed, the thing sagged on her hips, and she could see downstairs to her nude crotch in the gap between her belly and the waistband. This thing was bone dry and it was already sagging like, well, like she’d used it. Twice. Which meant she’d probably done it wrong. Sighing, she waddled over to the computer. It wasn’t that the diaper was too thick to walk in normally; it was thick, and kept her legs uncomfortably apart, but not quite that thick. It was more so the fact that it hung so loosely on her hips that she felt like it would fall off if she didn’t waddle like she’d crapped her pants. Alera dialed up Patrick on a video call. She wasn’t looking forward to this conversation, but there was nobody else she could talk to about this stuff. As she waited for Patrick to answer, she noticed that he’d sent something to her. It was a YouTube link to a cartoon video about an obsessive gamer who kept a “shit bucket” next to his computer, so he didn’t need to leave the game to crap. “Ha. Ha. Very funny, Patrick,” she said as his dirty-blonde hair and grinning face showed up on the screen. “For your information, I have never crapped myself.” “Just thought it was funny,” he said, doing his best imitation of an asshole teenage boy who had somehow body-snatched her best friend. “Come on, you gotta look on the bright side.” “Says you, and you’re not the one who has a goddamn diaper strapped to her waist.” “Oh, good, you put it on?” Blushing, she stood up and angled her webcam so he could see. “Oh my god,” he said. “One, that’s truly adorable.” “Adorable? Are you fucking kidding me?” “No, I mean that. But you interrupted me. One, adorable. Two, you appear to have put it on the wrong way.” She looked down. Goddamn it. There was a very clear word, “BACK”, written on the front of her diaper. So that’s why the thing sags like I poured a bucket of water into it. “Hold on, I’m coming over,” Patrick said. “What? No, no, you can’t see me like this.” “You already showed me. And somebody needs to make sure that thing is put on right.” “You’re not getting to see me naked, you perv!” Alera almost yelled, but managed to modulate her voice in time not to alert her mother downstairs. “Low blow, Al,” he said. “You know very well I’d never look at you in that way.” She did, at that. “Fine,” she said. “But only if you promise me you’ll finally ask James out this week.” The color drained from his face. “Alera, I can’t do that, you know why...” “We both know you want it. Why not?” “What if he’s not...” “Honey, we both know he is. You’re just afraid of rejection.” “Al, I don’t know...” “You get to see me literally naked if you’re willing to be emotionally naked for one goddamn second and go get the guy of your dreams. Seems like a fair deal. I don’t even get a fairy prince at the end of this, I only get, like, a fucking diaper put on the right way in case I piss myself.” “Oh… kay,” Patrick said. “Hold on, I’m coming over.” And he cut the connection. Alera smiled. Although she wasn’t looking forward to her best friend coming over to diaper her, she was very happy that Patrick had promised to finally ask James out. He was a boy Patrick had been crushing on for half a year, and she’d tried for half a year to convince him to ask the guy out, but Patrick had a pathological fear that not only would he be rejected, he’d be rejected because James wasn’t into his gender. Except both of them were 99% sure James was, in fact, gay, and Alera was almost as certain she’d caught the boy sneaking shy glances at her friend when he wasn’t looking. Ten minutes later, there was a knock at her door. Alera had huddled up under some blankets on her bed, hiding the shameful, back-to-front diaper from view. “Hey you,” Patrick said, as he opened the door. “Your mom let me in. I swear, the way she looks at me, you’d think she thinks of me as her son-in-law.” “She’s convinced you’re my boyfriend. I’ve told her a thousand times it’s not like that, but she’s so happy I’ve got a real friend to hang out with IRL that she refuses to listen.” “God, you’ve definitely spent too much time on the internet,” Patrick said, rolling his eyes. “What do you mean?” “You just said Aye Arr Ell out loud.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Alera said. “Just come over here and let’s get this over with.” She pushed the blankets out of the way, exposing her bare midriff where her shirt rode up, and below it, the poorly attached, sagging diaper. “My, my, you made a mess of this, and you haven’t even pissed in it yet,” Patrick said. “Please, let’s pretend you’re a nurse and be… professional about it,” Alera said. “Funny,” he said. “Okay, I think you need to take it off, you’ve ruined the tapes.” “Are you an expert on adult diapers suddenly?” He blushed. “No, but I can tell they’re not properly attached. Come on, off you go,” he said, reaching over to unfasten her tapes. “I can do it myself!” She nearly shouted. Carefully, slowly, she peeled off the tapes, and then, closing her eyes and blushing, she pulled the front of the diaper down, exposing herself to him. “You can keep your eyes closed if you’re embarrassed,” he said. “But just know I’m only looking at you for strictly, uh, medical purposes.” She heard the rustle as he pulled another diaper out of the pack. Then he instructed her to lay down and lift her bum as he slid the ruined diaper out from under her and replaced it with a fresh one. “Just for the record, this whole situation is super weird,” Patrick said. “Just so you know.” Alera felt his knuckles touch her belly, and she shivered. She kept her eyes closed, unable to meet his eyes as she worked on fastening her into her diaper. She wondered, idly, what it would be like to be touched down there by somebody she was in love with. She wasn’t in love with James, at least not romantically; even so, it felt good, somehow, someplace deep below the humiliation of it all, to be touched so lovingly by someone she loved, even if she wasn’t in love with him. He was gentle, and quick, and he made sure not to touch her more than absolutely necessary. Before she knew it, she felt him grab her under the armpits and hoist her up to a seated position. “All done!” He said. “You can open your eyes.” She did so, and looked down to see the diaper taped with the front actually placed in front of her, as intended. She rose from the bed and gave her hips a tentative shake. The diaper moved slightly, with an embarrassing plastic rustle, but it hung firm to her hips. “Oh my god,” she said, studying the diaper. “You’re brilliant. Do you really think I look, uh, adorable like this?” “You do look cute,” Patrick said. “Very cute, but not, like, in the same way...” “Not handsome and sexy, like James, you mean?” She winked at him. It was her way of reorienting the conversation from something that embarrassed her to something that embarrassed him. She could only bear for her childish underwear to remain the topic of conversation for so long. “Oh, don’t get started,” he said, affecting a childish pout. “You are going to ask him out, like you promised?” “I don’t know, Al,” he said, shrugging. “Patrick, for the love of god, you just saw me naked, you just touched me down there, and you just put a diaper on me, and all you have to do is ask your dream guy out on a date, which I know you’ve wanted to do for six months. Now, will you do it?” Alera put her hands on her hips, which looked quite silly, she reflected, when those hips were covered in baby underwear. “Yes, Ma’am,” Patrick said. “For real?” “I’ll do it the day after tomorrow. We have a class together on Wednesday.” “Good.” She nodded. “Now, uh, sorry to shoo you away, but the whole reason I put this thing on was I need to practice. I know I was kind of vague earlier, but I won a bunch of money, and they invited me to this LAN tournament where there’s fifteen damn thousand on the line for first place. So I kind of need to get my practice hours in.” “Wow,” Patrick said. “Congrats.” “It’s this weekend. Oh, Patrick, will you come with me? As my moral support and, like, coach or something?” He shook his head, less a gesture of disagreement, more one of confusion. “Alera, I’d love to, but look. I’m Silver rank in Vanguard. I don’t know shit about high-level strategies. I don’t know what possible use I’d be to you in a tournament, as a coach.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “Silly, I’m not asking you to teach me strategy. I need someone as a moral support. To keep my head straight. And just maybe, keep my diapers facing the right way. I’m not asking you to be something you’re not. I’m asking you to be my friend, and help me focus on the right things, like you always do. But the letter said I can only bring one person backstage with me as a coach, so I’d have to register you as a coach.” “Okay,” Patrick said, as if she hadn’t just dumped a whole lot of responsibility on him with no promise of any particular reward. She felt her shoulders relax as he nodded. “In that case,” Patrick said, “as your coach, here’s your first order: You gotta find a practice partner. I may not know what the best strategies are, but I know you’re brilliant at finding them, and I know it’s not a great idea to reveal them all on the ladder before the big tournament.” Alera shook her head. She hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know who that would be,” she said. “I don’t really communicate with the other top players, outside of typing ‘gg’ after the end of a game.” Then she had an idea. “Wait! I know who to talk to! Thank you again, Patrick, you’re brilliant!” She sidled over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she noted that her initial embarrassment about wearing the diaper in front of Patrick seemed to have vanished. As if, somehow, this was how things had always been between them. She sent him on his way, and then she sat down by her computer. Alera found the anonymous account she had beaten with her new strategy the other day, the one she was pretty sure belonged to a Korean grandmaster. She composed a personal message to the player: Hello, this is kind of strange, I know, but we played some games on the ladder this weekend. I am going to be playing in my first LAN tournament soon, and I’m looking for a practice partner. I think you might be Korean, and so we won’t be competing at the same tournaments, so you and I can both benefit from this. I know this might seem strange coming from a stranger, but I really enjoyed our games this weekend, and I believe you are one of the best players in the world, and I really need to practice against the best to be the best. Also, I beat you with that tech-delay timing attack, and if I were you I would want a chance at revenge. Sincerely, Butterfly She hit SEND. Then she sat staring at the screen. No response message was forthcoming. Of course not. The few times she received PMs, she took hours or even days to respond. Usually, they were from salty opponents who had lost to her, and were now there to insult her intelligence, her looks (even though she didn’t have any pictures of herself on her profile), her skills, or to accuse her of being a cheater. And if the anonymous account really belonged to one of the best players in South Korea, as she suspected, they must receive a lot of hate messages and a lot of stupid fan messages. She hopped into a ladder game, but for once, she was unable to focus on the game. She only managed to win because her opponent made a stupid mistake. She looked at her opponent’s profile. Hmm. Number sixty-seven on the ladder. Somehow, in the past few months, she had gone from being in awe at the top 100 players, when she herself was just breaking into that world, to now, somehow beating a solid top 100 player even though she was unfocused and played below her usual level. Ping! The little message bell rang out in her headphones. She quickly opened the message. It was written in very broken English, with passages that looked like they were taken straight from Google Translate. But as she pieced together an understanding of the reply, a smile crept onto her lips. The anonymous player confirmed that he was Korean, and said that he usually didn’t practice with players outside of his team—confirming, without a doubt, that this was an actual, honest-to-god professional—but that he was very intrigued with the strategy she had identified to exploit the weakness in his opening. “American players very bad,” he wrote, “I only play there sometime for relaxing. But you only one found good strategy.” They sent a few messages back and forth, and agreed that he would practice with her for a few days, in exchange for her finding a way to plug the hole in his opening strategy that she’d identified. Hands shaking with excitement, she typed: “What is your real nickname?” Three dots appeared, indicating the mysterious Korean grandmaster was typing. A single word in reply: Saehwong. Oh my fucking god. Alera opened the Korean ladder. Number one, Saehwong. 6900 Elo. She navigated to Liquipedia, the esports encyclopedia, to confirm her memory wasn’t playing tricks on her. She opened the page about the recent Vanguard World Championship. Runner-up: Saehwong. “Oh my god,” she said out loud. “The second best player in the world is going to be my practice partner!” The two of them played games together for five hours. She lost most of them, but she didn’t care. She was practicing against the best possible opposition, short of the actual world champion. And as she continued to play, she felt her confidence surge. She wasn’t as fast as him, and her strategies weren’t as refined, but by the fifth game, she no longer felt out of her depth. She never felt as if she didn’t understand why she lost, and she was able to implement immediate improvements to her game as a response. Some small-scale NA players are gonna be easy after this, she thought. As a final test, she said good-bye to Saehwong for the night and loaded into a ladder game on the North American ladder. She won, easily, using a strategy Saehwong had just used to beat her. Then she looked at her opponent’s profile. Number nine in North America. And I just beat him easily. He never had a chance! Alera knew her hopes of winning the tournament were slim. She had never played a LAN tournament before. She’d never played in front of a crowd, on a stage, with fifteen thousand dollars on the line. But for the first time since she received the invitation, she felt like it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. By that time, it was almost midnight. For the first time in many hours, Alera’s thoughts were pulled back to what she was wearing. And what she wasn’t wearing. Her diaper, thankfully, was dry, but her bladder was aching, and she knew she probably had no more than five minutes before it was too late. She also knew that in order to actually rush downstairs and pee, she needed to put on some pants. In her excitement, she hadn’t remembered to put any on after Patrick left.

Thank you, guys! @BabySofia, I have a fairly modest story arc I intend to complete and I just finished the second chapter. I anticipate it's gonna take maybe five chapters to get there. I'm not planning to make a super long story, because I can't commit to that and I already have an ending in mind, and I know roughly how to get there. I will admit, I have written some stories (most of them not posted on this forum) that I didn't finish, but I've also written many stories that I did finish. And I intend this one to be one of the latter! I think I'll wait at least until tomorrow to post the second chapter, as I don't want to dump too much all at once. Let people have a chance to read chapter one first. Also, with any luck I might be well on my way with chapter three by the time chapter two is posted. @Shotgun Diplomat, thank you. I do feel like some things in this story are unrealistic, but compared to the average diaper story, I try to keep things relatively grounded and plausible. Glad you think it worked.

Chapter 1 “What do you want for dinner tonight, Alera?” Her mother called from the kitchen. It was a Saturday morning, and she was dressed appropriately, which is to say, she had refused to dress at all, remaining in the baby blue pajamas she’d slept in. Alera skipped the last step of the stairs and stuck her head into the kitchen. “How about that new Asian place that just opened? Wong’s or Hmong’s or whatever?” Her mind filled with visions of spring rolls, noodles, sushi—she didn’t exactly know what was on the menu, but it couldn’t be anything less than an improvement on her mother’s home cooking. “I’m sorry, buttercup, but we can’t afford takeout until I get paid on Monday. It’ll have to be something we can make with whatever ingredients we have.” Alera suppressed a sigh. Why did you ask me if you knew we couldn’t have what I wanted? She wanted to ask. But she knew it wasn’t her mother’s fault that they were struggling financially. She was barely staying afloat working two minimum-wage jobs. Instead, Alera poked her head into the fridge—there was nothing much to see there, just a bottle of milk and some sour cream. Then she opened the cupboard. Alera shook her head in barely suppressed disgust. “There’s nothing wrong with Mac and Cheese,” said her mother. She had a smile so fake it belonged in a used car commercial plastered on her face. Alera returned the smile, trying and failing to inject some genuine warmth into hers, then shrugged and headed upstairs to her room. Maybe there isn’t, she thought, but it would be nice to have a choice. It wasn’t even that she didn’t have a choice: it was the fact that her mother had inadvertently dangled a choice in front of her, only for her to find out there never had been a choice in the first place. She shook her head and sat down on her rickety old office chair, prepared to block out the rest of the world until dinner. This was her cave, where she was the ruler and everyone else a humble petitioner. Her mother didn’t approve of the amount of time she spent in front of her computer, but it had taken her nearly two years of working weekends at the local supermarket to afford a computer that could run semi-new games at a semi-reasonable frame rate. Now, she logged into her Vanguard account and tapped in her nickname: Butterfly. Not Butterfly123 or Bu77erfl1. She’d been playing the game since the beta, and she was unreasonably proud that she’d been able to snag such a common word, since every username had to be unique. It was a play on her real name: her mother had named her after a species from the homeland of her great-grandmother, Brazil. Not bothering with either a shower, a toothbrush or a change of clothes, Alera logged in and jumped into the queue. Vanguard was a one-versus-one real-time strategy game, and this particular morning as she logged on, she was number fifty-two on the grandmaster ladder. Fifty-second best on the continent. She’d tried to explain what a big deal it was for her to be in the top one-hundred players in her region, but her mother failed to grasp the gravity of videogame accomplishments. “Imagine what your grades would look like if you didn’t spend so much time on games,” her mother would say. “Mom, my grades are fine. I got four B’s and the rest were A’s last semester.” “Then you have four chances to improve this semester,” her mother had said. “Look, I’m not saying you can’t play your video games. I’m saying you shouldn’t be playing them eight hours every day. Would it kill you to spend an hour more on homework, and one less on games? Or what about friends? Boyfriends? What’s that guy’s name again...” Alera had shook her head. “Mom, I’m sure you’re thinking of Patrick. I’ve known him since we were like three years old, and he’s not my boyfriend. And for your information, we do hang out online all the time.” “Kids should really hang out face to face,” her mother had said. “Stop calling me a kid! I’m going to college in the fall,” she’d remarked, and stomped out of the room. Truth be told, her mother was probably one of her best friends. But she wouldn’t be a Mom to a teenage girl if she wasn’t a bitch every once in a while. Now, she pushed all that out of her mind and jumped into a game. It was an anonymous barcode account, I|Il|Illl|, and it had a ludicrously high rating and high ping, which meant it might be a Korean. A Korean GM! She had to beat this guy. Every time she got matched against one of those guys, she lost. They were too fast, and their strategies were next level. Before long, scouting, build orders and tech switches had subsumed all her mundane thoughts about annoying mothers or financial woes. She lost a hard-fought game, but when she reviewed the demo, she noticed a weakness in their strategy: her opponent had left a tiny window of opportunity for a devastating counterattack in the opening. She downloaded several more demos from the same player, and began formulating her counter-strategy. This was where she was most comfortable: analyzing, crunching numbers, coming up with new ideas that no one had thought of before. It was what allowed her to rise in the ranks despite not being the most mechanically skilled player. After a few hours of refining her new strategy and testing it in ladder games, she noted a certain discomfort in her abdomen. Alera put it to the back of her mind and jumped into the queue again. She was on a roll. She’d won four games in a row, three of them employing her new strategy, including one against the same account she’d previously lost to, and now sat at number thirty-seven on the ladder. This was her secret: she could focus completely on the game for hours and completely shut out all outside influences and irrelevant sensations. Her back didn’t hurt, even though her chair was decidedly unergonomic. She didn’t notice her stomach rumbling because she hadn’t eaten all day. She didn’t get thirsty, she didn’t go up to go to the bathroom. All of those sensations would be neatly tucked away in the back of her mind, and then, once a long gaming session finally came to an end, all those repressed sensations came rushing in all at once: her back ached like a bitch, her fingers cramped up from holding onto the mouse too hard, her throat was parched, her stomach rumbled, and she frequently had to hobble-run to the bathroom before it was too late. Around hour six, she felt an unpleasant stickiness around her midsection—sweat, surely, and she didn’t like the way her pajamas clung to her, but she ignored it and kept playing. Her miraculous form was continuing, and she had now advanced to the top thirty on the ladder. The games were harder now, because all her opponents were top players, some of them actual pros, but she kept a winning record. The light outside was fading, but she could barely see it through the blinds nnyway—hers was a classic gamer cave, which meant blocking any stray sunlight from reflecting in the monitor. Around eight hours after she’d sat down to play, her hair now plastered to her skull with sweat, her armpits emanating an unpleasant odor, Alera was startled by a pitter-patter on the floor. She tore her eyes away from the rankings on her screen and looked down and—Oh no. No, no, no! Her back chose that moment to act up, sending a shiver of pain radiating out from her spine, up to her shoulders. It was the cherry on top of an already awful sensation. Alera looked down at herself, at the once-blue crotch of her pajamas, which was now almost black, with streaks going down her inner thighs. Around the edges of the new wetness, which was glistening in the light from her desktop lamp, there was a slightly faded oval of drying wetness. She’d peed herself—no, she’d drenched herself, and from the looks of things, she’d done it twice. The stickiness from before which she’d filed away at the back of her mind as sweat must have been an earlier accident, and now, she’d lost control completely. Her socks were soggy, her feet placed in a puddle that extended all the way under her desk, and she shivered as the cool air from the vent passed over the partially dried accident from earlier, cold and wet. Her bum and the center of her crotch was unpleasantly warm, like she’d stepped into a pool fully clothed on a warm summer day, and her panties clung too tightly to her, giving her a cameltoe. Alera’s cheeks warmed. She looked down on herself, at a loss for what to do. She’d gained a new peak rating, she’d developed a revolutionary new strategy that nobody had figured out how to counter yet, but all of her excitement faded in the face of this simple fact. In order to do so, she’d completely neglected her basic bodily functions—she’d peed herself, at eighteen years old, and like a baby, she’d been too focused on her game that she hadn’t even noticed. “Alera! Put away your game, dinner’s ready!” Came her mother’s voice. And—no, no, no! The voice was far too close. She wasn’t downstairs, she must be standing just outside Alera’s bedroom door. Which meant… “Alera, come on, dinner’s—oh my god! Did you pee yourself?” Alera’s cheeks blossomed further. She sheepishly swiveled her chair around, making sure not to meet her mother’s gaze. Instead, she looked down at herself, at the evidence of her accidents, and that was almost as bad. “Oh my god, honey, what happened? Are you sick?” Alera forced herself to meet her mother’s eyes. She could feel tears welling up, but she would not cry. Not in front of her mother, anyway. She’d put that desire away the same place she put her hunger and thirst and bladder when she played her game, and unbottle it all when she was alone. Then she’d have a good cry, she decided. “No,” she said, her voice curiously brittle. “I just… forgot.” “You forgot to go to the bathroom?” Her mother eyed her suspiciously. “Y-yeah.” “Oh my god,” said her mother, burying her head in her hands for a moment. “I thought it was just a myth, but you’re honest-to-god addicted to video games. I can’t believe I let this go on for so long.” “Mom! No! I’m not...” A surge of anxiety rose in her throat, and she felt like she might pass out, or vomit, or maybe one followed by the other. All color was drained from her cheeks now. She must look hollow. “That’s it,” said her mother. “This can’t go on. You’re not to play any more games—the computer’s off limits—and on Monday, when I get paid, I’m booking you an appointment with a psychiatrist. Good god, what that must cost, but I swear to god I’ll do it...” “Mom, no!” A couple of tears broke free despite her best efforts. Her mother had just told her that she was taking away the one spark of joy in her life, the one thing she did that made her forget all the crap in her life. “Clean up, honey, and come eat with me before the dinner’s cold,” her mother said. Her tone had shifted from threatening to comforting. Perhaps it was the tears that did it. Alera hadn’t resorted to them in a long time, and today, it hadn’t been deliberate. But in the past, she’d abused the fact that her mother could be strict, very strict, in fact, but she never could maintain that in the face of her daughter’s tears. Alera closed her eyes and waited until her mother’s footsteps faded. Then she opened her eyes, rose from her soggy chair, and set about removing her sticky, wet pajamas. She caught a look in her mirror and noted that her entire backside, including the bottom part of the pajamas top, was soaked, an oval wet butt-stain that traced the contours of her body. She shook her head and peeled off the shirt, then the pants, and finally, her panties. She dropped the wet clothes into her puddle with a plop. Fuck this, she thought. I’m not giving up this easily. Dinner was a muted affair. Neither mother nor daughter had much to say. Alera had opted to quickly shower and hadn’t even bothered to dress properly: she was now sitting in a clean pair of panties, a white tank top over a white bra, and nothing else. Her mother hadn’t questioned her choice of apparel. Alera raised her feet up on her chair, and she sat there hugging her knees with one hand, eating with the other, and said nothing. Once she was done eating, she cleared away her plate without a word and raced upstairs. Her mother hadn’t had time to make good on her threat to remove her computer, so she logged on and found the one person who would understand: Patrick. Her oldest friend, the boy next door—well, technically, four doors down the street. The one her mother was convinced was her secret boyfriend. She didn’t know that Patrick was gay as hell and Alera hadn’t yet figured out if she was into boys, or girls, or neither, but he was still the one constant in her life outside her games. Patrick’s face flickered onto her screen. “Hey, Al, what’s up? Have you been crying?” She wiped her face on her sleeve. “You could tell?” “I can always tell,” he said. “So, tell me, what’s up?” “Y-you know how I get really into games, right?” “I may have noticed,” Patrick said with a smirk. Alera wrinkled her nose. Despite copious amounts of air freshener, she still felt like there was a hint of stale urine in the air, underneath it all. She reached over and cracked the window open. “Well, sometimes I… forget to do things when I’m gaming.” “You mean you don’t eat. I’m always telling you, you gotta eat and hydrate. Take care of yourself, girl.” “Yeah, yeah,” she said. “But also… other things.” “You’re being a bit cryptic, Alera.” “I peed myself, Patrick! That’s what happened!” She buried her face in her hands. She could hear Patrick’s girlish giggle over the video call. “It’s not funny!” She shouted, but the sound was muffled by her hands. “It’s just, that’s such a you thing to do,” Patrick said. “Let me guess, you just found a new strategy that you just had to perfect, right, and then you forgot that you’re a human, not an A.I., right… Anyway, that’s nothing to cry about. In a week’s time, that’s gonna be a funny story.” “Wait till you hear the next part,” Alera said. “My mom, she caught me. She caught me and now she thinks I’m addicted to video games, and she said she’s taking my computer away and she’s setting me up with a shrink!” She was almost out of breath, the words pouring out of her. It felt good to unburden herself to someone else. “Oh shit,” Patrick said. “Now I understand.” “I’m not addicted to video games, Patrick!” “Um,” Patrick said. He was pulling some kind of face, but she couldn’t read it. “You kind of are. And I’m probably enabling you.” He shrugged. “You’re a bad influence on me, you know, Al. I played games for four hours straight the other day.” “Four hours is amateur hour,” Alera said, before she could stop herself. “See, now, case in point,” Patrick said. “Your addiction is out of control. It’s like hearing a junkie talking about how many grams they shoot up every day.” “Not funny! Let’s just, like, focus on the problem at hand.” “Okay, okay,” Patrick said, holding his hands out in front of him like a peace offering. “Look, you just have to, like, convince your mom this was a one-time thing. And then maybe cut off a few hours in your training regimen, until she calms down.” Alera blushed. “Wait,” said Patrick. “Wait, hold up. It was a one-time thing, right?” Alera’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of crimson. “Oh my god, it wasn’t, was it?” “It’s happened before,” she admitted, biting her lip. “Except this one was pretty bad, and she’s never caught me before.” “Oh my god,” said Patrick. “You’ve had this problem, how long? And you never told me!” “I was embarrassed,” she said, shrugging. Finally, her dirty, wet secret was out. She felt like a butterfly slipping its cocoon. “How often?” He asked. “I don’t know...” Her eyes flickered up as she tried to recall. “Maybe once a week. Twice, sometimes, if you count little leaks on the way to the bathroom. I kind of repressed it.” “My god, this changes things,” Patrick said. “It does?” “Yeah. I know of one solution, but you’re not gonna like it.” “Tell me!” “I think it’s better if I told you in person. Meet me at my place when we get off this call. But now, I had another idea. You need to convince your Mom that you’re not wasting time playing Vanguard.” “I’m listening,” she said. She felt a knot tie itself inside of her—what was that about her not liking his solution to her problem? But if there was one thing Alera was great at, it was putting away irrelevant thoughts and feelings and focusing on the issue at hand. “Well, didn’t you win an online tournament last month?” “I didn’t win it, I got third. This guy all-inned me and I just...” “Listen, that’s not the important part. Wasn’t there a cash prize?” “I talked to some guy on e-mail and gave him my address. He said he was gonna send me a check, but it never arrived. I figured it was a scam. I wasn’t really doing it for the money anyway.” “Listen, you’re gonna send that guy another e-mail right now and confirm that he’s actually sent the check. And then you’re gonna pray it arrives soon, and you’re gonna show it to your mom and prove to her you can actually make this a career, potentially.” “Okay...” “Send that e-mail now, then you meet me at my house.” “Okay.” Patrick is an amazing friend, she reflected. She had a preternatural ability to focus, but she sometimes focused on the wrong thing—as evidenced by her history of accidents. But when she was with him, he somehow managed to turn that laser focus around and onto the correct target. If I ever go to a LAN, she mused, I’m taking Patrick as my coach. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Alera said. They were standing outside a pharmacy. They’d loitered outside for half an hour while Patrick tried to talk her into his plan, and now, it was almost closing time. “Listen,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders. “You know it’s the only way if you don’t want to lose your game forever. Now, quit being a baby and follow my lead.” Ironic. She nodded, and together, they stepped into the pharmacy. “Ahem,” Patrick said. His voice was a lot less confident now that they were actually doing it. A matronly woman around her mother’s age turned around. “May I help you?” She asked. “I’m looking for, uh, adult diapers...” Patrick hesitated. “For my friend. She’s...” He gestured towards Alera, who tried to suppress a blush. “It’s not her, but this friend...” “Let me guess,” said the woman. “This friend of yours is a young woman with a build very much like the young woman who’s with you now.” Patrick blushed. It was cute, she reflected. Then she realized that she probably ought to be more embarrassed than him, and now it wasn’t cute at all, it was horrifying. Patrick nodded. “Right, right...” “And this friend of yours, is she dealing with small leaks? Or full-blown wettings?” Patrick looked toward her, struggling for words. “Uh, both?” She whispered. “Both of those, erm,” Patrick said. She’d spoken so silently that the woman must not have heard it. “I see,” said the pharmacy woman. “And this friend, has she been to a doctor about this little problem?” Patrick shook his head. “Then,” the woman said, fixing Alera with her gaze, “I would strongly suggest she does so. She may have a perfectly treatable urinary tract infection, but UTIs get worse if they go untreated. Now, in the meantime, you are looking for a temporary solution to this issue, am I right?” “Ahem, yes,” Patrick said. He was now red as a tomato, and he was stuttering. It would have been adorable, if he wasn’t talking about her needing… Diapers. “Okay,” said the woman. “One final question: is this issue strictly urinary in nature, or is there also bowel incontinence?” Alera frantically looked around for a basket or a hole in the ground she could hide in. None presented itself. Instead, she whispered to Patrick: “Only pee.” “Only, ah, the first one,” Patrick said. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Then I have just the product for you, young man,” said the woman. “You’re a good friend, supporting her in this, and I’m sure she must trust you a whole lot,” here her gaze flickered over to Alera, “to tell you about such an embarrassing problem. Now, I must stress, you must convince your friend to book an appointment with a urologist pronto.” She guided them towards the back, to a shelf lined with adult incontinence products. These products were not in the same aisle, Alera noted, as the baby diapers, which were displayed separately near the front of the shop. She wasn’t sure if that made it more or less embarrassing. Patrick paid for the items without even asking her, which was nice of him. He must know she couldn’t afford to pay for herself, although she dearly wanted to. “Well, that went smoothly,” Patrick said as they exited the store. He broke into a fit of giggles, and she found she couldn’t quite maintain her composure either. Soon, both of them were laughing so hard they were crying. It felt like they’d pulled off some sort of heist. Alera put the package of diapers in the back of her closet. She hadn’t quite worked up the courage to open it by the time Monday rolled around. Worse yet, she hadn’t received a reply to her e-mail from the tournament organizer. Alera could barely focus in her classes, which was unusual for her. Her mother had told her that she was taking her computer down to the basement later that day, and it wasn’t coming back until she’d seen a psychiatrist for at least a month. She and Patrick didn’t speak of their little pharmacy adventure all day, although they hung out between each class. Instead, he was a trooper, keeping her mind occupied with everything that had nothing to do with gaming or her… little issue. When she got home from school, she almost passed by the mail box. “Nothing good ever comes in the mail,” her mother would say. “It’s bills, and credit card scams, and more bills, and sometimes advertisements for things I can’t afford unless I sign up for one of those scams...” But as she passed the little box, she thought better of it. Maybe, just maybe, there are some good things in the world after all. She opened the mailbox. There was a letter to her there. Alera never received any mail. It can’t be… Can it? She ripped open the envelope. Inside were two pieces of paper. She fished one of them out. It was a long, thin slip, thicker than ordinary paper. It had her name on it. And it read Alera Valdez, $1,500.000, then, on another line, 3rd-4th place in the Loot.bet Vanguard Rising Stars Spring Series. Her eyes glazed over. She couldn’t believe it. It had actually arrived! Actual, real money—a lot of money, too. All because she was good at video games. Alera fished out the other piece of paper. It was a long document, and it took her a while to grasp its significance. She was invited to the Vanguard Rising Stars Spring Finals. It was a LAN tournament happening the upcoming weekend—in a city five hours away. And first prize was $15,000. Well, Alera thought, a smile creeping onto her lips, not even my mother could be so heartless as to deny me this opportunity.

It's done! It's finished. Epilogue: Going to Church “Hey, asshole.” Adam opened his eyes. He was in a hospital bed, a bandage wrapped around his neck, with an IV drip going into his right arm. Judging by the light streaming in through the blinds, it was somewhere between late morning and early afternoon. “I was afraid you were going to die on me. That just wouldn’t do.” Amy was sitting on a chair next to his bed, her face red and puffy around the eyes. “Thanks.” Adam said, not knowing what else to say. “Don’t think just because you saw me naked one time it’s okay for you to flirt or think dirty thoughts about me,” Amy said. “Amy, you know I love you, but you’re like a sister to me,” Adam said. She clenched her fists together and for a moment she looked like she might punch him, but seeing his condition, she unclenched. “Don’t lie to me, Adam. You never saw me like a sister.” He tried to rise, but quickly found his limbs had no strength, so he simply sank back into bed. “Okay,” he sighed. “I’m going to admit something you probably already know. I used to have a big crush on you. But nothing happened between us, so I was happy just being your friend. Sometimes you’d do something irresistibly cute and I’d feel it tug at my heartstrings, but overall I was happy being your friend. That was before I met her. Now, I wouldn’t care if you flashed me, even if you offered.” Amy crossed her arms. “Thanks, dude. Just what a girl wants to hear from her best friend: I used to masturbate to fantasies of you naked, but now I got a girlfriend, so I’m not gonna do that anymore until I become single again.” “Hey,” Adam said, coughing, “that’s not what I said at all. And also, if I did say that, between the herbs and the blood loss and whatever the good doctor put in me, I think I could be excused.” Amy stuck her tongue out at him and winked. He began to laugh, but it hurt his chest, and he doubled over in pain. Amy was there immediately, by his side. “Don’t make me laugh,” he croaked. “We told them you got bit by a mad dog,” Amy said, more serious now. “It was really sketchy there for a while, but they said if you wake up, you’re not in any big danger anymore. I’ve been sitting here for hours waiting for you to open up your eyes.” “Good call,” he said. “Hey, guess whose mausoleum we ended up in?” Amy said. “Who?” “Why, the illustrious Musgrave-Lloyd family.” Adam wracked his brain, trying to make connections through what felt like four layers of cotton and haze. “Lloyd, like that opera?” He didn’t get it. “No, you doofus, not Andrew Lloyd Webber. He’s totally unrelated to them, as far as I can tell. Musgrave. As in, the author of the Daemonic Dictionary.” “Huh. That can’t be a coincidence, can it?” “I’m going to try and find out,” Amy said. “But my research will be strictly limited to books. Any, ah, hands-on experiments, I’ll wisely leave to others.” “He died with no descendants, didn’t he?” “The biography we read only said where and when he was presumed to have died. Said nothing about him having or not having descendants. Or even if there’s any concrete proof that he isn’t still alive.” “You think someone could be still alive after, what, six hundred years?” “Stranger things have happened. I’ve seen stranger things with my own eyes,” Amy said, and Adam couldn’t argue with that. Amy turned to leave. “Hey, Amy, am I really your best friend?” “Don’t let it go to your head.” “Where are you going? Where’s Asha? Amy! Amy, wait!” Amy walked around the corner and left. A terrible realization hit him. Asha might be gone. Contemplating the idea felt like dunking his heart in an ice bath. Of course, she might stay on Earth, but with the binding broken, there would be nothing tethering her to him. Why would she stay with me? I bound her, I hurt her… Then he heard a flush, and a familiar face, a familiar pair of green eyes appeared in the doorway to the adjacent bathroom. “Adam,” she said, a rare look of uncertainty on her face. Her face was freshly cleaned, but there was still some snot dripping from her nose, which she dabbed at with a paper towel, and the whites of her eyes were red. Amy’s eyes might have been red with exhaustion, but there was no doubt Asha had been crying. “I thought you were dead,” she said, at the same time he said, “I thought you were gone.” She took the chair Amy had vacated. “I do not like hospitals,” she announced. There was a strain in her voice he’d never heard before. “Don’t listen to silly doctors. You have to forgive me.” “Forgive you? For what?” She hid her head in her hands, but then she thought better of it. Her tears were all out. She looked him in the eyes. “It was a mercy,” she said at last. “What? What’s going on?” “I thought I killed you,” she said. “Look, it’s like I said: in order to defeat even one hell-hound in this state, bound to you, I needed to take from you so much life, you needed to freely give me so much life, that you ought to be dead. It was a mercy: I know that if the ritual had failed, or if it had sent me back to Hell, I couldn’t have returned that gift of life to you, and you’d be dead long before the hounds or the blood loss got you.” “How could you do that?” Adam asked. “I mean, literally how could you do that. I thought you couldn’t harm me, not seriously?” Asha shook her head. “A loophole. The alternative would have been much worse than death. It was a gamble. I didn’t know if it would work. It’s the sort of stupidity hellknights do in the dumb romances my father never let me read.” “You did read them, though,” Adam said, a smile creeping up on him. “I did. And I didn’t kill you.” “You’re my knight in flaming armor, then.” “Yes,” she said, with not a trace of sarcasm. Adam closed his eyes. Seeing her had revived his spirits, but he was still weak from blood loss and medication and whatever life-draining operation Asha had performed on him. He needed to ask the two most important questions now, before he slipped out of consciousness. “What happened last night? Why are you here, and not where you… belong?” Question one. Asha put her hand over his. “The Rite of Return forced me to make a decision. Or rather, it acknowledged a decision I had already made, perhaps. It sent me to the place where my heart was. Which turned out to be the same place I already was, right there in the graveyard, only free.” Adam opened his eyes. “And will you stay?” Question two. “I don’t think I can ever go back to Hell,” she said. “No, will you stay with me?” “Amy’s offered me to stay at her place for a while.” “Oh,” Adam said, and he couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. It made sense. Theirs had been a whirlwind romance and they had not spent a moment apart since the affair began. She would want to distance herself from him for a while. Maybe the bond between them had been entirely magical and never emotional.. She squeezed his hand. “Oh, you meant, will I stay together with you, not literally, will I live in your dirty little room in your ugly house,” Asha said. “Of course.” Adam opened his eyes, tried to blink away a tear. “I’m going to go, visiting hours are almost over,” Asha said. “I will be back later. Don’t go anywhere.” As if he could. It was odd, seeing her leave the room while he stayed in it. She didn’t bend over clutching her stomach in agony, she didn’t vomit all over the floor, and there was no tug on that invisible rope that had once connected them. Asha simply strode out of the room and, blowing him a kiss, walked out of sight. Adam closed his eyes and fell into a dreamless slumber. Three days later, he was out of the hospital. At home, he was greeted by Eddie and Ryan. They thrust a pack of aspirin and a beer into his hand. “We weren’t sure if medicine or painkillers were called for,” Eddie said. “So we got you both. If you were expecting flowers, though, go fuck yourself.” Eddie gave him a big, long hug, and Ryan did the same, a little more reserved. Adam put down his coming-home gifts on the table and folded himself down onto the couch. “Thanks, guys,” he said. “I really appreciate it.” “We haven’t seen a whole lot of you lately,” Ryan said. “And then you get yourself into an accident and land in hospital. What happened?” “Got bit by a crazy bitch,” Adam said. “Stray dog?” Eddie asked. “We heard something like that.” “Something like that, yeah,” Adam agreed. “So,” Ryan said. “About what’s been going on with you lately...” Adam had had a good think about what to tell them while he was laid up in his hospital bed. These were his friends, and he’d completely neglected them while all the crazy shit had been going down. He’d settled on telling them a story that was as close to the truth as possible, but also entirely mundane. He didn’t like lying to them, and, he reasoned, if they would never believe the truth, was it not honest enough to give them an allegory that captured everything important but the details? “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring you guys. Usually, when I got shit on my mind, I would share it. I’m not fully operational yet but I’ll give you a summary of what’s been going on.” Eddie sat down in a chair facing Adam, nodding his encouragement. “So, I met this girl,” Adam said. “And it turns out she was in a spot of trouble. She didn’t have anywhere to stay and I couldn’t in good conscience throw her out on the street.” “That’s the one I met, right?” Ryan said. “Yeah.” “She’s a looker.” “Oh, she is, and so much more. Anyways, yeah, we had a bit of a thing and then she’s out on the streets, and I let her stay with me. But it turns out this thing was more complicated than I’d bargained for. There were some… family complications, and people were out to get her and hurt her. I got caught up in that and didn’t really know how to focus on anything but the next crisis coming along. Anyway, that stuff’s resolved now. It’s over.” “I hope you went to the police,” Eddie said. “If these people, her family members or whoever, were really out to hurt her.” “It’s been dealt with by the appropriate authorities,” Adam said. “It’s done. No one’s going to hurt her, or me, or you, or anyone else who gets close to her.” “We heard you guys fighting,” Eddie said. “Oh, yeah. We’re a match made in Hell. But fuck me, I fell for her. She’s not getting rid of me and I’m not getting rid of her, so you’ll probably be seeing her around. I found her a place to stay with a female friend of mine until she gets sorted.” “Were you really bitten by a random wild dog?” Ryan asked. “You didn’t fall on some sword or get caught up in some gangsta shit to protect your lady love, did you?” He slapped Adam on the shoulder, a friendly gesture between mates, except Adam was still weak and had to suppress a wince. “It was a mad bitch, like I said. Crazy fucking coincidence. Although truth be told, being laid up in hospital wasn’t so bad. Let me clear my head. Well, once they stopped giving me painkillers, anyways.” “Glad to have you back,” Eddie said. “The moment you’re recovered, you and me are popping some cold ones and shooting some hoops, eh?” “Looking forward to it.” And that was how Adam got back in with his housemates and friends. “I’ve been thinking,” Asha said. It was end of semester, nearly three months after the Rite of Return. They lay curled up together in his bed, staring up at the dirty ceiling. She had her hand on his hip, and he had one arm around her shoulder, and their legs were intertwined. “Your lease is up soon, right?” “Yeah, but Ryan and Eddie are thinking of renewing and I’m probably just gonna be staying on with them. It’s not much, but it’s been home for two years and I could stand to make it three.” “I’ve been thinking we should find a place and move in together,” she said. It was honestly what he’d been longing for, but he didn’t feel like he had any right to ask. They’d been dating all this time, and had navigated that odd state of a relationship were circumstances push you to become very intimate, very fast, and once the dust settles, you have to figure out if you actually like each other or if you just got caught up in a whirlwind romance. They’d found they did. But the fact that Adam, although unintentionally, had forced her into that intimacy still weighed on his mind. He’d resolved not to ask her to make any further commitment to him until she was ready for it. He had no right. Now she was asking the question he’d been burning to ask her for the past month. “Don’t you like living with Amy?” “Love it. But I’d love to live with you more. Also, I think Amy needs her privacy, but she’s too polite to say anything. There’s a side to her that she can’t bring herself to reveal to anyone—not to me, or to you, or to Peter. She needs privacy to live that side of her life until she finds it in her to reveal it to someone she cares for.” Adam didn’t ask her to elaborate. He knew better than to ask. Instead, he said, “I’d love that. Moving in together. If it’s what you want.” “Silly mortal,” she said. It was her pet name for him. Truth be told, they didn’t know if she was mortal or not anymore. She could still make flames dance across her eyes or her fingertips, and Adam suspected there were things she could do still that would terrify him. Asha was still finding her way in this world, and sometimes, she would wake him up, mumbling in distress, and she’d tell him she had a dream of the old country—Hell—and say no more. She’d given up everything she ever knew to be here, with him, and he wasn’t about to forget it. In many ways, she’d taken to mortal life quicker than he’d expected. Asha was technically an illegal immigrant, with no ID, no passport or citizenship, albeit from another dimension rather than a foreign country. But she could be very, very persuasive. Preternaturally so. Soon after she moved in with Amy, Asha got a job as a waitress, and she brought in a lot of tips. Unreasonably high tips. He didn’t ask and she didn’t offer to elaborate on how she swung that. Nor how she procured a bank account with no legal identity. One day, she showed him her new driver’s license, in the name of Asha Pride, with her picture, and his year and date of birth. “Do you even know how to drive a car?” He’d asked. “No,” she’d said, “that’s what’s so fun about it! You get to teach me. On the open road, without a learner’s permit!” “Yeah, I think we’ll start off on a parking lot somewhere.” “Good. I’ll start looking for a car.” “It’s settled, then,” Asha said, pulling him back to the present. “We’re finding a place and moving in together. It’ll be just like old times!” She gave him a peck on his cheek. “Does that mean I have to clean up your piss all the time?” She gave him a look. “Only when we feel like getting naughty. I know you enjoy it,” she cooed. Well, he didn’t exactly enjoy the cleanup, but he did enjoy the part that came before. “Also,” Asha said. “I want you to take me to church on Sunday.” “What? Are you taking up religion? Don’t tell me you’re planning to burn it down.” “None of the above,” she said. “Look, remember the thing that used to happen to me whenever someone invoked the name of the Lord?” Adam shuddered. He could see it in his mind’s eye. Her skin warping and bubbling, as if someone had poured boiling water onto the layer between skin and bone. “That doesn’t happen anymore,” Asha said. “Try it.” “Jesus Christ. God.” He looked over, and she smiled back, her skin perfectly smooth. “Allah. Buddha. Odin. Shiva. Yahweh.” He struggled to recall any other gods or god-like beings he could invoke, but she cut him off. “See? Nothing happened.” She licked her lips. “And so I was thinking, what if one of our friends gets married? Or, Satan forbid, you get in a terrible and utterly unpredictable car accident while teaching me how to drive, which I miraculously survive because I’m me and I’m amazing, and then your next of kin decides on a church funeral?” She fixed her eyes on his, and this time, she was serious. “I want to know that I can walk into a house of worship and when the worshiping is done, both I and the house will still be standing. Not because I like churches, but because maybe there will be an occasion where I’ll want to be there because of the other people I care about that will be there. And I want you to go with me and get me out of there if something goes wrong.” “Okay,” Adam said. It made perfect sense, but it was strange, hearing it from a demon. “You won’t make a scene?” “Not deliberately. I will sit quietly in the back with my hands folded like a good little Catholic schoolgirl. I need you to be my backup in case something unexpected happens. Nobody’s done what I did, what we did, Adam. Just… Walked away from Hell, never looking back. I don’t know much more about how any of it works than you do. In fact, I’m almost certain Amy knows more than either of us.” So it was that they found themselves walking hand-in-hand to Church that Sunday. It was a warm day in early summer, and flowers and trees were blooming. It was almost too beautiful to be true. There were at least eight churches that held Sunday services they could reach on foot or by bus, but he’d picked one within walking distance from Amy and Asha’s place. Not only was the place close by, but it was also the perfect size for their little experiment. Not too big, not too small. Adam wanted to avoid being some of the only people at the service—he wanted them to sit unnoticed in the back, attracting no attention whatsoever, whether anything out of the ordinary happened or not—but he didn’t want it to be so big that, if something did happen, there was sure to be someone filming them with a phone before they could make a discreet getaway. Asha was wearing a plain white dress that went down to her knees, and he was wearing jeans and a button-down, unsure of Church etiquette. Not exactly his Sunday best, but not so shabby as to attract attention either. Adam knew that attendance for regular services had been trending down in recent years, so he reasoned that they wouldn’t be too prissy. Also, wasn’t that Jesus fellow all about taking in the poor and destitute? Hardly seemed right to turn someone away at the door for being under-dressed. They took a seat on a pew near the back. He was happy to see there were about forty people scattered about the first few rows of pews. Enough so that they’d blend in, probably not enough to incite a riot before they could make their escape if they needed to. As the service began, Asha put her hands in her lap, just like she’d promised. But soon, she was squirming, moving about silently but clearly in distress. Adam put a hand on her shoulder and mouthed an “are you okay?” Asha gave him a wicked smile, then spread her legs out and lifted the hem of her dress, giving him a look at her red panties. “I haven’t peed since last night at five,” she whispered. “Deliberately.” “Asha, that’s...” He tried to do the math. “Eighteen hours!” “Forgive me, then,” she said, and grabbed between her legs with both hands. Adam took her hand and removed it. “You can’t do that in a church,” he said, squeezing her hand tight. “But Adam, I might have an accident,” she whispered in her sweetest, most innocent voice. “Do you want me to take you to the bathroom?” “Nooo, I can hold it.” She kept her legs apart and squeezed his hand, and she let her dress ride up frequently to give him a peek, as the preacher droned on and hymns were sung. Towards the end of the service, she stifled a moan, then lifted her dress to show him a little wet spot on her panties. “You better not piss yourself in a church,” Adam hissed, suddenly worried now. “You promised not to make a scene.” “I won’t,” she promised, and gritted her teeth, continuing her hands-off struggle. Finally, the service was over, and Adam caught her hand and dragged her out the door before she could leak any more. She gave an audible moan as he pulled her up, but when he put a hand where she’d sat—still warm—it was dry. The little moan was drowned out by the general din of people rising, dressing, heading down the aisle and out into the sunshine. “You’ve been very naughty,” he said to her as they walked out of the church yard. “Do you disapprove?” She favored him with her most seductive, boner-inducing grin. “What you almost did in there was very disrespectful to those nice little church-goers. I could almost bring myself to be offended on their behalf, almost desecrating their place of holiness like that… If I wasn’t so unbelievably turned on.” They stopped in the shade of a large oak hanging over the fence from the church yard and kissed. When they broke for air, he asked her if she wanted to find a place to go pee. “No, I’d like to hold it,” she said. “But you’re bursting! You already leaked.” “Nobody will see under the dress. You know you love it when I do this. Don’t deny it.” He couldn’t, at that. They took a side road lined on both sides by tall cypress trees and reached a dead end. At the end of a little cul-de-sac sat a very small house with a lovely garden. It was flaky red and looked like it was barely larger than an ordinary one bedroom apartment, but it sat on its own lot, almost hidden behind lovingly tended bushes and trees. A sign on a brown picket fence said “Small house for rent, cheap.” An old woman stood on the porch, and she waved at them. “Oy there! Have you come for the house viewing?” She yelled, favoring them with a gap-toothed smile. “We didn’t,” Adam began. “We were just out for a walk and ended up here. We do happen to be looking for a place, but we were thinking a small apartment. Don’t think we can afford a house.” The woman came down to the end of the garden and opened the gate. “You’ve come to the right place, then,” she said. “How fortuitous. I’m looking to rent this out very cheap. Truth be told, all I want is for someone to take care of the house and the garden. Had a couple coming to see it today but they never showed up. Why don’t you have a look? Lovely young couple like yourselves, I’m sure we can work something out.” He glanced over at Asha. She was squirming, doing a very good job of hiding it, but she was surely on the verge of losing it. She simply nodded. Oh, well. This might be the opportunity of a lifetime, and she could always ask to use the bathroom in the house. “Well, I suppose having a look is free, can’t hurt, right?” The old woman smiled and offered him her hand. “Bethany Musgrave,” she said. “Not of the wealthier and more famous branch of the family, I’m afraid. Pleasure to meet you.” Well, isn’t that a crazy coincidence. “Adam Rogers.” They shook, and then Bethany shook Asha’s hand. She was shaking, no doubt from the effort of keeping herself from overflowing. “Oh, are you nervous, dear?” Bethany asked. “It’s just… This would be our first home together,” Asha said. Her improvisational skills continued to impress. “I can’t believe it’s really happening.” “Ah, young love!” Bethany smiled. “Such a pleasure to see. Don’t worry, dear, before you know it you’ll have a child and a dog and you’re wondering where the years went.” She chuckled. “Come, come. This is the garden. There’s an apple tree, and cherries, and I grow carrots and potatoes in the back, and then there’s a variety of bushes and flowers. I dare say we can work out a deal that will be more than affordable, but there’s one non-negotiable clause. You must keep the garden well maintained. I care little for cutting the grass to a specified height, but the flowers and fruit and berries and vegetables are my pride and joy. I will leave you well alone, but I will be coming by to check up on the garden.” Adam knew nothing of gardening, but if he could rent a house for the price of a tiny apartment, with such a pleasant landlady, and learning to turn his fingers green was the price to pay, he’d pay it. He shot a glance at Asha, and she was doing her very best not to curtsy or cross her legs or betray her desperation. It was adorable and hot and not what he needed to be thinking about now. “Here’s the hall,” Bethany continued. It was small, and by unspoken accord they all removed their shoes, but when they came into the living room, it was larger than he’d have guessed from the outside. “It’s bigger inside than it looks, isn’t it?” Bethany said. The space was entirely empty of non-fixed furniture, but surprisingly spacious, with a large living area and a kitchen nook that had all the necessities, aside from a fridge. “My husband and I lived here for forty years,” Bethany said. “Sadly, these days he’s not so well, so we’re moving to an apartment that’s closer to the hospital and the home nursing unit. That’s why I’m renting this out for cheap. Like I said, I really just want someone to take care of the house and the garden. I don’t see myself ever moving back here, but I can’t just part with it, you know? In a few years, if you take good care of it, I might be ready to part with it for a song and a dance. But for now, I want dependable, young, healthy people to take care of it for me. I want to know it’s still there, still being looked after, which is why I don’t want to sell and give away all my rights to come and slap a backside if the new owner’s lazy with the gardening.” She chuckled. “My husband and I moved out two weeks ago. It’s the first time I’ve been back, and being back almost makes me want to back out, but I’m getting on in years myself. I know between my own age and caring for my husband, I can’t maintain a second home to my liking.” Adam spotted Asha out of the corner of his eye, crossing her legs and bending over. He quickly redirected Bethany’s attention to the back hall, asking about the bedroom and bathroom. The two left Asha behind as Bethany showed him the bedroom, which was more than large enough for two wardrobes and a double bed, and she pointed out a large adjacent storage room which, she said with a wink, might come in handy if they ever found themselves in need of a second bedroom. The bathroom was small, but had all the necessities. Bethany showed him the small basement, which had a few shelves for storage and plumbing set up for a washing machine. All the while, she gently pried him for details of his life. He told her about his studies, about Asha’s job as a waitress. “Any experience gardening?” She asked. “None,” he admitted. “But I’m willing to learn.” She nodded and smiled, as if he’d passed a test he didn’t know he was taking. When they emerged back upstairs, Asha had composed herself. Adam could see her wiping something on the floor with the sole of her sock. Was that a little wet spot? We better wrap this up, because it doesn’t look like she’s going to ask to use the bathroom, and she can’t keep holding it much longer. Bethany walked over to the counter top and picked up a sheaf of papers. “This is a contract,” she said. “I’m willing to sign it right now and hand over the key right now if you are.” “We haven’t spoken about rent,” Adam said. Bethany offered a figure. It was barely more than he currently paid to live with two housemates, and they’d be splitting it between the two of them. “Asha?” “I like it,” Asha said, straining to put on a pleasant smile. “I really like it. What do you say, Adam?” “I’d say we take a good thing when it comes to us. I’m in.” Asha nodded. “We’re in. But are you really sure this is okay? You just met us and you’re handing over the keys, we haven’t even exchanged any money?” Bethany nodded. “This contract is for three months, with an option to extend to three years if both parties are pleased with the arrangement at the end of the summer. Sign here and here, and I’ll expect the money no later than next Friday.” They signed. Bethany dropped a key on the counter top. “It’s all yours. You’ll have to have it copied so you get a key each, and a spare wouldn’t be amiss. I’ll come by next weekend and we can get started on teaching you two how to care for the garden. Do feel free to pick and use anything that’s ripe for the picking. It wouldn’t do to let it rot on the branch or in the ground, now would it?” Adam began to thank her, but she simply shook her head. “The house is yours,” she said. “Make yourselves at home.” And she was gone. “Oh my devil,” Asha said. “I can’t believe it. We just rented a house together.” “I know,” Adam said. Asha crossed her legs and grabbed herself through her dress. “I’m about to lose it! Having to stand there and smile and be pleasant and pretend I’m not about to piss myself was so...” “Terrifying?” Adam offered. “Fucking. Hot.” “Can you walk? There’s a bathroom down the hall...” Asha moaned, and then he could see a trickle emerge beneath the hem of her dress. It spattered on the floor, transparent urine soaking into her sock, but she cut it off. “Oooh,” she moaned. “I needed that, but I still have so much left!” “Do you want to go here, or in the toilet, or…?” “Let’s go outside and see this garden I’ve heard so much about!” She bent down and began removing her socks. As she did so, she turned around and her dress rode up, giving him a good look at her red panties, which had a peach-sized wet spot extending up the contour of her butt crack. As she worked on the socks, her body shook, and another little leak emerged, teasing him as it ran down her thigh, but she managed to regain control. “Nineteen hours,” she said. “It’s gonna be a new record!” Barefoot, she ran out into the garden, and Adam scrambled to follow her. Asha stood beneath a tall tree, shielded from the road. She held her dress up, giving him a good look at her wet underwear. Her lips teasing him through the semitransparent fabric. “I can’t move,” she said, and laughed. Adam walked up, put a hand on her panties, another in her hair, bent her back towards the tree and kissed her deeply. He heard, and felt, the hiss as her dam released. Warm pee trickled over his hand as they kissed in the garden of their new home. It was a fairy tale ending if he’d ever seen one. She shuddered as he began to work her between the legs, still peeing, and before they knew it, his underwear and hers were both off. Leaning on the tree, after, he said, “I love you.” “Love you too.” “We should get married,” Asha said. “Really? Isn’t that a bit soon?” “We just spontaneously rented a house,” she pointed out. “Seems like good things happen to us when we live in the moment.” “Are you proposing to me?” “Maybe I am.” “Well, traditionally, the man would get down on his knee and offer a ring...” “We aren’t a traditional couple, are we, mortal?” “Guess not.” He shrugged. “Will you marry me?” He looked her in the eyes. “Yes.” “Great. We’ll do the civil ceremony, and then a private ceremony on All Hallow’s Eve in the woods. It’s the way of my kind. Amy can officiate.” “Whoa, there,” Adam said. “Amy’s sworn off anything to do with rituals. And you really want to get married in the woods on Halloween, like some spook?” “It’s not a magic ritual. Entirely symbolic. We can even skip the traditional blood-drinking ceremony.” “I think we’ll leave the details for later. And I’m going to insist on a ring, because that’s the way of my kind.” She leaned on his shoulder. “Love you, mortal.” “Love you, my little demon.” The old lady knew the way of the woods behind the house, and she had little trouble making her way unseen and unheard to a spot where she could listen and watch how the young couple would dispose of their new home. She did not avert her eyes at their perverse sexual games, but simply nodded to herself and stored it away in her vast memory for possible future application. Their declarations of love brought a tear to her eye, and the spontaneous engagement was the cherry on top. She popped a homegrown apple into her mouth. Seeing the young couple reminded her of her current husband, now senile and in need of care, but so vital, so lovely and so horny in earlier years. No. It reminded her more of her first husband, before he grew old and died, and before her second, who was crueler but also, like most people, eventually found his way to the eternal sleep with no illicit help from his wife. Yes, she decided. I will let them have their happiness. It pleases me to do one more good thing before I sod off this Earth. Bethany Musgrave threw the core of the apple into her garden—Asha and Adam’s garden, now—and walked off into the woods, humming a nursery rhyme that went out of style a hundred years ago.

Chapter 5.2: The Ritual “Get off your asses, we can’t sit around here looking at clouds all day. We have a lot of stuff to acquire.” She took a swig of the water bottle she was carrying, then handed Adam a list. It had twenty-seven items and he only recognized one or two. “Holy shit, Amy, do we really need all of this stuff?” “No, but half of it we’re unlikely to be able to get on short notice. Some of it seems like it would be highly illegal if not physically impossible to get under any kind of time frame. So, I drew up some alternatives that have similar medicinal or symbolic properties.” Adam shook his head. “We’re just gonna wing it?” “Well, yes,” Amy said, puffing her cheeks out in a way Adam once found adorable, crossing her arms defensively in front of her chest, “but actually, no.” Adam was confused, and said so. “Look, Adam, we’re going to try an obscure ritual that probably nobody has done in three hundred years, and it might not work. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about this kind of shit, it’s that intentions matter. I’ve come across sources that outright say that you should never pay attention to the exact details, but always discern the intention and purpose behind them. Old-timey witches would put traps into their rituals, things that would turn the ritual upside down if done literally—but a trained practitioner would know to look deeper, at the function and intention, and find a suitable substitute. The worst thing we could do, probably, would be to follow the recipe literally.” “She has a point, mortal,” Asha said. She had risen with the grace of a cat and now had her head almost resting on his shoulder, looking over the list. “Perhaps you were able to invoke the binding because you’re such a piss-poor necromancer that you accidentally got all the details wrong in all the right ways.” “Thanks, Asha.” He rolled his eyes. “Yes, so, you guys need to trust me on this,” Amy said, taking another sip of water, “or you’re out. Right now.” “I trust you,” Adam said. “I trust him, and he trusts you,” said Asha. “Good. Now, listen: We’re going to make a witch’s brew, with all sorts of nasty ingredients, which you two will drink, and then we’ll do some stuff with incantations and candles and knives and blood,” here Adam’s eyes widened, “but no more than taking a small blood sample at the doctor’s office, relax. That shit is easy compared to making the brew and finding the right location to perform the ritual at the right time.” “So, the hard part?” “Well, getting all the ingredients and putting them together in the approximate right proportions. I’ve identified all the ingredients as either being medicinal or symbolic. Meaning, everything that has some known use in traditional medicine is probably there primarily for its physiological effect, while anything that was never widely used as medicine is probably there to serve as a symbol for something or other. We’re on a clock, people. Let’s get moving.” Luckily, there was a little side street that housed no less than four different little herbalist’s shops, traditional apothecaries, the sort of shops that old ladies and young hippies go to, but most people would never know were even there. Even luckier, by some unspoken agreement, all of them were open on an early Sunday afternoon. The first stop was Zhu Jie’s Apothecary & Herbs. It had one grimy window into a dark interior, but the shop on the door said OPEN and inside was a single, long counter, with a very cluttered set of shelves behind it. Behind the counter was a doorway with little crystals or pearls threaded together hanging as a curtain to shield the store from the back room. A golden cat sat moving its paw back and forth mechanically on the counter, next to an antique till. “Coming, I come,” said a husky voice from the back. A wrinkled old lady poked her head in through the pearls. “What you want, little miss?” She asked, addressing Amy as she were obviously in charge. Curiously, Amy blushed at the form of address. “I came for some Yuan Zhi. Oh, and a rat’s tail.” The old woman entered her shop and shook her head. “This one,” she said, nodding at Amy but addressing Adam, “she come in all the time, looking for all sorts of odd things. Want to recapture her youth, she say, but she is young enough to make old lady like me blush.” The woman waved her finger in front of Amy. “Very disrespectful, that one.” But there was a warmth in the way she said it, and a glint in her eye—Adam noted that Amy was beet red, and the woman gave him an exaggerated wink as she said it. “Do you have the stuff I need?” Amy asked, trying to deflect. “You think you come here to get nasty old rat tail? You think Chinese like that shit?” She grinned, gauging their reaction to her vulgar speech. “Lucky for you, little bird told me might have use of one, got plenty rats in the basement. Old house, stinks down there, tell you. This cat is good for nothing!” And she slapped the mechanical good-luck cat so hard it almost fell off the counter, then she laughed. “Also, Yuan Zhi, very good root. Got powder.” Amy paid for a dried rat tail wrapped in paper, as well as a little ziplock bag of a light brown, almost white powder that would look suspicious to any police officer in a mile’s radius. She put both into her purse, along with her almost empty water bottle. “What was that about?” Adam asked. “Recapturing your youth?” Amy shot him a look that said, One day very soon, your curiosity will get your ass kicked, and he quickly asked about the Yuan Zhi instead. “Polygala tenuifolia, known in traditional Chinese medicine as Yuan Zhi. Modern science is just about rediscovering that it might have some actually valid uses. It promotes Nerve Growth Factor and Brain-Derived Neurotrophic Factor, it reduces monoamine oxidase, and it has rapid antidepressant effects possibly mediated by a mechanism similar to ketamine. Basically, it protects your brain, and I have reason to believe this ritual will fuck up your brain.” “How do you know all this shit?” He asked. She smiled and tapped her forehead. “I read.” She’s full of surprises. He didn’t ask about the rat tail. They visited the next herbalist’s shop. This one had self-service shelves, but also more stuff in various jars and Erlenmeyer flasks on shelves behind the counter. Amy pointed to a jar of blackish goo behind the counter. “I’d like to buy some chaga,” she said. The young man behind the counter was far less chatty than the Chinese woman, and they were out quickly. “Inonotus obliquus,” she said. “Also known as chaga. A parasitic fungus that grows on birch trees. In Norway, they call it cancer polypore.” “It causes cancer?” Adam asked. “It kind of looks like a tumor the way it grows on the tree. Also, it supposedly prevents or cures cancer, according to traditional medicine.” The third shop was a little bit more modern, and styled itself a head shop. “That means it sells drugs, but not like, the good shit,” Asha observed. “How would you know?” “I feel the sweet scent of caged sin in my bones, railing against its restraints,” she answered as if that were a completely natural thing to say. “Oh, okay,” Amy said. “I’ve actually never been here before. I think it opened recently. Let’s see if it has anything useful.” Aside from a whole wall dedicated to glass cases displaying elaborate and impractical methods of smoking weed, there were some cacti, various semi-legal pills, and a little shelf with essential oil. “Oh,” Amy said. “We might be able to use this.” She picked up a little bottle of sassafras oil and brought it back to the counter. She crossed her legs casually as she leaned towards the cashier. The dude looked like the most stereotypical stoner you ever saw: a skinny white dude in an oversized hiphop t-shirt and dreads and a slightly absent gaze. “Ah, a connoisseur, I see,” he said with no particular enthusiasm as Amy paid. Did she just…? It might be a trick of light and shadow, but it did seem as if Amy had leaned a bit into the counter and ground herself against it for a moment before she turned around. Don’t get up to any perverted thoughts now, Adam, he thought. “I can hear you, you know,” Asha whispered and gave him a wicked smile. “Shut up.” She mimed zipping up her lips. Amy looked at them and raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. “So, what’s that, then?” He asked. “We gonna do an erotic bath before the ritual?” Amy and Asha both punched him in the shoulder. One after the other, making sure to hit the same spot, just for extra pain. The first punch was humiliating; the second punch, delivered by Amy, actually hurt. It was like they’d planned it that way. “It’s sassafras oil. It contains safrole, a precursor to ecstasy.” “Sounds illegal,” Adam said. “Knowing this sort of shop, it’s probably within 0.1% of the legal limit, but not a drop more,” Amy said and shook her head. “I don’t like this sort of shop because they don’t give a shit. They don’t care about their customers or their safety at all. Look at that dude behind the counter, he’s just hoping we’ll leave so he can go for an extended smoke break. He’d gladly tell you how to skirt the law, but would never tell you about any risks or how to minimize them.” Asha licked her licks. “Sinful, indeed,” she said, and for a moment, yellow flames flickered in her eyes. The last shop, at the end of the street, was an Indian Ayurveda shop. Amy scanned the shelves and picked up Ashwaganda, Bacopa monnieri, curcumin and piperine. “Half of this stuff is just to make you not lose your mind. Ashwaganda and Bacopa are adaptogens, which theoretically make your body more adaptable to stress. Curcumin is a pigment found in turmeric spice that acts as an anti-inflammatory and promotes antioxidants, and piperine is found in black pepper and makes curcumin more available to your body. Now we’ve got all the medicinal stuff, but we still need some of the more symbolic ingredients.” Amy crossed her legs. She was wearing a tight pair of light blue jeans that clung to her hips, and now her thighs were shaking. Adam remembered the empty water bottle. Does she have to go? “Drop it,” Asha whispered. Why? “Because she is a grown woman and will say something of her own accord. And because you like to watch and I like to watch you watching her.” “What are you whispering about, lover-boy?” Amy had straightened herself up and seemed to be back in control. “None of ya business,” he said, favoring her with his most winning smile. “So, about that other stuff?” “Well, we got the medicine done, now we need the symbols. The rat’s tail is one, but we need several more things that are probably gonna be disgusting, but go in the brew because they represent an idea, not because of their physical properties. And we’re gonna have to find the proper substitutes. Do you think we’re going to find a lion’s paw anywhere?” “Courage,” Asha said. She had her eyes closed. “It represents courage, does it not?” “That is one of the traditional things signified by the lion, yes,” Amy said. “But it could be something else… If we get it wrong, you’re screwed.” “I know for a fact that we will find a symbol of courage to put in your brew before midnight,” Asha said, and the way she said it—with a small wreath of fire which he let slip out of her mouth, out the side, licking her lips, smiling, then sent up her left nostril, which began smoking—made it clear that this was one of those mystical moments that you do not question. “Great, Asha,” Amy. “Wanna share some details?” “She doesn’t,” Adam said. “Not right now. What else?” “We gotta capture a live frog.” Amy shrugged. “I don’t know how the fuck to do that, but how hard could that be? This is one of the ones where I think we should go with the literal interpretation, because there’s too many possible things a live frog could stand for, and I’ve seen wild frogs around the ponds in the park this past week.” Turns out, capturing a live frog with a net on the end of a long pole is far harder than it sounds. They had been at it in the park for three hours, and although there were many ponds and most of them had frogs or at least tadpoles in them, catching one of the little buggers was proving to be near impossible. Once, Adam almost caught one, but it managed to jump into the water just as he was flipping the net around to bring the frog-fucker out of the pond. The sun was setting, and although they had a good few hours until midnight, they wouldn’t have many more with enough light to actually catch a frog. By this point, Adam noted that even Asha was squirming subtly, and his own bladder was also sending signals that he really out to go pee soon. Amy, on the other hand, was frantic. Whenever she thought he wasn’t looking, she was desperately clutching herself between the legs. Normally, Adam would have enjoyed the show and let it go on until its natural end—she was an adult and although he wouldn’t prevent her from going to the restrooms, which were located near the other end of the park, she was old enough that he felt no responsibility, indeed like he had no right, to make her go—but now, he was seriously worried that they’d fail the ritual because someone couldn’t catch a damned frog because someone couldn’t stop pee-dancing like a little girl. Adam felt the fury from earlier in the day rise in him, and he very deliberately counted down from ten to zero. He was determined never to lose his temper again the way he’d done earlier in the day. “Amy, this is ridiculous,” he said. “Anyone can tell you need to pee. I need to pee, Asha needs to pee, we all need a piss. We’re not gonna catch a frog before dark if we can’t keep squeezing our crotches. I’m gonna piss behind a tree, I suggest you do the same.” “I can hold it until we catch a damn frog!” Amy said, but as soon as he partially turned away from her, she clutched her hands between her legs. Adam walked behind a thick tree, which was shielded from most of the park by a series of bushes, unzipped, and released a long-awaited piss. It was glorious, and lasted a minute. Finally, the dribbling tapered off, he shook his penis and stuck it back into his boxers, then re-buttoned his pants. When he came back around, Asha was leaning against the other side of the tree, quickly removing her hand from the inside of her pants when she saw him looking. She smiled at him. Amy was crouching, both hands between her legs. “I swear, it’s like you enjoy this,” Adam said. “Just go pee.” Amy blushed. “Okay, okay, you asshole,” she said. “Help me up, Asha. I don’t think I can stand on my own.” Asha helped her two her feet, and she hobbled, both hands still between her legs, behind the tree. Adam caught her crouching down and heard the rustle of pants and presumably underwear as she undressed. “Ahh!” Amy moaned. Then he heard the sound of a branch breaking on the path, and turned around to see a worker in a reflective vest adorned with the municipal symbol and a rake slung over his shoulder ambling towards them. Amy stuck her head around the bush, blushing. “What are you kids getting up to?” The middle-aged park worker asked. “Not getting into trouble, I hope?” “Catching butterflies,” Adam said, and Asha handed him the pole with the net on it. “Well, that’s good. Just don’t let me catch you playing hooky behind the bushes, eh?” He laughed, but nobody else did, and the laugh rapidly turned into a cough. “You kids behave. Park closes at ten,” the worker said, then trudged further down the road. Amy came back from behind the tree, blushing red like a tomato. Adam’s eyes were drawn towards her crotch, which had a softball-sized wet spot, still visible in the fading light. Amy caught his eye. “Stop staring, you perv!” “Sorry. I’m really sorry, Ames, but if you’d gone earlier...” “I know! I was just obsessed with getting everything ready for the ritual. I tried to cut off the flow and pull up my pants, but I couldn’t cut it off quite in time.” She was breathing heavy. The park worker was out of sight. “Better run around the corner and finish it, then,” Adam said. Amy nodded. She walked behind the tree again, and he heard the same rustle of pants and underwear being lowered, then… Nothing. One minute passed. Two. “You okay behind there, Ames?” He asked, concern in his voice. “No!” She popped her head back ‘round the tree trunk. Tears of frustration were threatening to overflow as she came back, her pants still unbuttoned but pulled up. “I can’t go! I’m pee shy, okay? It’s like once that guy showed up, somebody cut off the flow and I can’t open it back up again! She put a hand between her legs again as one tear began its trek down her cheek. “But I can’t last much longer! Adam, what am I gonna do?” “Would you like us to leave you alone? What can I do to help?” “There!” Asha shouted. Adam swung around to see her depositing a live frog into the glass jar of water they’d brought, then pop on the lid into which they’d nailed a few air holes. He turned back around towards Amy, who’d clearly lost control for a moment when Asha surprised her. The wet spot now extended another inch down her left thigh. “No, it’s...” Amy said. Adam stepped up and took hold of her shoulders. “If you don’t want to, I won’t. But if you don’t say anything, I’m going to lead you behind that tree and help you finish your business, okay?” Amy nodded. He held one arm on her shoulder, the other squeezing her hand, as she waddled behind the tree. “Okay,” Adam said, rubbing her back, “now you just lower your clothes and then...” Amy ripped down her jeans, but before she could touch her panties—light blue, with a teddy bear adorning her backside—she exploded. A stream of urine shot through her panties, arcing so far Adam had to jump aside, pattering loudly onto the leaves and soaking into the dirt. Feeling more than a little guilty, Adam hooked a finger on the inside of her panty leg and yanked the whole thing down, but it was too late. The pastel blue was already see-through, although it was now sitting at her knees, and Adam continued to rub her back as she peed. “I’m—I’m sorry,” Amy said, as she pulled her soaked panties up. There was a large puddle between her legs, and a little bit had splashed up onto her white socks. Adam tried not to look between her legs, where the contours of his friend’s sex were clearly visible. “I really couldn’t hold it anymore. I just… I thought I could hold it.” “It’s okay,” Adam said. “It was a little silly, but we’re all a little silly, aren’t we, Asha?” Asha poked her head ‘round the tree trunk, holding the trapped frog in her right hand. “Oh, my,” she said, looking at Amy’s soaked backside. Amy turned around, blushing, but her eyes were dry. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This was so dumb.” “Well, you already saw me piss myself,” Asha said, shrugging. “More importantly, you just gave us our final ingredient.” “What the hell?” Amy looked confused. “The panties,” Asha said. “They represent your courage. Standing before us, like that, and not breaking into tears.” “I don’t understand,” Adam said. Amy blushed. “No!” She said. “You’re not saying what it sounds like you’re saying.” Asha nodded. “You want to drink my piss? You dirty slut demon, get away from me, you ugly bitch...” And Adam had to grab her arms and hold her tight, now standing with her dripping genitals on full display and her wet panties around her ankles, to prevent her from punching Asha. “They’ll dry out before the ritual. Do you think we’ll get a better reflection of true courage tonight than this? Standing disgraced in front of your best friend, looking him in the eye and not being ashamed?” Amy fixed her gaze on him, her lip trembling, but she held. “Okay,” she said. “You saw me disgrace myself. Still wanna be my friend?” “It’s not the first time,” he said. “What do you mean?” “Nothing, I’m sorry...” “What do you mean?” She yelled. “I mean… I know you wet yourself when the hell-hounds showed up.” She blushed. “I… Yeah.” “I didn’t want to say anything.” “Well, now I know.” She sighed. Looked down at her wet underwear, shook her head. “Okay. What now?” “Now,” Asha said, and in one swift motion, before anyone could react, she had taken hold of Amy’s wet panties and ripped both sides off, leaving her fully exposed, “we prepare for the ritual.” Amy scrambled to cover herself between her legs, blushing, too embarrassed to say anything. Adam chose this moment to respectfully walk around the other side of the tree and let her pull up her damp jeans in peace. “What about you, Asha? Don’t you need to piss?” He asked. “I do,” she said. “But I can wait a while longer. Let’s go!” As it turns out, they would find a better symbol of courage, but they couldn’t have known that. They spent some time wandering around the park, carrying our herbs, the live frog in a glass—looking miserable, the little fella did, and he felt a pang of sympathy for him, or her—and their cookpot and portable Primus stove. “So,” Adam said, as his phone buzzed to remind him the park was closing, “where are we going to do this?” Asha was right behind him, squirming and holding herself. He didn’t comment. He’d learned she’d just as soon bite my hand off as kiss me with tongue, and didn’t know which one would be more embarrassing in front of Amy. “I’ve been thinking,” said Amy. “We’re trying to literally pierce the veil separating this plane of existence and the next, right?” She looked over at Asha. “Something like that, mortal.” “What better place than a cemetery?” “Oh, no,” Adam said. “We’re not going to a fucking cemetery to do black magic. No, ma’am.” “Hear me out, Adam. I know cemeteries freak you out...” “They don’t! But the combination of cemeteries, midnight, full moon, black magic and creatures straight out of hell chasing us? Who’s to say the dead themselves won’t rise from their graves and eat us alive?” “They will not, mortal,” Asha said, spitting something on the ground. A leaf formerly attached to the stick she now had between her teeth, it appeared. “How do you know?” “Because I come from a land of death, mortal, and if they could rise of their own accord, right out of their graves, do you truly believe I would not know?” He shook his head. “Okay, so, like, the nearest cemetery...” “Just past this block. Saint Joan’s Cemetery.” “Wait, like, Joan d’ fucking Arc?” “No,” Amy said. “Blessed Joanna of Portugal.” “Good,” Asha said. “She’s not one of the real ones.” “Real what?” Adam asked. “One of the real saints, dear,” Asha said, patting him on the head. “Otherwise, we might have a problem.” I’ll ask you later, demon. “You will not,” she murmured. It was almost eleven when they arrived at the cemetery. It looked like any graveyard Adam had ever seen. A few sturdy oak trees, lots of grass bisected by gravel paths and dotted with gravestones. He saw a couple of small buildings that might be family mausoleums in the distance, and further still, a small chapel. They made their way towards the center of the cemetery. Adam sat down on the gravestone of a woman named Eleanor Santorini. She’d been dead these past seventy years and he doubted she’d mind. It was now fully dark, and a cloud was slowly receding from the full moon, allowing some meager natural light to illuminate their surroundings. “So, now we wait,” he said, grateful for the reprieve. Asha stood, legs crossed, by his side, her head twitching to and fro as if listening to something that was beyond his hearing, but aside from her obvious need to relieve herself, she seemed calm. That is, until they all heard a heartrending cry that could only signify one thing: hell-hounds. Many hell-hounds. They had forty-five minutes left until midnight. Squinting his eyes, Adam could see the silhouette of one of the lumbering beasts, like a monstrous ox with a canine head, about a hundred yards out, near the entrance to the cemetery. The hell-hound raised its black head and howled. Its fellows would be converging on their location. The singular hell-hound took a few tentative steps towards them. It was now at a distance where, if it chose to charge, it would all be over in less than twenty seconds. Still, it stood there, its shape now less diffuse, stomping its foot into the ground and howling for its pack-mates to come join the hunt. Adam looked at Asha. Her eyes locked with his. “What do we do?” He mouthed. “Do you know, Adam,” she asked, “why necromancers in the old stories bind demons?” He shook his head. She rose, and now yellow and blue and green flames were playing around the contours of her hands, her face, her feet, her knees and elbows. “Power!” She said. Except it wasn’t a word. It was like the sound of a rock slide, coming down a mountainside to devour an army. He realized she wasn’t speaking English, either. She was speaking hell-tongue. The language of the incantation that had started it all. “Uhagarrukh!” She thundered. Power. “Power over life and death.” Adam could see Amy in his peripheral vision. She was cowering behind a gravestone, clearly unsure whether to flee the hellspawn in front of her best friend or the one blocking the exit to the cemetery. “A necromancer commands life and death,” Asha intoned, in that strange language of hers. It was a sequence of clicks, of hisses and pharyngeals and ejectives. And something deeper: the sound of magma, deep down below the earth’s crust, waiting to escape, eager to devour the living. But he found himself, strangely, calmer than he had been a moment before. He felt her pull at the mental leash, and he felt it hold. “Power over the living, and power over the dead,” Asha intoned. “I don’t know anything about death magic!” He said. “I’m not a necromancer!” “This isn’t death magic,” Asha said. “That’s where you’re wrong. A necromancer does not draw on death. A necromancer is alive, gloriously alive. It is the union of life and death that brings such incredible power. A power which a creature purely of death and decay could never touch.” Adam began to understand. He rose, only now realizing that he had sunk down onto one knee. “Do you want to live?” Asha demanded. Her body was now a dark silhouette, much like the hell-hound’s, but hers was alight with fire, green and yellow and red and blue. “Yes!” He yelled. “Then you must give me your life,” she said, “and I will give you command over death.” Adam’s hands were shaking. “Remember this morning,” Asha said, taking his hands, very gently. “Remember the rage. What did it feel like?” “Like death.” “No!” She said, squeezing his hands harder. “It was life.” He closed his eyes for a moment and felt for that rage, that anger, that fury. It was white-hot, smoldering, and in his mind’s eye, the heat took hold and roared like a bonfire. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yessss.” “Will you give me your life, that you may command death?” She whispered. “Yes.” Before he could regret it, she had bit him. She took a bite out of his throat, and a searing hot pain threatened to take hold of his consciousness and put it out like a glass over a candle, blocking the air out. He took an unsteady step, feeling viscous hot liquid sliding down his Adam’s apple, down his shirt onto his chest. He opened his eyes. Asha was in front of him, hovering in the air, a wreath of fire around her scorching his eyebrows. The hell-hound charged. It was over in three seconds. One moment, the monstrous shadow-ox with the head of a bulldog was running towards them. The next, Adam was splattered with black and red goo as the thing met its end at the point of a blade made of fire, extending out of Asha’s hand like she’d been carrying it all along. She hung in the air for a moment, hands both pointed downwards, trembling, the two halves of the deceased hell-hound falling to each side of the flaming sword, smoldering in the grass. Adam found himself worrying, absurdly, that the dry grass might catch fire and burn them all. Asha collapsed to the ground. He stumbled over to her, managed to put an arm under each of her armpits and lever her up. “What do we do now?” He asked. “Run!” Asha said. He looked for Amy. She was gone. Oh, no! “Over here!” Amy yelled. She was standing by the door to one of the mausoleums, holding the iron door ajar. “It’s open!” Half walking, half stumbling, leaning on each other for support, the two of them made their way inside the mausoleum, passing under a peer of laughing stone-cut gargoyles. Amy closed the door and locked the heavy wooden bar on the inside in place. “If you could do that, why didn’t you do it before?” Adam demanded. “I wasn’t sure if you would survive it,” Asha said. “And you did command me not to hurt you.” The pain from the wound in his neck pulsed, reminding him his mortal body would have its reckoning. Flush with adrenaline, it would have to wait. “Begin the ritual,” Adam said to Amy. “There’s no time left. Either it works or we’re all headed towards whatever’s worse than death.” They could hear the pack of hell-hounds howling outside. Amy poured some water into the cook pot and began hastily mixing her disparate ingredients while Asha got the portable stove going. The air inside was stifling, and Adam wasn’t sure how long they could last even if the hell-hounds didn’t break through the door. After all, who the hell thinks of ventilation for the dead? Amy poured and mixed powders and roots and oils into the pot, then, finally, threw the rat’s tail, her soiled panties, and the live frog inside. “You’re going to cook it alive?” He asked. Amy raised both her eyebrows. “You got a problem with that? Wanna go outside and have a diplomatic chat with those monsters from hell instead?” He shook his head. Amy took the handle of the hunting knife she was holding and whacked the frog on the head when it attempted to jump out of the boiling water. Turns out, frogs don’t like to boil alive, whatever your biology teacher told you. The frog sank down into the disgusting stew. Amy wrapped her hands in the sleeves of her sweater, then lifted the pot off the stove, losing hold with a curse before she could properly set it down on the stone floor and spilling a good quarter of it. “Fuck! Should have brought a cooking glove.” It was now ten minutes before midnight. The door shook violently, presumably as one of the hell-hounds tried to bash it in, but it held. For now. Amy lit some candles, placing them at the points of some geometric figure to complex for him to understand. He put a hand on his neck, feeling the slow flow of blood leaving his body. He was light-headed. “Stay with me,” Amy said. “Five more minutes, then the brew will be cool enough to drink.” Adam lay down. Asha took his head in her hands. “Bide,” she said. “Do not leave the land of the waking just yet. Bide.” He heard Amy unsheathe the knife, heard a little snip, tried to move to prevent her from cutting Asha, but it was no use. He felt a hot bowl touch his lips. “Drink,” Amy said. “Try not to throw up.” A foul liquid, the consistency more like porridge than soup, dripping down his throat. It threatened to rise, but he closed his mouth and swallowed, counted, one, two, three, then accepted another gulp. It went down, and stayed down. Asha presumably did the same. He heard her coughing, but he couldn’t even open his eyes, let alone move to assist her. He felt a finger touch his lips. It had a sticky substance the taste of copper. “Blood of mine,” Asha intoned. Amy stuck a finger to his neck, then she prompted him, and he managed to croak, “blood of mine.” “Say with me,” Amy said, far away. The howling of the hell-hounds was a constant backing track. He heard something heavy collide with the door again, but since nothing tore into his throat, he assumed the door held still. “Say with me,” Amy repeated. “Ah-ushukh diniyahhah...” “Ah-ushukh… Dini… yahhahh...” There were more words. His lips formed them, but his ears were no longer capable of hearing them. Finally, silence. Adam felt the leash between him and Asha stretch, grow taut. She was pulling away from him. And then… it fell off. It didn’t snap in the middle from the force exerted on it. It simply unknotted itself on both ends, by mutual agreement, and then it was gone. She’s free, he thought. Free and gone forever. I’ll never see her again. Then she was on his throat, tearing at him. For a terrifying moment, Adam thought he was going to die. He opened his eyes, looking into the red eyes of his demon, the demon he’d bound against her will, the demon who was now going to murder him for what he’d done to her. The demon he just might love. Then she planted a big, sloppy kiss on his lips. The howling of the hell-hounds was gone. He heard nothing but his breath, ragged; and hers, and somewhere in the distance, Amy’s. “Oh, Adam!” Asha said. “I’m still here.” “I don’t understand,” he said. “I’m still here, but the hell-hounds are gone. I’m here, with you.” That was the moment his body decided to have its hour of reckoning, and promptly, Adam lost consciousness.

I love the idea of online reviews for a genie in a lamp!

Chapter 5.1: Demon Inside Adam woke up to a headache pounding like a jackhammer somewhere around his forehead. He rolled over to see Asha, nude, leaning over the edge of the bed, noisily emptying the contents of her stomach into the paper bin. He sat up, leaned over, held her hair out of the way of her face. His gaze grazed her hairline, then followed along down her neck, down her spine, ending in the crack between her buttocks. He noted that a lazy trickle of urine was making a small wet spot on the sheets. Adam could feel something stirring in his groin, but he chose to ignore it—which was not a tall order given the murderous headache monopolizing his attention—and instead leaned over to the bedside table on his side, retrieving a roll of tissue paper. Once he was reasonably certain she was done, he handed his demon a piece of paper and helped wipe down her mouth. She turned towards him slowly, displaying reddish eyes with strained tears staining her cheeks. She looked like she hadn’t just vomited, but turned her entire body inside out. “Sorry about that,” she mumbled, then sunk down into the bed, hiding her body beneath the sheets until only the top of her head was visible. This she leaned against his chest, her ear rested against the staccato rhythm of his heartbeat. They lay like that for a minute, each trying to figure out how to start a conversation that needed to be had, but neither wanted to initiate. Adam laid a hand just below her bare breast, feeling her heart work just as hard as his, if not harder. Was she… embarrassed? Nervous? He tried to properly sit up in bed, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him down again, so that she could lay her head flat on top of his chest. Adam took a deep breath, then finally spoke: “What happened last night?” “Ugh,” she said, turning away from him. He grabbed her face and turned it to look into his eyes. Her eyes widened, pupils dilated, in a mixture of shock and—arousal? “Look at me,” he said. “What happened last night?” “My head hurts,” she said, eyes pleading. “Answer me.” His headache was not doing his mood any favors. “I—I don’t know,” she said. Adam was not in the mood for bullshit. A long-buried rage rose in him, a culmination of every slight—large and small—that he had ever experienced. His father, drunk, beating eight-year-old Adam with a belt, then sinking down on the floor, crying and offering incoherent apologies. (It was the only time his father ever laid hands on him.) His ninth-grade teacher blaming him for a fight instigated by a gang of tenth-grade bullies. His first girlfriend, in bed with Long John, an acquaintance who was on the short side; her eyes were pleading a forgiveness he was unprepared to give. He felt the muscles in his arms, his chest, his quads and calves contracting, his fingers curling around the damp sheets. There was a whooshing sound in his ears, like an airplane taking off or diving into a wind tunnel. His heart was beating harder than after a line of cocaine. His head was pounding. Adam’s arm reached around, grabbing around her throat and squeezing. “You like that?” He hissed. “Seemed like just the thing last night.” Adam watched as her eyes watered, a strange keening noise emitting from her throat beneath his fingers, the whites of her eyes bulging out and taking on a red shade. His fingers began to tremble, and then he saw something burst in her eyes, and he let his grip slacken and released her. What the fuck’s gotten into me? I could have killed her. He turned around in shame. She put her fingers around his neck, and for a moment he thought she was going to strangle him, but she merely redirected his eyes away from the opposite side of the room, toward her eyes. “I’m sorry I did that,” he whispered. There were red fingerprints imprinted on her delicate neck, and every blood vessel in her eyes was visible. Oh my god, what I have done? “No,” she whispered. “What’s going on?” Her eyes were searching his, looking for something but he couldn’t tell what. “I had a theory,” she whispered. “That the presence of large concentrations of Sin might free me… from you.” He said nothing. “But it didn’t work. Not quite like I had hoped. I felt such a rush of freedom, entering that place… I could finally unfold some of the wings that the binding had bound. But it didn’t allow me to fully break free from you. Only manipulate you to loosen the leash a little. It must have persisted.” “I...” He furrowed his brows, raised his voice from the intimate whisper they’d been employing. “I did things I never would have… You made me almost strangle you!” A sadness passed over her face. “No, no,” she whispered. “No, I only allowed the darkest parts of you to rise above the fray. I can’t make you do something you don’t want to do, deep down—all I can do is bypass the safety mechanisms, the failsafes that are supposed to make you reconsider decisions made by your darkest nature.” He pushed her away, Asha teetering on the edge of the bed before she re-stabilized. “The fuck did you do to me? Is it permanent?” He asked. “I imagine not. The fact that you’re so offended right now suggests that your better nature is already reasserting itself,” she said. “Fuck.” “Yes,” she said, licking her lips, and he couldn’t suppress a smile. “Not right now,” he whispered. The shame of what he had just done, what he might have done, clung to him like a sheet on a sweaty tropical night. They lay there for a second, letting it sink in. “It’s not okay,” she said. “What?” She traced a finger over the red line across her neck, drawing his attention to a yellowish bruise developing. “What you did. It’s not okay, but I understand why you did it. I know you wouldn’t have done it if not for the… influence of last night. I forgive you, mortal.” Adam felt his cheeks bloom scarlet. “But if you ever do that again, I will fucking end you. Understand?” He nodded. They lay there for another while, not speaking, Adam’s head swirling with emotions—shame, relief, confusion—and Asha’s unknowable. “You’d make a good little demon,” Asha whispered. “There’s a darkness inside you. And when you’re not hurting me, that’s kind of… fucking hot.” He laid there for a minute, considering this. He knew she was attracted to him—for whatever reason. Why would she say that? An olive branch, he concluded. She was signaling what had happened between them was over and dealt with, and she still liked him. “Why did you do that?” He said, finally. “Make me… want you like that, last night?” Asha rolled her eyes. “I told you, you mortals are way too stuck up about sex.” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t give me that bullshit.” A strangeness passed over Asha’s face, a kind of bubbling of the skin like a wave passing over a patch of water—just like when somebody invoked the Lord in her presence. “I...” she began, stuttering. “I wanted you,” she spat out. “I might be a little bit in love with you, okay?” Adam’s jaw fell open. “Don’t stare at me like that!” She said, blushing. “It’s not like I wanted this, all right?” He chuckled. “Oh, don’t you dare,” she said. “I know you feel the same.” “Oh, I wouldn’t say—” She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t give me that bullshit,” she whispered, her lips very close to his, almost touching when she aspirated. “Okay, okay,” he said, leaning back. “Okay. What does it even matter? Today is the day of the ritual. Either we succeed and I never see you again”—he felt a strange tightness in his throat as he said it—“or we don’t, and we both end up with a fate worse than death. Doesn’t sound like the ideal foundation for romance.” “For such ephemeral creatures, you mortals really don’t know the meaning of the phrase live in the moment,” she said, punching him in the shoulder. “YOLO,” he said, giggling in spite of himself. “Yow-low? Is that one of those stupid… actuality shows on television you mortals love so much?” She asked. “Forget it. Come on, let’s get dressed. It’s...” He glanced at his phone. “Almost noon, which means we got twelve hours to convince Amy not to hate me, or you, and help us or at least instruct us on how to do the ritual. Before we get eaten by hellhounds and tormented until the end of the universe. No biggie.” She rose, and he couldn’t help but linger on her pale uncovered skin. “Oh, and I need to wash these sheets,” he said, as he accidentally put the palm of his hand in the puddle she’d deposited in bed as she vomited. “Why are you worrying about such insignificant...” “Because you pissed the bed again,” he said, and she at least had the decency not to argue as he took the time to strip the bed before he led her, wrapped in a dirty towel, towards the bathroom. “Let’s get your teeth brushed, you stink like a sewer,” Adam said as he led her by the hand out of the shower. He had taken care of the urine clinging to her upper thighs with a washcloth, which had strayed further north, and judging by the way her thighs and abdomen quivered, or the way she ground her pelvis into his hand, she had enjoyed it. “You wouldn’t have noticed if you didn’t stick your tongue down my throat,” she said, sticking her tongue out. “Shut up.” He’d fed them both more over-the-counter painkillers than was strictly recommended, and she seemed to be recovering from her hangover at a frankly concerning rate. “Wha’s plan?” She asked—he thought—as he dabbed at her mouth with a handkerchief. “I’m going to bug and beg Amy over the phone until she agrees to at least give us the instructions for the ritual,” he said. “If she refuses to take the call, we’re going to bang on her door until the neighbors start calling the cops.” “I’d like to meet these ‘cops’ of yours,” Asha said, a flicker of flame dancing around her pupils, licking her lips. “No, no, it won’t come to that,” he said, more like a prayer than a statement of fact. The last thing he needed was for his bound demon to protect him from the police in whatever horrifying fashion she deemed necessary. Visions of human bodies wrung inside-out flashed before his inner eye. “I’m hungry,” she announced. “Make me some food.” “You don’t give the orders around here.” The rumbling of his stomach betrayed him. Damn it. “We’ll grab something to go from the campus canteen. We can take a blanket and have a picnic in the park while I phone stalk Amy.” “How romantic,” Asha said. He never could tell when she was mocking him and when she was being uncharacteristically emotional. “Consider it our first solo date.” “I’m thrilled, mortal,” Asha said, rolling her eyes. They found a spot in the park that formed the rough center of the campus—slightly offset by the university plaza, where the Dean would hold his interminably boring speeches at the beginning of each semester—and he placed down a ragged blanket, handing Asha a ham sandwich. He’d learned by now that she wouldn’t eat anything that didn’t at least have a small element of meat. Adam laid down on the blanket, tearing a piece off his own sandwich, and Asha did the same. It was a nice spring day, with only a couple of wispy clouds on an otherwise warm, blue sky. “Look at that one,” he said, pointing at one of the clouds. “Looks like a dancing elephant.” “Are you sure you didn’t knock your head on something last night?” Asha asked. “That’s clearly an amorphous blob of cloud.” “Use your imagination. What does it remind you of?” He looked over at her. She scrunched up her brow in concentration, then she giggled. “Oh, I see it now! Satan torching four sinners on a spit above a pit of glowing embers!” Adam shook his head. Once a demon, always a demon. He was just about to dial Amy on his phone when a familiar voice cut through the demon’s giggling. “What are you two lovebirds up two?” Adam sat up. There was Amy, piercing him with a stare that said “I don’t believe for a moment this isn’t a date, and you know I don’t.” He blushed. “Ames, I’m sorry—” he began. “Yeah, yeah,” Amy said. “You look like shit, by the way. Maybe not her, but definitely you. Have fun last night?” “Oh, fuck off. Does this mean you’re not mad at me anymore?” Amy stared him down. Her eyes were dripping venom. “Abso-fucking-lutely not. I’m still pissed. But Peter and I made up, somehow. He’s at least talking to me. And so I figured, assuming he doesn’t end up dumping me after all, you will eventually work your way back into my good graces. You might have to lick my ass for a while—hey! That was not literal, don’t look so goddamn perverted! And in the meantime, we have a time limit to get this ritual done.”

Thanks, that's probably the best compliment a writer can get! ?

Second-to-last chapter. Pieces starting to move into position for the endgame! Chapter 4: Den of Sin Asha was already awake and stretching when he woke the next morning. Adam let his unfocused eyes linger on the curve of her spine where it met her butt. A pleasant way to start the day if ever there was one. “I think I had a dream,” she said. “You were in it.” “You think you had a dream?” “My kind does not sleep. This is all very new to me.” Right. “What was I doing? Hanging on a spear above a bonfire, slow-roast style?” He asked. “N-no,” she said and blushed. “I feel strange.” “Are you sick?” He put a hand to her forehead to feel for a fever, but her skin was cool enough to the touch. “I try to imagine torturing you, punishing you for what you did to me,” Asha said, “but when I do, it hurts here.” She put a hand to her chest, near her heart. “I do not like it.” Could it be the binding? Or is it some kind of Stockholm Syndrome thing? “Don’t flatter yourself,” Asha said. “But I would not feel this way about just anyone that came along and put me on a leash.” “Thanks, I guess.” Adam picked up his phone from the night stand and dialed Amy. Time to see if we can mend some broken trust. He didn’t look forward to this conversation, but he didn’t want to put it off either. “Hello,” said a groggy voice on the other end. “It’s still early.” “Are you okay? Are we okay?” Adam asked. “I talked to Peter,” Amy said, and by the tone of her voice, he could already tell it hadn’t gone over well. “He was furious that we’d just ran away from him like that with no explanation. He begged me to explain what was going on.” “What’d you tell him? The truth?” “Of course not!” She spat. “Nobody would believe that. I told him he wouldn’t understand.” “Oh.” “And you know what he said? He told me I’d make him understand, if I truly cared about him. And now he won’t respond to my texts or return my calls.” “I’m so sorry,” Adam said, feeling like a complete asshole. “I told you that this thing wasn’t to come between me and him! This is all your fault!” “Amy, I’m sorry...” “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” “What? You won’t help us with the ritual?” He asked. “Don’t call or text me. I’ll contact you when I’m ready to be friends again, if I ever am. Just leave me alone.” Amy hung up. The last thing he heard before the beep was a choked sob from the other end. Adam threw his phone on a pillow, then punched the duvet in frustration. Fuck! Now he’d really gone and done it. Ruined his relationship with one of his closest friends, and burned all bridges to the one person who could get him—get them—out of this mess. Adam turned to Asha. “You!” He said, suddenly furious and desperate to find an external target to take it out on. He pointed a finger at her chest. “You were the one who told me not to tell Amy about the hell-hounds. This is all your fault!” “We wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t bound me like a slave!” She yelled, fists balled at her sides, arms shaking with anger. Gone was the pleasant demeanor, and in its place was a snarl that reminded him of her true nature. It felt like the temperature in the room had increased several degrees in the space of one sentence. There was a hesitant knock at the door. Adam wiped his eyes, which were for some reason wet, and went over to crack the door open. “Trouble in paradise?” Ryan asked. “Oh, uh, sorry, we’ll keep it down...” “Hey, you okay, man?” Ryan asked. “I’ve barely seen you these past few days.” “Yeah, we’ll talk soon, for sure,” Adam said. “Just been busy, is all,” and he began closing the door. “You can always talk to me, bro,” Ryan said. He’s worried for me. Of course. Adam wasn’t the most outgoing person in their little household, but he was far from a recluse. He’d spend most evenings that he wasn’t studying in the common room of their apartment, watching TV and shooting the shit with the guys. He’d spent the past few days virtually only in the presence of what they must assume was his new girlfriend, and he had a huge bruise on his face, and now Ryan had caught them arguing loudly in his room. He must suspect I’ve gotten myself snared in an abusive relationship. “Your friend is worried about you,” Asha said. Her anger had deflated, and the temperature in the room had cooled to its previous level. “And you are worried about your other friend, Amy.” “Yes,” he said, letting himself fall down onto the bed, which creaked alarmingly under the sudden strain. He couldn’t stay mad at her: she was right, he’d started this whole mess in the first place. And more importantly, being mad at her was like being mad at himself, since he couldn’t leave her and go somewhere to be alone, a strategy he’d usually employ to clear his head on those rare occasions when he argued with his friends. She put out a hand, offering to him. “Are you still mad at me?” She asked, concern in her voice. “No. I’m sorry for yelling at you.” “Can we be friends?” He took her hand and shook it. If you’d told me one week ago that I’d be shaking hands and making friends with a demon… “Good,” she said, then released her hand and clutched it to her abdomen. “I have to go.” “Did we just make up so I’d take you to the bathroom?” “No. Please,” she pleaded. “Okay. But we’re going to find a public restroom. I can’t deal with my housemates right now. They already suspect you’re beating me.” Asha bent over, clutching her abdomen, crossing her legs. Adam picked up his backpack and stuffed the final change of clothes he’d gotten from Amy in. “What’s that for?” Asha demanded. “In case you have another accident.” “I won’t if you stop dragging out the time!” She whined. Adam tried to help her on with her jeans. Asha winced when he began buttoning up the crotch. “Does that hurt?” “Yes!” She bit her lip. “I have a sweater you can wear, it’ll be a little long so we can leave the uppermost button open,” he suggested. Adam retrieved an old hoodie with the brand ASICS in faded print on the chest. “This is really what you wear?” Asha asked, eyeing the worn-out sweater with disgust. “No doubt nobody wants to sleep with you.” “No,” Adam said, “this is the sort of shit I keep in the back of my closet because it’s too worn out to wear day-to-day, but I can’t afford to throw it out yet because unlike a certain someone, I’m not a fucking princess of Hell and I can’t ask daddy to buy me a new one. Now are you going to wear it, or should I button you up?” “I—I’ll wear it,” she said, and he helped her put it on. “I don’t, you know,” she said while he helped her lace up her shoes. “Ask my father to just get me something new if I wear something out, that is.” “Do you ever do something he wouldn’t like?” He asked. “Uh, sometimes,” she said, squirming on the spot. “Nothing major, though.” “Aw, Daddy’s girl,” Adam said and offered her his hand. “Too bad, right now I’m your daddy,” he added with a chuckle. Asha didn’t laugh. She frowned, stomped her foot on the floor, and spat out, “You’re nothing like my father. If you were, I’d hate you.” “So you don’t hate me anymore? Glad to hear it.” “Shut up!” She said, blushing. “And don’t think I’m ever calling you ‘daddy,’ mister.” Her eyes flashed into a vision of the void, then flickered back into the bright green he felt like he could lose himself in forever. “Wouldn’t dream of it, squirt,” he said. “I did not leak,” she said. “Relax, it’s just a cute nickname.” “I would prefer if you didn’t invent any more cute nicknames,” she said. “I’d hate to break your heart when I leave forever.” The comment stung more than it should have. Adam realized that he didn’t really want her to leave. He’d grown complacent in the idea that she was always there, by his side. It couldn’t go on forever, but he found himself wishing it could last just a little longer, that it wouldn’t be forever cut short by the full moon. What’s gotten into me? “You are mortal, and weak,” she said, as they walked hand in hand down the gravel path towards the nearest public restroom he knew of, in the college cafeteria. It should still be open even though it was a Saturday morning. Plenty of students studied in the nearby library over the weekend. “So you’re not going to shed a tear when you leave me forever,” Adam said, trying to hide the hurt in his voice. “Well, I’ll be glad to be rid of you too.” Except he wouldn’t. He was only saying that in a feeble attempt to hide his true feelings. “I didn’t… say that,” she said, stopping for a moment to hold herself. “Okay, remember what we talked about yesterday,” he whispered as they entered the cafeteria, glad to shift focus to practical matters. “Hopefully it won’t come to that, but if we can’t sneak into a restroom and someone sees us together, you have to pretend to be disabled and that I’m your handler, okay? Otherwise they’ll think we’re up to no good and kick us out.” “I hate this,” she said, but followed his lead into the cafeteria. Only a few people were there. It was still relatively early, before 9 AM on a Saturday, just half an hour after the cafeteria and library opened. Adam tried to surreptitiously lead them towards the handicap bathroom in the back of the cafeteria. Asha was now constantly clutching her abdomen and trying to suppress moans—clearly, she was in a bad way. Adam regretted not insisting she go before bed. But she’d managed not to have an accident all day yesterday—he’d almost started to think this wouldn’t be a problem anymore. Just as he put his hand on the door handle, he heard someone deliberately clear their throat behind him. Adam whirled around to see a male janitor standing at the corner near the bathrooms, frowning and gesturing at the two of them. “What do you two think you’re doing?” The janitor said. He was middle-aged, overweight, and sported a mean mug. “She’s disabled and I’m her companion for the day. I need to accompany her...” He spit out the lie too quickly, as if he’d been waiting to spring it—which he had—but no matter. Surely this grump bastard couldn’t deny them now? As if on cue, Asha let her mouth hang open and allowed a little trail of drool escape her lips, slipping down her cheek in a way that he almost couldn’t resist wiping away, in what he assumed was a generic impersonation of a non-specific disability. It looked incredibly stupid. Oh, well, he had no time to worry about political correctness now. “I’m going to need to see some ID,” said the janitor, leaning on his washing brush. “Dammit, can’t you see it’s an emergency?” Adam said, raising his voice. Asha, squirming and clutching her crotch, did nothing if not support his assertion. “Are you really going to let a disabled girl disgrace herself in public over some stupid power trip?” He made sure everyone in the cafeteria could hear him—although he’d rather not attract attention, he didn’t think Asha could make it to another restroom. People were starting to stare now. Good. “Uh, relax, you can go in, just don’t make it a habit,” said the janitor, blushing. Adam dragged Asha into the restroom without looking back. She bent over as soon as he locked the door, and he had to help her stagger to the toilet. Asha bit her lip and crossed her legs as he tried to open the buttons on her jeans. “Hurry!” She said. “Trying!” As he got the jeans down to her knees, he noted that the front of the Hello Kitty panties was already dark red rather than pink, soaked. As he lowered her pants fully, her entire abdomen shook, and she spurted violently, splashing urine onto his hands and a bit onto the front of his pants. “Sorry!” She said. Adam decided that the panties were a lost cause and helped Asha sit down on the toilet, panties still on. Asha immediately sighed and a steady trickle emerged from the front of her panties, soaking them further and giving Adam a peek at the contour of her lips. She closed her eyes as the pee began leaking out the legholes of her underwear, sputtering into the toilet bowl. Then she opened her eyes wide. “Get them off, get them off quickly!” She said, leaning forward, closing his view of her crotch, clutching her abdomen. Thinking quickly, Adam put his hands under her armpits and hoisted her up, quickly using one arm to slip the soaking panties down her legs. Then he let her down, and Asha’s cheeks turned scarlet as the stream became a waterfall between her legs and she erupted from the other end. Adam respectfully averted his eyes while she finished up, heart pounding hard enough to threaten escape from his rib cage. “I’m done,” she said. She attempted to wipe herself down, but doubled over in pain when she tried, so Adam put a hand over hers and held it here, trying to guide her to wipe herself without having to touch her with his own skin. When she was all dry and clean, he first inspected her pants—mostly dry, with just a tiny bit of wetness near the bottom-most button—and then her borrowed panties. The front was soaking with pee, dripping, so he had to use a sheet of toilet paper to dry them enough not to stain the pants. Adam had Asha stand up, and when he did, he saw the full extent of the damage to her underwear. The back portion was badly stained with a dark brown. “Oh, my, you really made a mess of these,” he whispered. Adam could see her tearing up, so he pulled her into a hug. Asha leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, and he pretended not to notice the wetness on his shirt. When she had composed herself, he separated and used some toilet paper to wipe her eyes. “I would have made it if you took me to the toilet at home,” she sniffled. “Sure you would, sweetheart.” Sweetheart? And she thinks of my place as home? Fuck, this is bad. “Please get me cleaned up,” she said. “I smell awful.” That she did. Adam gingerly lowered first the jeans, then the panties, and wet some tissue paper to clean her thighs. Asha closed her eyes and seemed to be meditating—probably wishing she could disappear into a hole, he imagined. Then he brought the soiled underwear to the sink and attempted to wash them out, but the stain in the back wouldn’t come out. “This is useless. We’ll have to throw this away,” he said. “Lucky for you, I brought a change.” He retrieved a new pair of panties from his backpack—these ones were no less juvenile, a yellow bikini-cut thing featuring Spongebob Squarepants across the front and a set of denim overalls with metallic buttons at the shoulders. Asha said nothing as he fussed over her, making sure she got the new outfit on okay. “Your friend definitely has some sort of weird kink,” she remarked as she regarded herself in the mirror. “Or she raided her baby sister’s closet. Put my hair in pigtails and I’d look about three-hundred and fifty years younger.” “Would you like me to do that for you?” He asked. “Of course not, you perv. I know you’d like it,” she said, and despite the rebuke, Adam was glad to hear her in good humor again. “Are you feeling sick? That was, uh, quite messy,” Adam said. Asha put a hand tentatively to her abdomen. “I guess I’m not feeling super great,” she admitted. “Next time, you will take me to the nearest toilet or I’ll have you roasted alive.” “Uh, okay,” he said. “You hungry?” He asked as they exited together. The janitor was nowhere to be seen. “Yes,” she said. “But I don’t want to eat here. Everyone stared at me.” Adam glanced around the room and saw a couple of curious eyes. Asha was very obviously not wearing the same outfit she’d had on when they entered the restroom. “Okay, let’s find somewhere else,” he said. They settled on a café around the corner. Asha ordered a full English breakfast, which pained Adam right in the soul—or rather, his wallet—but his stomach growled, and he ended up getting the same. “Be careful not to upset your stomach with all that fatty stuff,” he said. “Be careful to take me when I devil-damned ask you to and not, like, twenty minutes later, and you won’t have to deal with it when it comes out the other end,” Asha said, pushing her fork through a piece of bacon demonstratively. Adam held his tongue. “So Amy won’t help us with the ritual?” Asha asked between mouthfuls. She still ate like a savage, spilling food all over her face, and Adam felt compelled to dab at the edges of her mouth with a napkin. Apparently table etiquette was just another one of those things that worked differently in Hell than up here on terra firma. “I’m still hoping she’ll come around, but I wouldn’t count on it,” he said. “And the full moon is tomorrow night. You have to come up with something, a backup plan,” Asha said. “I guess we could go to the library, try to find out more about this Musgrave dude. He must have gotten his information somewhere.” They walked hand in hand into the library and steered towards the back, where the occult books were located. Adam rummaged through the shelf until he found a book called Biographies of Notable Alchemists (1397-1884). It looked more promising than anything else he’d found, so he brought the heavy, leather-bound book over to a reading table. This book, unlike the Demonic Dictionary, appeared to actually be organized in alphabetical order. Adam leafed through the book until he found the M’s, passing over Manning, Roger and Mirá, Esteban until he found what he was looking for: Musgrave, Adam. “His name is the same as yours!” Asha remarked. “Yeah, funny coincidence. Let’s see what it says.” He read aloud: Adam Musgrave, born outside London in 1404, believed to have died in Plimouth, Massachusetts, 1650-60. “That is a very long life for a mortal,” Asha said. “Yes, it is. Maybe he discovered the Philosopher’s Stone along the way. Now shush, demon.” He continued reading: The early life of Mr. Musgrave is shrouded in obscurity, but according to legend he attempted unsuccessfully to discover the recipes for the Philosopher’s Stone and the Elixir of Life while still in England. Although his exact date and year of birth is only known according to legend, it is certain that he was a very old man when he accompanied the Mayflower to the Americas. How Mr. Musgrave, by all accounts not a particularly religious man, ended up traveling with the Pilgrims to the Colonies is a mystery, but surviving accounts describe a very determined and charismatic fellow. An English Catholic by the name of Rupert Morrow attempted to bring Mr. Musgrave to trial on account of alleged witchcraft in the late 1590’s, but the prevailing social currents in England did not favor any religious charge brought by a Catholic, and the case disintegrated before ever going to trial. This is attested in records from the Old Bailey. Mr. Musgrave’s later life was largely occupied with an obsession with the occult, and particularly demonology, but inexplicably, he seems to have been able to keep his researches secret and is recorded as a Preacher in the Mayflower’s manifest. Sometime in the years immediately prior to his departure for the Americas, Mr. Musgrave appears to have deposited a manuscript with a publisher in London, but the manuscript languished in obscurity and was only printed in an extremely limited edition after or shortly before his death, in 1657. This manuscript is known, according to legend, as the Daemonic Dictionary, and was reportedly regarded as archaic and obscure even in its own time, but few have ever laid eyes or hands on it. Many regard the book as entirely mythical, and believe it never to have existed. Other, less reputable sources swear it is the only genuine manual of Practical Demonology ever to be printed. Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell reportedly declared the book anathema, but all details regarding its printing and dissemination are vague and uncertain. All extant copies of the book are believed to have been lost in the Great London Fire of 1666. What is almost certain is that Mr. Musgrave took on students while in the Americas, usually young and impressionable folk not well-versed in the alchemical Arts. Several of them would later, in their old age, be accused of witchcraft in the infamous Salem Witch Trials of 1692-93. One such alleged student of Mr. Musgrave’s, Anna Mire, was burned at the stake in May, 1693. Ms. Mire was an alchemical researcher of some merit in her own right, and she has her own entry in this book. Adam leafed backwards through the book, seeking the biography of Anna Mire—wasn’t she the one who’d written about the ritual Amy had found?—but all he found was the traces of what might have been a page once, ripped out of the book. Or maybe the century-old bookbinding had simply and coincidentally disintegrated in a violent fashion just where the offending biography was supposed to go. This smells fishier than a cannery. “If all copies of the book were lost in 1666, how come you found it in this library?” Asha asked. “I don’t know! It’s almost as if someone wanted me to find it. Anyway, this doesn’t help us. Some dude who may have lived to be 250 years old somehow figured out how to conduct actual summonings and bindings of demons from Hell, but we don’t know where or how he found that out, and he recorded it in a book that shouldn’t exist, but is somehow sitting in my bedroom.” “When you put it like that, it doesn’t sound promising,” Asha said. “Did anything happen in, uh, Hell around that time? Anything that might help us connect the dots?” Asha cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “How old do you think I am?” She asked. Adam blushed. “I don’t know, but, like, you said something earlier about looking three-hundred and fifty years younger...” “I wasn’t being literal, dumb mortal,” Asha said. Great. Now she understands sarcasm. “I heard that.” They spent another hour combing through the occult section, but found nothing pertaining to a Rite of Transference, a Dr. Adam Musgrave, or a Ms. Anna Mire, alchemist and alleged witch. “I’ll have to beg Amy to at least tell me the details of this thing if she won’t come around, but I figure it’s best to give her a day. In the meantime, how are we going to deal with the hell-hounds tonight?” Adam asked. “Would be a shame to die terribly after all this.” “They are like bloodhounds,” Asha said. “Except they smell emotions and sin. The only way I know of to evade them is to confuse them: immerse yourself in a place that would naturally harbor sin or fear, and hope they don’t look too closely.” “Where are we going to find a place like that? And isn’t that risky, leaving the comfort of home?” “If they find out where we live,” Asha said, and Adam noted that she was now speaking as if they were cohabitating—which, to be fair, they had been for the past couple of days—“then no wall or lock will keep them out. What we need is a den of sin. A place so steeped in sin and strong emotion that no one would think anything of it if we add a little to the mix.” “I don’t know anywhere like that,” Adam said. He did not exactly live an outrageous lifestyle, didn’t dabble in crime or drugs aside from the occasional bud or alcohol. But then it came to him. “Scratch that, I do. But I don’t think it’s a great idea. No, no, no.” “Where?” Asha demanded. “It’s a nightclub called the Last Refuge.” Adam had heard rumors of the outrageous sexual practices that supposedly occurred in their basement, but he did know the ground floor was a regular nightclub, albeit one with a very risque and burlesque theme and reputation. “What if the hell-hounds catch us on the way there or back again? And I won’t be able to take you to the bathroom.” “You’ll find a way.” “I won’t be able to go to the bathroom.” “You will find a way,” Asha insisted. “You don’t have an ID, what if they ask?” She cocked her head and lifted an eyebrow. “Let me handle that.” “You can have one drink,” Adam whispered as they lined up in the queue for the Last Refuge. Of course none of his objections had been heeded. And he had to admit, Asha did look stunning in Amy’s too-short dress, neon lights giving her green gaze an ethereal quality. “Ten,” she responded. “Two,” he said. “Five.” “Three for the whole evening, and that is final.” They got to the front of the line, and the bouncer asked to see Adam’s ID. He flashed it, nervous as to what would happen when it came to be Asha’s turn. He needn’t have worried. Despite being muzzled and tied to Adam’s leash, Asha was a high-ranking member of Hell’s elite. A demon straight from the netherworld. She directed her eyes at the burly man, and Adam could feel her tug at the mental leash. She held his hand, and he felt it grow hotter than a coal; he dropped the hand and was surprised not to find burn marks. The man’s eyes glazed over, and a hand fell lazily as if to direct them inwards, although up close it looked more like he was momentarily paralyzed. The two of them entered the club, and Adam cast a glance over his shoulder. He could hear some commotion outside, and the last he saw, it seemed the bouncer was now on his knees, coughing and holding his chest. “What did you do?” Adam whisper-shouted. Asha didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she closed her eyes as they entered a dimly lit dancefloor, pounding house music blaring from a high-powered soundsystem, and took a deep breath. “Ahhhh,” she sighed—no, she moaned. “This is like being home again. I can smell the sin in the air.” Adam felt a drop of sweat slide down his neck. Was it really a great idea to bring a literal demon to a Den of Sin? Asha seemed to somehow have taken on another dimension, as if she’d been a flat cardboard cut-out outside; now, she was alive. She directed him to a bar on the side of the dancefloor, and confidently ordered them shots of vodka, which Adam had to pay for. She knocked back the shot in a second, and then she fixed her gaze on Adam. He felt as if the leash in his mind was being stretched to its limits. “Now, we dance,” Asha said. “I don’t dance.” She leaned in and whispered in his ear, her lips lightly brushing his earlobe in an impossibly seductive manner. “You do tonight.” She pulled him up onto a raised section of the dancefloor, near a metal cage in which a leather-clad young woman was gyrating out of tune with the music. Asha put his hands on her shoulders, and Adam found himself following her lead without question. She leaned in and began grinding herself into him, then somehow made his hands into her puppets, twirling her around, lowering her down backwards almost to the floor, resting only on his hands, then hands on her hips, then arms around her neck. Adam felt drunk, even though he’d only had one drink. He looked down, tracing her breasts, then down her sides to her hips. That’s when he noticed the smoke. Other revelers seemed to think it was coming from a well-hidden smoke machine, but it wasn’t. It was coming from her. Her eyes flashed green, black, green, black, as she drew him closer and closer. He wanted to pull away, could feel the mental leash being stretched to the edge of tearing apart, but she was intoxicating. She wore no perfume—as far as he knew, having taken care of her hygiene for the past few days—but the smell of her was intoxicating nonetheless. It was wrong, it was dangerous, and it was impossibly sexy. There were more drinks, although to Adam, time seemed to blur and stretch and he couldn’t quite remember how many. Then they were up on the little stage again, and she was grinding on him, and he was holding his hands around the back of her neck… And then she leaned in. He closed his eyes and felt her lips on his; he opened his mouth slightly, and she teased him with the tip of her tongue. It tasted of iron, of blood, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. He opened his eyes and saw that she had hers open, and around the green of her iris, the whites of her eyes had been replaced by a bonfire, yellows and reds and black smoke dancing around that irresistible green. Adam closed his eyes again and fell back into the kiss. At some point, he became vaguely aware of someone speaking next to him, and then he picked up a young man saying, “Look, she’s pissing herself!” Adam redirected his eyes down Asha’s body, focusing on her bare thighs below the hem of the dress, and saw a trail of urine running down towards her running shoes, intermittently glistening in the strobe lights. Asha held his hand, but turned her fiery eyes at the young man, and said simply, “But you love that, don’t you, honey?” Through his drunkenness, he felt the leash tug, almost tear, then snap back, but it snapped back onto him, forcing him to lean down and steady himself with hands on his hips. That left him roughly level with the crotch of the young man, and Adam could see something strain against the denim, and then, faintly, a small wet spot bloom on the front. Had she just made him come with one sentence? Whatever was going on—and that wasn’t very easy to figure out, as Adam had somehow gotten very drunk despite insisting on only three drinks for the entire evening, and only specifically recalling the first one—Asha was not the cowed servant she had been since he bound her, not in this place. Perhaps she fed on sin. He could see the man stagger around as if he’d been struck, and then Asha’s lips were on his again, and his hand on the wetness at her thighs, and his crotch was bulging. At some point, she led him by the hand towards a door near the back of the club. A man dressed in all leather, mask on his face and whip in hand, guarded the door. He opened it without question when Asha looked at him, and they descended a series of steps towards a basement. Several levels, it felt like; it must be a sub-basement. He felt the temperature in the air increase; he was sweating, felt feverish. Down there was a corridor filled with doors, moans coming through some of them, cries of pain out of others. Asha led him towards a specific door, as if she knew what was behind it, and opened it. He heard a lock click open, but she held no key. Inside was what looked like an examination bench at a doctor’s office, except it had a number of braces that could be used to lock the occupant in place. On the wall hung a number of bondage-themed implements: whips, leashes, paddles. Asha confidently strolled over to the table and laid herself down on it. “Tie me up,” she purred. This is wrong, so wrong, Adam’s rational mind said, but he locked the metallic braces in place around her ankles and wrists anyway. “Come closer,” she said, and he did. “Touch me.” He put a hand tentatively to her face, then let it slide down the side of her body, then under the hem of her dress, where he felt that her panties were quite wet. “Feel my bladder,” she whispered. He cupped her lower abdomen. It was hard as a rock. “You’re so full,” he said. “Tell me I should hold it,” she moaned. “You should hold it.” Adam didn’t know quite where the words came from, but it was somewhere deep down. He’d never done anything like this with any previous partner. “But I don’t think you can,” he said, watching her squirm against the loops keeping her locked to the table. Then he pushed down on her bladder. She moaned, then cried out—whether in pain or pleasure, he could not tell. “Ah!” Adam put a hand between her legs as the stream began: urine, oddly purple under the strange atmospheric lighting in this place, spraying out, pumping out rhythmically as the used one hand to bush on her bladder, felt her muscles contract first to resist, then let go, then push it out, the smell of urine filling the air and sticking to his fingers. She peed for a long time, eyes closed, blushing, breathing heavily, her chest seeming to expand beyond what her chest could handle before deflating. The urine poured out between her legs, soaked into her dress, ran down the length of the table, then spilled over the edges, dripping down onto the floor. “I knew you couldn’t hold it,” he said, despite himself. This is so wrong. But then: This is so hot. “You keep peeing yourself. Just like a little girl. My, my, my.” He took hold of one of her breasts. “I want you,” she moaned. “I want you to take me.” Adam found himself climbing on his knees onto the table, then unbuttoning his pants, not minding her piss soaking into the denim at his knees. He put one hand around her neck—no, this is not my style—but she merely moaned in pleasure. It was already starting to get light out when they finally staggered out of the club, leaning on each other, drunk and spent, the both of them. Asha seemed to deflate as they exited the club, some of the supernatural, intensely compelling charisma and attractiveness fading as it meant daylight and left the confines of the Den of Sin. She leaned on him, shivering as the cool early morning breeze hit her soaked wet thighs. Adam didn’t worry about retribution from Hell as they shambled homewards. No, as he stripped Asha’s thoroughly soaked clothes of, all of them, then his own, falling down into a pile of naked, entangled, spent limbs, his only thought was: What the hell happened tonight? And what does it mean for us?

Chapter 3: Date Night They woke up to the sun peeking in through the curtains, partially obscured by a cloud. Adam closed the window and noted that the late spring weather had cooled—good thing Asha had something other than those ridiculous short-shorts to wear. “Morning, mortal,” she said, stretching herself. “You stink.” Adam smelled his shirt. Indeed. He’d only had time to splash a little bit of water under his arms and onto his face since the evening of the ritual, which was now a day and a half ago. Which presented a problem: how was he going to use the bathroom for anything—toilet business or showering or doing laundry—if he had to have Asha with him at all times? He couldn’t explain this sudden and extreme co-dependence to his housemates, or anyone else for that matter. Except Amy. Didn’t she say she’d found something? “She did,” Asha said. “Are you going to stink all day?” Clearly teaching manners is not a top priority when raising a demon. What were his priorities, anyway? Now he remembered the terrifying howls of the night before. Right. He definitely needed to solve this today, before dark. So, shower, then hardcore research. He picked up the phone and dialed Amy. “Morning,” she said. “Morning. Did you say you had something for us?” “I did, but it’s not a quick-fix, unfortunately. I have a morning class but we can discuss it over lunch. Listen, I need to go get ready...” “Wait! I need to shower and do some laundry, and I can’t explain to my housemates why I have to bring my ‘girlfriend’ that they’d never seen until yesterday with me wherever I go. Do you think…?” “Put me on speaker,” Amy said. Adam did. “Okay, I’m going to leave a spare key in the flower pot outside the front door. You can shower and do laundry, but bring your own towels. Asha, I’m trusting you to make sure Adam doesn’t sneak a peek in my panty drawer or does anything else remotely creepy, okay?” “With pleasure,” Asha said. “Thanks, I owe you one,” Adam said, then they exchanged see you laters and he hung up. Unbelievable. She trusts a demon straight outta Hell more than she does her friend. “You have a lot to learn about the female gender,” Asha said. She was standing beside the bed, and Adam blushed at the sight of her nude from the waist down. “Put on some clothes, will you?” “I can’t, remember?” Right. He walked over, picked up a new, dry pair of Amy’s panties—these ones were pink, with a Hello Kitty print, which extracted a raised eyebrow from the both of them and made Adam wonder what else he didn’t know about his friend—and raised them up to her hips. Then it was on with the jeans from the previous day, which had not miraculously grown any wider or longer over night. Asha swayed her hips as Adam tried his best to shimmy the pants up her thighs. Downside of being thicc, I suppose. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means these pants weren’t made to fit someone as sexy as you. Now shut up and help me get them on you.” She looked pleased at the compliment. Too pleased. “You can carry the laundry bin for me since you’re the one who keeps pissing in your pants,” he added. Asha frowned, but picked up the laundry as she’d been told. As before, Adam tried to scout ahead to avoid his housemates, but this time, he failed. At the door, they ran into Eddie, the resident womanizer. He was taller than Adam, fitter, with a muscular chest and biceps that always strained at the fabric of his shirts—no doubt intentionally—and Adam hated the fact that he actually wasn’t a complete douchebag. He may look like a jock, and he may sleep with a lot of women, but he never lied to them about his casual intentions, never made himself out to be better by slagging off others. “Oh, hey Adam,” he said, almost colliding into Asha as he entered the door. “Out late again?” Adam asked. “You know how it is,” Eddie said with a smile. “Dude, what happened to your face?” “Got hit by an elbow playing basketball,” Adam lied. It was the best lie he could come up with: although he didn’t play in any organized fashion, every once in a while he’d play a casual pickup game with some friends. Eddie didn’t seem to buy this, but he could sense that Adam wasn’t comfortable sharing, so he plowed on gamely, “Who’s your friend?” “This is, uh, Asha,” he said. “Nice to meet you,” Eddie said, extending a hand. Asha shot a look at Adam, and he nodded. They shook hands. “You didn’t tell me your friend was such a prime specimen,” Asha said. Eddie laughed. “You have a funny way of speaking, but thanks, I guess?” “We gotta get going, talk to you later,” Adam said. “Good for you, bro!” Eddie responded as they walked out the door. “Your friend is hot,” Asha said once the door closed. “Glad to hear it,” Adam said, surprised to hear the disappointed edge to his voice. “Sadly for you, you’re stuck with me for the time being.” “I never said you weren’t hot,” Asha replied. Huh. Adam felt his cheeks warm. “Let’s get to Amy’s place,” he said. “I’m dying for a shower and lucky for you, you’re getting in with me.” “Looking forward to it,” she said and giggled. The key was in the flower pot, just as Amy had said. He unlocked the door, tossed the key on the kitchen counter, and led Asha by the hand to the bathroom. “No staring when I undress,” he said. “I seem to recall you staring quite a bit when you undressed me.” “Well, I’m the one calling the shots.” He accepted the laundry bin from Asha and tossed it into the machine, then began undressing. Once he was fully nude, he began undressing Asha. Off with the tortuously tight jeans, off with the Hello Kitty panties, off with the t-shirt. She was stunning, as usual. Adam led her by the hand to the shower—her eyes averted from his nude form, as he’d requested—but then he stopped. “Hey, do you need to go?” “I do not,” she said. “Oh, right. You peed yourself just a few hours ago.” Asha blushed. “I would prefer,” she said, carefully looking into his eyes but not straying down to his nude crotch, “if you didn’t mention that.” “Why, because it’s embarrassing?” “Yes!” She shouted. “Is this how you treat your girlfriends? Always reminding them of their most humiliating experiences? No wonder your friends are so surprised to see you with a girl!” Oof. “Sorry,” he said. “If it makes you feel any better, you know I enjoyed it.” “It does not,” she said. “Now please shut off and wash me.” Adam carefully lathered her with soap, kneading it in, then directed the stream of the shower to clean it off. Then he picked up the bar of soap himself. “Would you like me to do that?” Asha asked. What? “I said...” “I heard you. You sure you want to do that?” “I want to.” He let her soap him up. Adam found himself closing his eyes and fantasizing that she was actually his girlfriend, not the demon he’d accidentally bound. When she strayed to his crotch, he tensed up. “You don’t like that?” She purred. “I do, but are you sure you’re comfortable...” “You mortals have some strange hang-ups about sex,” Asha said, and continued soaping him up. Adam couldn’t suppress an erection, but at this point, what was the point? She knew he was aroused, he had seen her at her most vulnerable. What did they really have to hide from one another? He kneaded some shampoo into her hair, which fell to her shoulders, and let her to do the same to his. Then they cleaned it off, and it was time to towel themselves dry. Which is to say, Adam had to do it for the both of them, as Asha purred and moaned. “Is it really that good for you?” He asked. “I have not been touched like that for a long time,” she admitted. “You said your mother was a Succubus. I would’ve assumed you got it on all the time...” “It’s not easy to find someone of proper breeding to satisfy my father,” she admitted. “You let your father decide who you’re allowed to fuck? I thought you take what you want, when you want it?” “I knew you wouldn’t understand,” Asha said. “Oooh, more like that,” as he rubbed her crotch. “I presume I’m not of proper breeding, being a mortal and all,” Adam said. “Shut up and continue!” He rubbed at her, rhythmically, massaging her until he could hear her breath speeding up; her cheeks flushed, and then, finally, her entire body shook. Asha’s eyes were closed, her mouth partially open, and a little trail of liquid he didn’t think was pee ran down her thigh. She swayed on her feet and let him catch and hold her upright as the orgasm receded. “Did you just, uh...” “Yes,” she mumbled. “I needed that.” Adam finished toweling her off and then dressed her, then himself. What the hell? Now clean and dry, he led her by the hand to Amy’s couch. “Ok, Asha,” he said. “I need you to tell me anything, and I mean absolutely anything, that could potentially be relevant to bringing you back home. Anything at all.” “I told you, I don’t know! I thought binding was a fairy tale!” Adam poured himself a glass of water and another for Asha. She drank it down eagerly, then requested another. He handed it to her warily, reminding her to tell him the moment she needed to pee. She huffed and gulped down the water in one go. “Think! You don’t want the hell-hounds to catch you, do you?” “Of course not.” “If this was a fairy tale or legend when you were growing up, maybe other stories that you thought were child’s tales were actually real. Tell me something we can use.” Asha thought about it. “There was one story,” she said finally. “But it was so ridiculous I never believed it even as a spawnling.” “Tell me.” “The story says that time is a great cycle, turning around and around, on the scale of thousands of years. And at one point in each great turning of the wheel—” “The Wheel of Time?” Adam asked. “The wheel, the cycle, the great revolution, whatever you want to call it!” “Never mind, that was a joke.” “Anyway,” Asha said, frowning, “a powerful necromancer shall be born completely unaware. He shall not have any idea of his powers until the time when he first attempts to use them...” “Go on.” “And once he uses his powers, he shall summon and bind a powerful demon, and the demon shall try and fail to kill him, and be ever at his mercy. And the powers that be in Hell shall send their Legions to retrieve the bound demon, but the power of… Okay, the ending is just so ridiculous I can’t even...” “Tell me,” he said. “And just as the Legions of Hell close in, the power of True Love shall save the couple from the Wrath of Heaven and Hell alike.” “Wow.” “I told you it was ridiculous,” Asha said, but Adam could see her cheeks redden. “Could that apply to us?” He asked. Why did I say that? I barely know her, and she’s a demon. “Don’t be silly. I don’t ‘love’ you. You’re mortal, barely average in the looks department and you don’t exactly treat me like a princess. Don’t tell me you’ve, ugh, how do you say, ‘become in love with me?’” “Fallen in love,” he corrected her. “And, um, of course not. You are literal hellspawn. And you’re not exactly nice to me all the time.” “And you are not exactly a powerful necromancer.” “Maybe I am? I did manage to bind...” “Raise any Lich-Kings lately?” Asha shot in. “Uh, no...” “Glad we cleared that up, mortal,” Asha said, but her cheeks were still red. Did the fairy tale hit closer to home than she wanted to give away? “Do demons ever fall in love?” He asked. “Demons regard love as a mortal weakness,” Asha replied. “What about your mother and father?” “My mother and father were in lust,” she replied. “They never, like, sacrificed anything for each other, just because they couldn’t stand to be without each other?” Asha squirmed, not like her previous pee-squirming, more like someone put on the spot to answer a question they had never considered seriously because they feared the answer would be too painful to bear. “Do you command me to answer truthfully?” “Yes.” Asha shuddered. “My mother,” she said, “was set to become the ruler of the Circle of Lust after her father. But the other Circles did not wish for a single family to control two Circles, fearing it would upset the balance of power in Hell, and threatened war if this union came to be. So she renounced her claim to the throne in order to marry my father.” “Sounds like love to me,” Adam said. “Shut up!” “What happened to her? Your mother, I mean?” “I do not know. She has been gone for hundreds of years now, as mortals reckon time—since I was very young. My father says she is gone forever, but I know he’s still looking for her.” They sat silently for a while, pondering this. “This will not do!” Asha said. “Get on with it, mortal. Figure out a solution!” Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence. “I would not ask you if I had any other choice!” Asha said, exasperated. Adam thought about it. Finally he fished out his phone and started typing into his browser. “This is not the time to be fiddling with that shiny little game!” Asha said. “It’s not a game, Asha,” he explained. “It’s like a big library, except bigger and more comprehensive than any physical library in the world.” Asha peered over his shoulder to watch him type in “how to return a summoned demon to Hell” in Safari. Asha made various displeased noises as she read over his shoulder, Adam scanning through the first ten hits and finding nothing but various obviously fake rituals and ghostbuster websites. “Give me that, dumb mortal,” Asha said. He showed her how to navigate the smartphone display with her fingers, and after a few false starts, she was scrolling away. They spent the next hour scrolling through occult and Satanic websites, all of which were hopelessly misguided as to the nature of Hell, according to the demon. “Am I right that anyone can put a book into this ‘library’ of yours?” Asha finally asked. “Uh, yeah, that’s kind of how the internet works.” “This is useless!” Asha said, and made to throw his iPhone on the floor, but Adam stayed her with a stern hand on her wrist. “That’s expensive and I can’t afford to replace it.” Asha reluctantly let him have the phone back. Adam’s stomach chose that moment to make its discomfort known. He was hungry, but there was something else… Well, shit. Steeling himself, he took Asha’s hand and pulled her towards the bathroom. “I don’t need to go!” She complained. “Well, I do,” he snapped back. Better get this done and over with. Why was he so embarrassed? After all, it was only natural, and he’d seen her in far more compromising positions. Adam was forced to admit to himself that maybe, just maybe, it was because against all good instincts, he was starting to like Asha quite a lot and didn’t want to disgust her. He directed her to avert her eyes, then pulled down his pants and sat down to do the dirty but necessary business. Asha said nothing, but wrinkled her nose and waved a hand in front of her face to signal her displeasure. Once he was done, he noticed that the laundry cycle was done, so he proceeded to pull out all the garments Asha had peed in—the daisy-dukes, the two pairs of panties—slowly and deliberately, giving her a good look at them before he hung them to dry. She had the decency to blush. “I’m hungry,” Asha said, after the toilet and laundry business was done. “As am I. Good thing it’s almost lunch-time. We can go eat at the cafeteria and I’ll text Amy to meet us there after her class.” “You’re going to buy me lunch? How nice of you,” she said. Adam couldn’t tell if it was genuine or sarcastic, but then again, Asha rarely betrayed any understanding of non-literal speech. Perhaps she honestly wanted him to know she appreciated it. Odd thought. On the way to the cafeteria, he noted that Asha’s steps steadily grew shorter, and her face contorted in pain. Did she have to pee? But she wasn’t displaying any of the jitteriness he’d come to expect. Adam stopped and let his eyes trace down her thighs to her feet. Of course, the shoes. He’d had trouble getting them on her—Amy’s feet must be at least one size smaller than Asha’s. “Do your feet hurt?” He asked. “N-no,” she said, biting her lip. “You don’t have to be strong for me. Tell me honestly: is it painful for you to walk in those shoes?” Asha seemed to fight an internal battle between maintaining her pride and the desire to relieve her pain. Finally, her shoulders slumped, and she said, very quietly, “Yes.” Well, fuck. I’m going to have to buy her proper shoes. Asha’s eyes lit up—of course, she’d listened in on his internal monologue, the sneak—as he grabbed her hand and steered her off campus, towards the nearest shopping street. They dipped into a small shoe store and Asha quickly led him over to a shelf filled with tall leather boots, most of which wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Dominatrix’s BDSM dungeon. “This is more like it!” She said, eyes momentarily flashing to darkness, as if she’d found something that reminded her of home and couldn’t quite contain her demonic nature. Adam glanced over his shoulder to make sure the proprietor wasn’t looking to closely at them. She was busy helping the sole other customer in the little shop. Tall boots were not season-appropriate, but more importantly, the prices were not appropriate for his wallet, so he dragged her away, Asha pouting like a child. “You never let me have any fun,” she said. I think you had fun in the shower earlier. “Oh, yeah,” she whispered, and smiled. He found her a pair of running shoes for $49.99 on sale, and bought them for her (in spite of her protests) as soon as he confirmed that they fit. She winced when he helped her off with Amy’s shoes, and he noted that some blood had soaked through her socks. Stupid, stubborn demon. The shopkeeper gave the pair an odd glance as he helped her on with the new shoes as if she were a young child, but said nothing. As soon as they were on, Asha’s pained expression disappeared and became a huge smile. “I can actually wiggle my toes now!” She said out loud, a statement that surely didn’t help dissuade the juvenile impression she was giving off, but Asha appeared oblivious. Well, there goes my weed budget for the foreseeable future, Adam thought as they exited the shop. “You buy garden pests?” Asha asked. “It’s a drug,” he explained, and added when he saw a dangerous gleam in Asha’s eyes, “I’m not getting high with a demon. Out of the question.” “You’re no fun,” she said. They were just about done with their sandwiches and sparkling water when Amy caught up with them in the cafeteria. “That class was utterly boring,” she declared. “Speaking of, aren’t you also in that class, Adam?” “I’ve kinda got bigger fish to fry right now than, what was it, Intro to Greek Philosophy?” “Intro was last year, this is advanced boring philosophy,” she said. “I’d rather be studying the occult.” “What did you find?” Asha asked. She’d devoured her sandwich like an animal, dousing it with ketchup—reminded her of her blood-based diet in Hell, he assumed—and now her face was a mess. Adam absentmindedly picked up a napkin and wiped her face. Amy raised an eyebrow. He shrugged. “So, like I said, I didn’t find a quick-fix, silver bullet kind of solution,” Amy said. “But I did find something that we might be able to work with. It’s something called the Rite of Transference. I found it in a book by one of Dr. Musgrave’s students, one Anna Mire, so it’s got at least a chance of not being complete bullshit.” “I’m starting to think this Musgrave fellow didn’t really know what he was doing,” Adam said. “Well, the ritual you did worked perfectly, you absolute bonehead,” she shot back. “What does the ritual do?” Asha asked. “It’s supposed to ‘transfer an Infernal soul to the place where its heart resides,’ whatever that means. I’m assuming that means back to Hell?” Asha bit her lip, then nodded. “Let’s do it!” “It’s not that simple,” Amy said. “I did say it wasn’t a quick fix. First of all it requires some arcane ingredients that we’re unlikely to be able to get our hands on, so we’ll have to improvise substitutes and hope that doesn’t ruin the whole thing. And secondly, it can only be done at midnight under a full moon.” “When’s the next full moon?” “Day after tomorrow. Looks like you two are stuck with each other until then.” We should tell her about the hell-hounds. Asha shook her head and gave him a look that he hoped meant, “we’ll talk about it after.” Adam held his tongue, but he felt a drop of sweat slide down his neck. Could they really hide from the K-9 police units from Hell until then? “Lighten up!” Amy playfully shoved her elbow into Adam’s side. “I know you pretend to hate each other, but the way you look at each other tells me it’s getting complicated.” Both of them, human and demon, blushed at that. “Let’s do something fun tonight. Peter wanted to come over last night, but I was too busy researching arcane rituals.” Peter was a mutual acquaintance who’d had the courage to make a move on Amy while Adam pined away in solitude, and they’d been dating for a couple of months now. “I couldn’t exactly tell him that, so I improvised some story about helping you two out with a class project. He insisted on meeting the woman who could put up with your dorkiness, Adam, so he suggested we grab dinner together tonight, the four of us.” I’m not going on a double-date with a demon. “I’m not going on a ‘date’ with a mortal,” Asha said. “Relax, it’s all in good fun,” Amy said. “You’d be doing me a favor, and yourselves, as well. If I’m gonna be busy helping you set up this ritual for the next couple days, I won’t get to see Peter much, and he’s gonna get suspicious if you refuse to meet him. He’s gonna think there’s something else going on between you and me, Adam, and you don’t get to come between us,” she said sternly, staring him down until he had to admit she made a fair point. He gave in. Adam was going on a dinner date with a demon. They whiled away the early afternoon playing video games in his room, then met up with Amy at her apartment. He’d brought a backpack to bring back the laundry, which should at least not be soaking wet anymore, and Amy had agreed to lend Asha a dress appropriate for the occasion. By the time they got there, Asha was squirming visibly. She hadn’t peed all day: no wonder she was getting antsy. “Come on, I have to take you to pee before dinner,” he said. “I-I don’t need to go,” she tried, her crossed legs betraying the lie. “I think you do,” he said. “I can hold it. You can take me at the restaurant if it gets bad.” “No, I can’t, because I can’t be seen entering the same restroom with you in public, unless you want to pretend you’re disabled and I’m your caretaker.” “You want me to pretend to be retarded?” She was almost yelling. “Well, I wouldn’t use that word, but you got the gist. Or you can come with me now like a big girl.” “Don’t you dare pee in my dress!” Amy yelled from her bedroom. “Demon or not, I will rip you apart.” “Fine,” Asha said. Once they were inside and Asha spotted the toilet, it seemed her urgency increased exponentially, and she was potty-dancing like mad while he tried to get open the buttons on her borrowed jeans, which were very tight. “Hurry!” She said. “Stand still, then, silly.” Finally he got the buttons off, then he hiked down the Hello Kitty panties and guided her butt down to the seat just in time for a stream of pee to erupt out of her, splattering merrily into the bowl. Asha blushed, then closed her eyes and moaned as she emptied herself. It went on for almost a minute. Adam put a finger into the panties. There was no visible wetness, and although they were slightly damp, he thought it was likely just sweat. She was after all wearing an outfit at least one size too small, and the temperature had risen once the clouds broke in the early afternoon. He was feeling a little hot himself—entirely coincidentally, nothing to do with the fact that he had a hand in a pretty girl’s underwear while her nude crotch was on display, he told himself—and resolved to splash some water under his arms before they went to dinner. “Good girl,” he said. “That’s the first time you actually made it without a leak since you, uh, arrived here.” She opened her eyes, frowned, stared at him. If looks could kill… “This underwear is quite childish,” Asha remarked as he lowered her jeans and prepared to help her into the dress Amy had picked out for her. It was a long, slim, black thing that probably was supposed to go down below the knees rather than mid-thigh, but it did look very nice. “Yes,” he agreed. “Don’t tell that to Amy, though, you might embarrass her.” “So strange,” Asha said. “My kind wears their kinks with pride.” “You think it’s a kink?” Oh god, don’t picture Amy dressed up as a little girl… The thought had the potential to do unspeakable things to him. And curiously, the idea of being visibly aroused at a different girl in Asha’s presence bothered him more than the idea of her seeing him aroused did on its own. The two of them emerged from the bathroom and Amy rushed in to do her makeup, then insisted on applying some to Asha as well. When the two women were fully dolled up, Adam noted something: his eyes were not drawn to Amy at all. She was wearing a frilly black skirt over tan pantyhose, a white collared shirt, and tasteful makeup, a look he would have drooled over less than a week ago. Amy had that perfect girl next door look that made Adam weak in the knees. But this time, he only had eyes for Asha: for her more mature curves, the tantalizing hints of her bare upper thighs where the hem of the dress couldn’t quite reach, the confident posture she carried herself with, the playful gleam in her green eyes. Even the incongruous running shoes in place of more tasteful high heels couldn’t mar the impression. She was stunning, and next to her, Amy looked positively ordinary. It was like a spell that had held Adam tight for the past year had been removed, but only because a more powerful spell had taken hold. He was in deep trouble. This was so wrong. She was a demon. She wanted to eat his entrails, or whatever it was demons did to their enemies. Then why does it feel so right? He thought as he held out his arm for her to grab onto. Dinner began as an awkward affair, but once the initial introductions were done away with, it grew into a pleasant moment of domesticity that put his mind off the otherworldly mess he was in for an hour. Asha behaved herself, laughing at all of Peter’s jokes—which would have made her charming if she had a better grasp of the difference between a joke and a serious statement—and occasionally touching her hand to Adam’s thigh under the table. He knew she was doing it just to tease him, wind him up, watch him suffer a bit, but it had the effect of making them seem like a perfectly ordinary young couple in love. Adam didn’t even try to dissuade Peter from the notion that they were a couple. What was even the point? The fact that the two were never seen more than a few feet apart would give anyone the wrong idea, and it wasn’t like he could explain the truth. They settled the bill, and of course, Adam had to be a gentleman and pay for Asha since she had no money of her own, while Amy and Peter split their bill. Definitely not paying for my own weed for the rest of all eternity, he thought. Maybe if I turn up the charm I can convince someone to give me a hit at a party of something. The illusion of pleasant domesticity was shattered when they were on their way home. It was now almost fully dark out, and Adam’s ears picked up a low, keening sound in the distance. It quickly grew into a cacophonous roar of grinding metal, gnashing teeth, and howls. The hell-hounds are here. Amy’s face had turned white as a sheet, while Peter stood there with a quizzical expression, apparently oblivious to the noise. “Run, mortals,” Asha whispered, and grabbed Adam’s hand. A terrified and confused Amy ran after them, leaving her boyfriend behind, standing rooted to the spot like a study in confusion. Adam looked over his shoulder to see Peter make up his mind and began sprinting after them, yelling, “Wait! What the hell’s gotten into you?!” but then they rounded a corner and he was gone. The three of them ran as fast as they could, panting, following Asha’s lead through the campus until she led them into a back alley between two buildings and crouched down in the shadow of a trash container, putting up a finger to her lips in the interdimensionally recognized sign for silence, be silent dammit! The three of them huddled together on the ground, squeezed between a brick wall and the trash container, hoping the shadow would somehow hide them. If not that, then the stink of the container’s contents. Adam stole a look at Amy, but her eyes were frozen in fear, and he followed her gaze towards the entrance to the blind alley, halfway illuminated by a street lamp around the corner. Something very large—like an ox, as Asha had said the night before—lumbered into view, but the darkness of the form and the poor illumination made it hard to make out just what the hell it was. The sound of metal grinding on metal was deafening, but it seemed to emanate from around the corner, not from the creature. The silhouette raised a lump at its front—he could see now that it had four legs, but its size and quadrupedal gait was about the only thing he could make out clearly—and what must be the head seemed to sniff in the air. Adam held his breath as the thing tried to sniff them out, but then it lowered its head and let out a blood-curling howl, seemed to shake its head and lumbered around the corner. The metallic noise receded into the distance. In its place was only cold, hard silence—broken by a steady hiss coming from Adam’s left. He looked over at Amy: her face was pale, but even in this dark corner, he could see her cheeks color when she noticed him looking. Adam’s eyes strayed towards her lap. The hissing continued for half a minute, and there was no doubt about what was happening. It wasn’t until the flow tapered off, however, that he noticed some shiny wetness on her pantyhose catching the light from the other end of the alley. Amy said nothing, but he could see her eyes were wet. Asha let out a sigh at his right. “What the hell was that?” Amy asked. “Hell-hounds,” Asha whispered. “And you two didn’t think to warn me those things might be after me?” “I did not think they were after you,” Asha said. “But they must have figured out you were helping us. And I did not think they would be out so early—usually they only hunt after midnight.” And then, uncharacteristically, she added, “I’m so terribly sorry.” “Wait, what about Peter?” Amy said, voice cracking, panic rising again as she suddenly seemed to remember she’d left her boyfriend out to dry when they fled. “If he could not hear them, they were not after him,” Asha said. “They are not visible or audible to mortals except those whom they hunt.” “Are they gone? Are we in the clear?” Adam asked. “For now. I gambled that the smell of this garbage would put them off our trail, that they would think it was rotten meat and not mortal fear they smelled. It worked. They’ve moved on tonight, but they know our general location now. They’ll come after us again tomorrow night.” Adam tried to lend Amy a hand to help her stand up, but she pushed him away. “This is not okay,” she said. She hurriedly tugged at her skirt to lower it, apparently to hide a curious lump that seemed to have swelled between her legs. Weird. Her thighs were still shiny from her accident, however. Adam was reminded of his own little mishap when Asha had first materialized, and decided it was best to pretend like he hadn’t noticed. If nothing else, to ensure the future good health of his balls. Amy looked furious. “We’ll talk tomorrow, but don’t think you’re getting away with this. I’m super mad at you right now, Adam,” she said. They separated and headed to their respective homes, each of them looking over their shoulders all the way. “Did you notice she peed?” Asha asked when they were out of earshot. “Yes. Don’t ever mention it in front of her. She’s ready to rip me to pieces already, best not anger a charging bull further.” “I didn’t pee,” she said proudly. “Well, good for you, not pissing yourself for an entire day,” he said sourly. She clung to his arm the entire way home.

Yes, there's more! I already have chapter 3 written, and it's fairly long. But I figured I'd wait a day in between posting, so people actually have a chance to keep up. Also, once that chapter is up, we're all caught up since I'm currently working on chapter 4. I'm glad you found it interesting and new. I'm trying to write a sort of mashup between supernatural horror and romantic comedy - with a kinky twist! I've written 15k words this week, but I know I can't sustain that kind of writing speed forever, especially not if I want to keep the quality up. I anticipate this thing will wrap up in 5 or possibly 6 chapters, but that's still quite a bit of writing to do. Thankfully it's fun to write. My biggest problem right now is I don't want to disappoint those readers who want to read the smutty parts, but I keep having more fun writing the non-smut character dynamics and plot!

Chapter 2: Hunted The three of them were sitting in Adam’s room, which he was trying to air out. He’d forgotten to clean up the vomit from the night before, and by mid-morning it was smelling pretty bad. Asha was freshly showered and sitting in a borrowed set of Amy’s clothes, which were too small for her, but would have to do for the time being. Asha was both taller and curvier, and her new shirt exposed her belly-button in a way the designer had surely not intended. Her jeans were so tight they “rubbed at her pussy,” as she said, and when she noticed Adam’s discomfort when she said that, she began chanting pussy, pussy, rubs at my pussy until he’d ordered her to cut it out, which garnered a devilish giggle from the demon. Showering had been an awkward affair. They’d gone to Amy’s place, since her parents had set her up with an apartment of her own, so they had privacy. When they entered, he noted that his dashingly average looks had taken a step down in the face apartment: the side of his face was swelling up and turning a sickening shade of greenish yellow where Asha’s haymaker had hit him. They’d quickly determined that Asha could not shower on her own, since she doubled over in pain the moment she was more than three steps away from him. So he had to go in with her, determined to sit on the toilet lid and respectfully avert his eyes from her. Except when she attempted to remove her soiled clothes, she groaned in pain again. Then she’d reminded him of the book’s words: her bodily needs were the domain of her Master, Adam. Apparently that meant she couldn’t even undress herself. So he had to help her out of her clothes, lowering the wet shorts, then down with the soaking, dripping panties. As he touched the wet fabric, his crotch pitched a tent, and to make matters worse, she picked up on it and began grinding herself into his hand, which he knew she was doing just to wind him up. “Cut it out,” he said, and then he led her to the shower, doused her with cold water just to take the grin off her face, and wet a washcloth. Quickly, he rubbed the cloth over her skin, trying to get her clean without getting himself worked up. “My crotch feels icky,” she said, when he respectfully declined to touch her between the legs. “It feels like the urine is still there.” Cursing inwardly, he began to wipe her down. “I heard that,” she reminded him. “Keep going.” So he did, rubbing at her lips, her hairless mound, around the inside of her thighs, and she moaned. “You’re enjoying this too much,” he said. “I am used to slaves.” “You’re the damn slave, not me.” She looked hurt at that. Adam regretted bringing it up. So he brought the cloth up again, between her legs, rubbing slowly, and her eyes glazed over. Then he stopped before either he or she could get more worked up. Why the hell am I acting like this? She’s a demon, hell-spawn, a devil, and she hates me, and terrifies me. “Glad to hear it,” she cooed. And I am pleasuring her, because I felt bad for her. Now she was fully dressed, and he tried to forget the way she fluttered her eyelashes and blew him a kiss while he toweled her off. It turned out that Amy knew a hell of a lot more about demonology than Adam. He’d picked up the Dictionary out of pure boredom. Aside from trying to summon Bloody Mary in the mirror at a sleepover in sixth grade, he had never dabbled in the occult. “Bloody Mary is a myth,” Asha said. “Bloody Angelique, however, is very much real, and you do not want her in your mirror.” Neither of the two humans felt compelled to ask for any details. Amy explained that she’d gotten into the occult as a side effect of a teenage goth phase, but once she got older, she started researching obscure literature on the matter, and then she had “an experience”, which he declined to elaborate on, but which had somehow convinced her that demons were realer than she’d thought. Her research had eventually led her to the idea that the Demonic Dictionary was the real deal, for reasons that seemed fairly flimsy to Adam, but he couldn’t deny the evidence in front of his eyes. Unfortunately, the book which called itself a dictionary lacked an index and was not organized alphabetically. At least not according to any alphabet he knew. They’d spent an hour flipping through the book, but couldn’t find anything helpful about returning demons to Hell. Nor any elaboration of the mechanics of invocation and summoning. “Hey, Asha,” Amy said, visibly frustrated. “You want to go home, right?” “Of course.” “Then how about you spill the deets on how all this works? Can’t help a gal who won’t help herself.” “Do you think I know?” Adam and Amy shared a look. “You mean you have no idea how any of this works?” Adam asked. “When I was young, the idea of being summoned and bound by a mere mortal was a scary story used to make children behave. As I grew older, I was taught that only lesser demons could possibly be bound, and only by a powerful necromancer, such as has not walked the Earth for hundreds of years, not a mere dilettante with a dusty old book. I am descended from the rulers of two of the Nine Circles of Hell, and no mortal should be able to summon me, much less bind me.” “So much for that idea,” Amy said. “Wait,” Adam said. “Spooky bedtime stories for demon babies? We’re just gonna ignore that? What’s it like to grow up in Hell?” “It is Hell,” Asha said. “Elaborate.” “Painful.” She didn’t seem to enjoy this turn of the conversation, so he took the hint and dropped the subject. An hour later and no closer to solving the mystery, Amy had to take off for an afternoon class, but promised to dig deeper and see what she could find that night. She also left a couple of changes of clothes for Asha, but sternly told Adam that if they couldn’t solve this within the next few days, he should quit being such a cheap-ass and buy her some clothes in her size. As if he had the money laying around to fashion a brand new wardrobe for a she-devil. Adam decided it was high time for some food, so he set about making his decidedly mediocre spaghetti bolognese. “Ah, meat,” Asha said as she dug in. “Reminds me of home.” “Eat a lot of meat, do you?” “Not yours,” she said. “I guess veganism isn’t hot in Hell.” “What’s veganism?” She said among mouthfuls. “Like, not eating any animal products? No meat, no cheese, milk, eggs, anything like that…” “Oh. What a silly idea.” She washed the food down with several glasses of water. Once they’d eaten, her mood seemed to improve dramatically. She even attempted to tell him a joke. “Why did the little Negro cross the road?” “Jesus,” he said, and as before, her skin bubbled at the mention of anything to do with God. “Don’t say ‘Negro,’ it’s offensive. And definitely don’t say ‘nigger.’” “Okay,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Why did the little dark-skinned mortal cross the road?” “I don’t know.” “To witness his enemies being driven by the lash across a field of spikes, wailing in pain.” “That’s supposed to be a punchline?” “It’s funnier if you expect the punchline to be racist. But you didn’t want me to say the N word.” Huh. I thought racism was like, par for the course in Hell. “Oh, we definitely regard all mortals as less than the ant you thoughtlessly crush under your shoe. But we don’t distinguish based on skin color, ethnicity, religion, gender or sexual identity,” she said. “Who knew Hell was so progressive,” he said. “But wait—do you really regard me as less than an ant?” She cocked her head to the side and considered it. “You have the capacity for cruelty, which is a quality I admire in my enemies. But you were also kind to me, which I did not expect. And certain things indicate you might one day become a thoughtful lover, if you grow the balls to flirt with a mortal woman. I am… conflicted.” “Does that mean if I somehow freed you, you wouldn’t torture and kill me in some terrifying manner?” “Probably… not.” Adam sighed. “Guess who didn’t score any brownie points with the guy holding the leash.” “You just said ‘brownie,’” she pointed out. “So?” “So, isn’t that racist?” “Jee—damn it,” he corrected himself. “Brownies are a form of cake. Brownie points is an expression. Don’t take everything so literally.” Adam retired to his bed to leaf through the book again, and Asha sat down beside him. After a while, she began subtly rocking back and forth. Then she let a silent but deadly fart slip. He looked over at her. “Asha, do you need to go to the bathroom?” “N-no,” she said, biting her lip. “Well, I’m not taking the chance on you ruining Amy’s panties. Let’s go.” “I don’t need to go.” “You go when I say you go.” “Y-yes, ‘master.’” She got up, holding her belly. When they got to the bathroom, the door was locked and the shower was running. “Damn it,” Adam said. He took her back to his bedroom, and she proceeded to pace back and forth for the next fifteen minutes while insisting she could hold it. “Listen, apparently I’m the one who has to clean you, and I didn’t sign up for this,” he said. Then he dragged her back to the bathroom, which was mercifully empty. He helped her lower her tight jeans, then her panties, and she sat down on the toilet and did her business. She did not pee, however. When he helped her up, he inspected the panties. “Thank go—thankfully there’s no stain,” he said. “You gotta tell me when you need to go.” “I’m not a baby,” she said. “Could have fooled me.” They were back in his bedroom now. “What do you know about Pride?” She asked. “About pride?” “I am a Demon of the 1st Class, Adam,” she said. “I am a Lady of the Court of Pride, the Seventh Circle of Hell, which sits above and dominates the Sixth Circle, the Circle of Wrath. I am a Devourer, a Flayer, a proud member of the Court of my ancestors.” “Wait, I thought Wrath was the fifth circle.” “Do you really think Dante actually visited Hell before he wrote his silly poem?” “Huh, guess not.” “He didn’t visit alive, anyway.” Adam shuddered. “Anyway, as I was saying. I am a Scion of Pride, and on my mother’s side, of Lust. I am a standard-bearer of confidence. A crusher of hope, a denier of weakness...” “So what you’re trying to say, in a very round-about way, is that it’s very hard for you to be seen as vulnerable or admit weakness?” “Y-yes,” she gulped. “Well,” he said, “like it or not, humans are weak, and your body is human now, at least for the time being. And it is far better to admit a minor weakness sooner, rather than demonstrate a major weakness later, in devastating fashion. Don’t you agree?” She nodded. “What did you feel when you wet yourself at the library?” “A way I haven’t felt in a long time. Not since I was a mere spawnling.” “Tell me about it.” “I would rather not.” He didn’t want to push her, but at the same time, he was curious. If he could somehow understand her, understand what Hell was truly like, then maybe he could get a grip on how this all worked. Get a grip on how to send her home. “I said, tell me about it.” “Very well.” The color drained from her face. “I was a mere—a child, as you reckon it. Or maybe a teenager. I… How am I going to tell this story in a way that you can comprehend? Let’s try this: I had to wake my father and inform him that I had wet the bed.” “Wait, wet the bed? Like, urine, sheets...” “No, not like that. Not at all.” She rolled her eyes. “It did not happen like that. But the metaphysics of Hell are far greater than a tiny mortal mind can comprehend. We do not sleep, we do not urinate, we do not have beds. Even the pits of fire are just a metaphor. I’m telling you an allegory to help you understand. Nothing I’m about to tell you happened quite like that, but you can imagine something analogous, but which you couldn’t possibly wrap your little brain around, okay?” “Go on.” “Okay. So I woke up, realized I had somehow lost control of myself in my sleep, and that I was now drenched. I felt the smell, the cooling wetness clinging to me, the terrible shame. I cried, and then I had to tell my father what I had done. And he… Do you command me to go on?” Her lower lip trembled. She was clearly reliving a traumatic memory. Suddenly he felt like a jerk for dredging up what lay better buried. “You can be brief if you like.” “Suffice it to say, I thought he might punish me corporeally. Perhaps put me to the stake for a fortnight: it is not lethal to our kind, but decidedly unpleasant. But instead he did something far worse: he humiliated me in front of the entire Court at my debutante ball.” “Your dad sounds like a jerk,” he said. “It is the way of Hell. None of the details are exact, but my transgression was similarly immature, and the punishment equally harsh and humiliating.” “And that’s what you felt like when you wet yourself in the library?” “Y-yes.” Her upper body was shaking. “Come here,” he said. She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. Adam took a deep breath, and then he pulled her close and held her. He could feel her breathing very quickly, sense the way her body tensed as he pulled her into his embrace. But then her muscles loosened, her breathing grew steadier and more regular, and she allowed him to place her head on his shoulder. They sat like that for a few minutes. Adam lost himself in the moment, but then he had to suppress the urge to subvocalize what the hell am I doing cuddling a demon? “It turned you on, though, didn’t it?” She said suddenly. Adam felt his cheeks warm. “You noticed?” “My mother was a Succubus.” “Oh.” “Also, you said something about acting like a horny asshole. And I noticed your erection earlier, but I thought it might be the proximity to the female sex organ that did it. I didn’t get it then, but I put two and two together after.” “I guess it’s a kink I have,” he said. “I’ve fantasized about having a bladder slave. But that was just a fantasy—I felt awful when I realized I’d forced it on you.” “I guess I could have asked you for permission earlier,” she said. “But that would hurt your pride, right?” “Right.” She bit her lip again. Nervous habit? “Don’t get cocky. I do not get nervous.” She separated herself from his embrace and gave him a glare that said, We may have just had a ‘moment’ but don’t let that fool you: I’d still incinerate you on the spot if I could. “I’m glad to hear you are still slave to your baser instincts, as are all of mortal kind,” she said, reasserting her old, cocky bravado. “A little bit of breasts and buttocks, a little bit of urine accidentally spilled, and all the blood rushes from your big brain to your little one.” “Tits and ass,” he corrected her. “Not breasts and buttocks.” “Same difference.” “Not if you want to pass for human until we get this sorted. The way you speak is like a pile of anachronisms had an orgy and your vocabulary was the outcome nine months later. And you do want to pass for human, because I want you to pass for human, and you have to do what I say.” “Fine.” Adam put away the book of demonology for the evening, deciding that he wasn’t getting anywhere and he might as well wait to see what Amy turned up. Instead, he booted up a game of CS:GO to take his mind off Hell. Asha stared in fascination at the computer, an invention that seemed to have passed by without notice in her Circle, but soon she was delighting in the virtual violence, and then he allowed her to play a match for herself. It went predictably badly, not so much because she had trouble adjusting to the controls, which she picked up quickly, but more so because she insisted on shooting the bodies of her dead enemies repeatedly, cackling like a maniac, while her team shouted at her over the voice chat and the remaining enemies shot her in the face or in the back. After that, he decided to put on a couple of slasher movies, sensing that violence was a good way to cheer her up. By the time the second movie wrapped up, it was late enough to call it an early night. He scouted the living room to make sure his housemates weren’t there—didn’t want to have to explain how the girl he’d never mentioned before was now suddenly his live-in girlfriend—and led her to the bathroom. He stole a disposable toothbrush from the pack Eddie kept for the benefit of his many one-night stands—made him look like a gentleman, Eddie claimed—and brushed her teeth. Asha submitted to this indignity without a word. Then he peed in the toilet and led her back to the bedroom. There was a text from Amy waiting for him: “Found something. Tell ya tomorrow!” Good. They laid down and he fell asleep almost immediately. Early in the morning, he woke. The first thing he noticed was that his side was damp. Then he noted the smell of fresh urine in the air. Asha was fast asleep beside him, head turned away from him. He lifted the duvet and stared for a moment transfixed at her black panties, at the glistening wetness, the slow trail of pee leaking out between the wet outline of her lips, slowly making its way between her thighs onto the sheets. The slow, almost inaudible hiss of a bedwetting accident in progress. A front-row seat at one of his fantasies, in the flesh. Wait, the sheets! His sheets! Adam shook off the trance, then shook Asha awake. “You’re wetting the bed!” He whisper-shouted in her ear. Her eyes shot up wide, then she crossed her legs, placed her hands between them and strained to stop the flow. The hissing abated. He could see in her eyes that she was mortified, but at least she didn’t cry. “Why didn’t you tell me you needed to go?” “I… I woke up and knew I had to urinate, but you didn’t give me permission to wake you, so I fell asleep again.” Of course. She hadn’t peed since her accident that morning, and had quite a bit to drink in between. “I didn’t tell you not to wake me if it was an emergency!” “Well, I didn’t want to look weak.” “Better to have an accident than to admit you need to go like a big girl?” “I still need to go.” He got out of bed and helped her out, but she sank into a crouch, and then she started dripping on the floor, pee leaking out between the hands clutching at her crotch. Thinking quickly, Adam scooped up his paper bin and tried to position it between her legs. As he did, the dam burst in full, and pee began pouring out of her, through Amy’s panties and pitter-pattering into the bin. Asha closed her eyes and whimpered, then sighed, then moaned as her bladder emptied into the makeshift potty. When she was done, he had to help her up on unsteady legs. She looked at him expectantly. What does she expect, exactly? “Hug me, you asshole mortal,” she whispered. Right, right. He hugged her, held her tight, and she sank into his embrace. She let him hold her for a minute, and then she composed herself and separated. “Right, this is a disaster,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Get me cleaned up.” “You don’t give the orders ‘round here,” he reminded her, but he did lower her wet panties to the floor and throw them into the laundry bin, then used a towel to quickly dry her. Adam opened a window and poured the liquid contents of the paper bin out, along with a couple of used tissue papers. The damage to the bed wasn’t too bad, thankfully, so he just laid down the towel for her to sleep on, nude from the waist down. Adam tried and failed to hide his boner, and she smirked. As he was about to fall asleep, he noticed a sound. It was hard to make out, but clearly there, a sort of wailing somewhere in the distance. Then the intensity grew, less like something approaching you from the distance and more like working the dial on a stereo, until the sound resolved into a mixture of a wolf-pack howling and a woodchipper churning through logs, and loud gnashing of teeth. He turned to Asha, who had sat up straight in bed. Her face was a study in fear, eyes wide, color drained from her cheeks, mouth contracted to an O-shape. “Asha, do you know what that is?” He whispered. “A pack of hell-hounds.” “Hell-hounds?” “Imagine a bulldog the size of an ox, with teeth like a shark.” “Damn.” “Except each tooth is actually another jaw, filled with more shark’s-teeth that are each somehow larger than the jaw itself.” “Holy shit.” “Then imagine a pack of them.” “Fuck.” “It was probably sent by my father, the Pridelord of the Seventh Circle, or perhaps by my grandfather on my mother’s side, the Lustlord of the Fifth and Duke of the Spiked Dungeon. Either way, they’re both bound to be exceedingly mad at me for damaging the reputation of the clan. And by extension, mad at you.” Adam shivered. “They’re looking for us,” she whispered, as the sound grew more distant, then faded away into the night. “But we should be safe until morning, since they went off to chase a false lead. They only hunt at night.” “What will they do if they catch us?” “To me? I don’t know, but it’s going to be painful and terrible. To you? The same, I suspect, except you are mortal and will die from it. Then you might find yourself reliving that nightmare for the rest of your afterlife.” He shuddered. She crept closer to him, and he crept closer to her, and they fell asleep holding each other.

Figured I might cross-post this story of mine from omorashi.org. It has more of an omo bent, and is unlikely to move into outright AB/DL, but it has a strong caretaker dynamic, and I think it's one of the best kink stories I've written, so I figured you guys might enjoy it anyway. I'll post chapter 1, and see what you think. Chapter 1: The Binding “… Asha-atgaaaah!” Adam yelled the final words. He could feel the sweat dripping down his face. The darkened room had grown unnaturally hot as he worked through the incantation in Dr. Musgrave’s Demonic Dictionary. What had started as a game done out of boredom suddenly seemed much more real. But demons and ghosts didn’t exist, right? Of course not. This was a silly game. This was just a cheap thrill provided by a silly ritual and a dusty old book he’d found in the back of the library… Scratch that. Just as he’d all but convinced himself, the first of the candles set at each point of an imaginary pentagram blew out. There was no draft or breeze. The heat was now unbearable. One by one, each of the candles burned out—one second they were glowing, the next they were not, following some arcane sequence. Fuck me, it really worked. What the hell do I do now? “What indeed, human?” Adam looked around him, eyes straining to adjust to the sudden darkness. I didn’t imagine that, did I? That was definitely a female voice. “You did not.” Adam got up in a panic, trying to find the door but tripping over the heavy tome from which he’d gotten the bone-headed idea to summon a demon. He fell and just about managed to get his hands in front of him. When he looked up, he was staring at an indistinct silhouette. Slender, toned legs rising up towards curving hips, and above, a set of ample breasts straining against fabric. He pushed himself back from the figure, closed his eyes, opened them, and when he did, the candles were once again burning. And in front of him stood an attractive young woman, dressed as some young women do on a hot summer day: extremely short daisy-dukes and a white top, barefoot. She looked ordinary—well, extraordinarily attractive, as if her curves had been carved to appeal to him, but otherwise human—except for the eyes, which were pure black, no whites. Adam’s mouth fell open. The room had taken on a reddish tinge. Odd shadows danced upon the walls as if alive. And then the illusion fell away, the woman’s eyes faded into black on green irises and mercifully, white around, and the shadows stilled. “I trust that shall do for a demonstration,” said the woman. Adam stood up gingerly to face this abomination, and discovered that his thighs were sticky and wet. He looked down and blushed as he realized that in his terror, he’d peed a little in his pants. When he looked back up, the woman smiled. “Kneel,” commanded the woman. He felt an odd tingling at the back of his mind, but it faded. The woman’s smile faded. “Kneel, peasant,” she said. Again, Adam felt the tingling sensation, but there was something else this time. His mind’s eye conjured up a rope, and he looked down to his hand to confirm that it was indeed free. It felt like there was something there, a kind of rope or leash, and although he couldn’t see it, he could sense the rope looping around his wrist and tracing an arc up towards the woman’s neck. “Kneel, damn it!” Said the woman again, but this time, the sensation at the back of Adam’s skull felt different. It was a violent recoil, like a heavy band being snapped back. The woman fell to her knees. It’s the binding, he realized. The Demonic Dictionary said this was a binding ritual. “You bound me?” She was sweating now, and the confident tone was gone. In its stead was exasperation, maybe even desperation. She clutched her abdomen as if in pain, and then she looked down and seemed to notice her attire for the first time. “What in the Nine Circles of Hell is this?” Adam had regained his feet now and walked over to sit down on his bed. This is crazy, he thought. “Crazy isn’t the half…” The woman groaned. Adam realized he hadn’t spoken a word aloud, but she seemed to respond as if he had. Not so confident now, he thought, testing his theory. “I am a Lady of the Circle of Pride, you’re devil-damned right I’m confident,” she said. But her voice cracked, betraying her true feelings. As did her posture, a face grimaced in pain and clutching her abdomen as if she was about to vomit. Could it be that her pain was caused by defiance of her master? Adam tried to recall the exact words from the book. “And Whosoever shall conducte the Binding, shall command the Respecte of His Servant, and the Servant overcometh not her Master but on the Payne of a Death most payneful and everlasting.” Some old-timey shit like that, but the meaning seemed clear. As he repeated the words in his mind, her face grew pale, and she doubled over in pain. Then she proceeded to vomit on his floor. Adam shot up. All color was gone from her skin, and the rasping sounds emanating from her chest reminded him of his grandma on her deathbed. Holy shit. Demon or not, she looked human enough now, and he couldn’t in good conscience kill her. What to do, what to do? “Uh, like, you can just chill, if you don’t, like, try to harm me or something,” he tried. Adam had no knowledge of the laws of the occult, and he had no idea if that would do it. But the woman’s breath calmed, and she managed to raise herself from the floor and wipe a trail of puke from her mouth. Her eyes were red, not demonically so, more so the redness of a person crying, and tears were rolling down her face. Adam grabbed a roll of paper towels off his bedside table—he kept it there mostly for the purposes of masturbation, sad single life that he had—and handed it to her. She wiped down her face, then stared up at him with what seemed like a mixture of pleading and hatred. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” Adam said. “I’m Adam. What’s your name?” “Asha,” she spat out. Of course. That was what the book had said. “Well, Asha, I can’t say it was nice meeting you. But maybe we got off on the wrong foot.” “I can’t believe this,” Asha said. “Frankly, neither can I,” he replied. “Hey, bring me that book. I need to figure out what the fuck just happened.” Her face grimaced again, muscles straining in an unnatural way like some sort of cramp, but she did as she was told, crawling over to retrieve the book and place it in his lap. Adam leafed through it until he found the page he was looking for. Under the description of the ritual was a short part about what to expect on success. He read it aloud. Asha’s eyes opened wider with every sentence: Invocation & Binding of Asha, a Demonesse of the 1st Order, Progeny of Luste and Pride. Attempt not this Binding but with the proper Trayninge and Guidance. Whosoever succeed at the Binding shall be the Master. And Whosoever shall conducte the Binding, shall command the Respecte of His Servant, and the Servant overcometh not her Master but on the Payne of a Death most payneful and everlasting. The Servant shall be Subject to the Laws and Strictures of the Human Forme in this Playne of Existence, and her Body and bodily Needs shall be the Domayne of her Master, but her Mind shall be Free as a Dove. Frighten not at demonic Imagery, for they are but Trickery of the Devil and command no Power in this Realme unless the Master set her Free. The Ritual of Freedom shall not be recorded in these Pages, as the Consequences are dire; But the Ritual of Return, which shall sende the Demoness back whence she came, is recorded on the next Page. The next page had been ripped out of the book. Adam frantically thumbed through the book, seeking a loose page, but there was none. Am I stuck with this… thing now? “I would prefer,” Asha said, voice straining not to betray what must be an underlying, seething rage, “if you do not refer to me as a ‘thing’.” “Can you, like, not respond to my thoughts? Like, some privacy, please?” “I can,” she said. “Is that a… command?” She spat the word out like it was a turd someone had dumped into her mouth. “It’s… Whatever. Hey, let me get this straight. Are you truly, uh, harmless?” “I am a scion of Hell, human. I am never harmless to my enemies.” Hmm. Can she lie to me? Let’s find out. “Tell me a lie. I command you. Tell me, uh, tell me the sky is red.” “The sky is red in Hell.” “Whatever. Tell me the sky on Earth is green.” “The sky is green.” Well, that was dumb. She obeyed my command, of course she’s not gonna be doubled over in pain. Hmm… “I command you to tell me the sky is green, and I command you to not lie to me. I command you to do both, at the same time.” Her face, which had regained a little color, drained. “The… sky… is… green.” As soon as the final word was out, she doubled over and clutched her abdomen again. Her breathing grew ragged, and Adam felt compelled to put a hand on her slender shoulder. “Easy now,” he said, and her breathing calmed. “Okay, so now that’s settled. I command you to tell me the truth: can you actually harm me as long as the, uh, binding is in place?” She grew silent, eyes glazed over. It seemed like she was trying something, straining—her face contorted in a way that seemed literally out of this world, which to be fair it probably was—and then she slumped down on the floor in a heap, breathing heavy as if after a long run. He could see tears forming in her eyes, and she was straining not to let them fall. “No,” she said finally. “Not bodily. But I can still whisper poisonous words in your ear, as long as you do not command me to silence.” Adam’s body ached. The ritual seemed to have taken something from him. He felt like he’d just returned from a heavy workout, and there were circles of sweat under his arms and down the center of his t-shirt. He’d begun the ritual at midnight, the witching hour, and when he glanced at his phone he realized it was now close to 3 in the morning. And he had classes to attend, people to see, things to do. Adam badly needed some rest. “Well, in that case, I’m gonna sleep. I guess you can share the bed, I feel kind of bad about almost killing you earlier so I wouldn’t have you sleep on the floor. Maybe in the morning it’ll turn out you were just a weird dream.” “I am your worst nightmare.” “Whatever. Good night. Put out the candles, will you, and try to get some shut-eye. And no poisonous words in my ear tonight.” “I do not sleep.” “Whatever. Also, pretty sure you do up here on Earth. Laws and Strictures of the Human Forme and all that shit, right? Good night.” He let himself collapse on the bed. Asha laid down beside him, her arm lightly touching his. This was just a weird dream, it must be. The candles burned out again, even though Asha was nowhere near them. His last thought before falling asleep was, It’s kind of nice to share a bed with a girl again, even if she is literal hellspawn. In the morning, she was still there. Adam was reminded of the microfiction story he’d read in his Latin Literature course: When he awoke, the dinosaur was still there. “There’s no devil-damned dinosaurs here,” Asha said. Adam sat up. The first thing he noticed was his underwear, which was still damp from his little accident when the demon materialized. He blushed at the thought. He hadn’t pissed himself since kindergarten, not even just a little. But then again, he hadn’t ever seen a demon from literal Hell materialize from thin air either, so he had a damned valid excuse. The second thing he noticed was that Asha had her legs crossed, and her hand was buried in her crotch. Her white shirt had ridden up, and he could see the contours of a bulging abdomen. She quickly moved her hand away when she noticed him looking, but her legs remained crossed. Did she have to pee? Her abdomen had definitely been much flatter the night before. And her body language screamed desperation. This was something Adam was very familiar with, as his search history would no doubt attest to, not to mention the used paper towels in his paper bin, but he’d never been fortunate enough to witness such obvious urinary desperation up close in real life. Adam tried to work through it in his head without silently verbalizing, hoping Asha’s sixth sense couldn’t pick up what he was thinking about. What had the book said? Oh yeah, her mind was to be free as a dove, blah-blah, but her body and… bodily needs would be his domain. And she was a demon of Pride. No doubt she was not keen on pleading with him to be allowed to do something as demeaning as release her bladder in a toilet. Did they even pee in Hell? Feeling the wetness at his crotch, Adam decided that perhaps it was time for her to taste her own medicine. At least he could allow her to get to the point where she had no choice but to beg. Might do wonders for her attitude. This is just like those stories I read on omorashi.org! “What stories? What is omo-rashidot-awrg?” Asha asked. She’d snaked her hands down to her crotch again, but removed them when he looked over. “It’s nothing,” he said. He got out of bed, rummaged through his closet for clean, dry, urine-free clothes, and began to undress. Asha looked on with curiosity. “Some privacy, please?” “Is that a command?” “Do you not have this thing called rhetorical questions in Hell?” “We do not.” Adam rolled his eyes. “Never mind. Yes, turn around, you’re not getting a peek at my ball sack just yet. You gotta buy me dinner first.” “Buy you dinner? I take what I want. I do not barter or exchange favor for favor.” “Whatever, turn around and no peeking.” She did. Adam got out of his wet pants and boxers, throwing them in disgust into his laundry bin. He might enjoy the occasional wank at the thought of a girl desperate to relieve herself, unable to contain her liquids as they poured out, but he did not relish the experience of doing so himself. Once he was dressed and dry, he told Asha to turn around and stand up. She did so, raising herself from the bed gingerly and standing up straight as a rod, but her confidence was quickly shattered as she was forced to bend over and cross her legs. Adam picked up his phone and noted that he’d forgotten to set his alarm and overslept. Oh, well. Morning classes could wait. He needed to figure out what the fuck to do about the hell-spawn now joined at his hip before he could delve into Classic Literature or Feminist Literary Criticism in the 20th Century. Adam’s bladder was full, so he headed to the bathroom. As she crossed the threshold out of his room, he looked over to see Asha still bent over in the same spot, but now her face was white as a sheet and her face was spasming again. “Come here,” he said, and she shuffled over. For each step she took, her face seemed to calm, and by the time she stood right in front of him, she’d regained her color. Curious. “So, am I right that it’s painful for you to be away from me?” “It would seem so.” “Fan-tastic.” He rolled his eyes. Just one more problem. “I would rather think this, what do you say, ‘sucks balls’,” Asha said. “We’ll need to work on your sarcasm meter. Come on.” Adam walked over to the bathroom, looked to the left and to the right to ensure that none of his housemates were around, and then dragged Asha by the arm into the bathroom. Adam unzipped and emptied his bladder into the toilet bowl, sighing in bliss. He’d needed that. Once he’d zipped up and turned around, he saw that Asha was eyeing the toilet bowl, hopping from foot to foot and clutching at herself like a toddler. A delightful little potty dance. But she made no move towards the toilet, nor did she ask for permission. She just stood there in agony and pride, biting her lip and saying nothing. Oh well, her loss. Adam was certainly enjoying himself. She was, he saw now in the harsh fluorescent light, very pretty, nice and curvy, with shapely breasts just the right side of unnaturally large, and her face was cute. If only she wasn’t a demon, he would have definitely dreamed of hitting on her but not actually dared. Adam grabbed her hand, which forced her to relinquish her iron grip on her privates. Those tight shorts must be digging into her bladder something fierce. As they exited the bathroom together, hand in hand, they almost ran into Ryan, one of Adam’s housemates. “Whoa, get a room you two—Adam? I thought for sure that was Eddie in there with a girl. Would you look what the cat dragged in.” He measured Asha from head to toe with his eyes, and she actually blushed. Probably because she was potty-dancing like a young child, but Ryan seemed not to notice. “Decided to end your dry spell with a bang, eh? Good for you.” “He was not dry this morning,” Asha said. Adam blushed, thinking of his pissy pants, but Ryan got an entirely different idea. “Whoa! I like her. Don’t let this one go, dude,” Ryan said, giving Adam a very bro-ish pat on the shoulder as he squeezed past. “Your friend is odd,” Asha said. “That’s rich, coming from you.” Adam needed to figure out next steps, and decided that the library where he’d found the cursed book was a good start. But first… He dragged Asha into the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of mineral water from the fridge. “Drink this,” he said. Asha let go of his hand and squeezed between her legs again, blushing as she did so. “I would prefer not to,” she said. “Are you disobeying my command?” “N-no!” She grabbed the bottle and chugged the contents so quickly some spilled over onto her shirt, wetting her chest. He noted that she was not wearing a bra, a fact more apparent as the material soaked through. “This tastes funny,” she said. “What do you even drink in Hell? The blood of your enemies?” “That, or the seed of a lover.” “Oh, lord.” She grimaced and her face seemed to… bubble was the right word for it, as if something was boiling beneath her skin. “Right, demon, you and the Lord aren’t on good terms, I take it?” “He is but a fairy-tale for puny humans and certainly no ‘lord’ of mine.” Her sneer was undercut by the childish dance in place she was doing to contain her bladder. “Okay, potty princess, let’s go to the library and figure shit out,” he said. “What did you just call me?” “Well, it’s quite obvious you need to pee.” Adam shrugged. “I do not… urinate.” She spat the word. “I am strong and above such silliness. That is the province of weak humans.” “Okay, whatever. We’ll see if your clothes are dry by the time we get back.” Adam was now lacing up his shoes. “What do you mean? Why would they not be?” Asha asked. “Well, because it looks like you’re about to piss your pants. And we’re about to go out in public, and then everyone will see, and...” “What?” Asha’s voice cracked. “So you aren’t feeling a terrible pressure down there? You just enjoy dancing around like a toddler in the toilet queue?” “I… may feel a certain pressure,” she admitted. Are you going to beg? “I do not beg. Ever.” “Okay then, let’s go and hope you don’t embarrass yourself.” Adam smiled. This was the best thing about this terrible, weird ordeal so far. “I might be temporarily weakened by the trip across the aether...” Asha admitted. “Maybe it would not be a bad idea to...” “Are you really begging me for permission to use the bathroom because you can’t hold it like a big girl?” “I do not beg. But...” “Well, looks like Ryan’s gonna be in there a while, so you might as well hold it until we get to the library. If you can. Otherwise, well, you’ll just have to wet yourself like a little girl.” “Like you did last night?” She shot back, staring daggers. Adam grabbed her hand and yanked her out the door. “You don’t mention that to anyone ever. Hear me?” “Yes, ‘master.’” The display Asha put on while they walked hand in hand was extraordinary. Adam kept up a steady pace, and held her hand tight, so she couldn’t stop and squeeze herself, but her thighs were shaking and she kept her legs firmly together, biting her lip and straining with all her mind. When Adam stopped to locate the shelf he thought he’d found the book on, she wriggled free of his grasp, crossed her legs and bent over. Asha must be at the end of her tether now. Her eyes were watering, and she couldn’t prevent herself from grabbing at her crotch. Better get her to a bathroom before disaster strikes, Adam thought. Don’t want to draw unnecessary attention when I’m here to do demonic research, but it’d be a shame to cut the show short. “No… disasters… will… strike,” Asha said. “Never mind, then,” Adam said, and headed towards the back of the library, where the small collection of purportedly occult books was housed, wedged in between histories of Ancient Greece and Science Fiction. Asha shuffled after him. As he rounded the corner, he saw that he wasn’t alone. A girl stood with her head bent down inspecting one of the occult books, and when she heard them approach, she turned around. Shit. It was Amy, his platonic friend that he wished was something more. In classic Adam style, he had made no move and she’d found a boyfriend. “Oh, Adam! Who’s your friend?” She said, beaming him a heart-melting smile. “Oh, Amy. This is my, uh, friend, Asha.” “Nice to meet y—” she began, holding out a hand in greeting, but Asha was doubled over in pain. Asha whimpered, and then she looked down. Adam could see there was a shiny spot of wetness blooming on her daisy-dukes. “May I please use the toilet?” Asha said. “Oh, restrooms are over there,” Amy said, flustered, pointing around the corner. Asha looked at Adam with a mixture of fear and humiliation. “Go,” he said, and then, to Amy, “I better check up on her, talk to you later,” and then they were off, Asha shuffling, halfway bent over, Adam keeping close by her side. It was a single-user, unisex bathroom, and Adam looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was looking in their direction before dragging the desperate demon with him into the restroom. As soon as Asha saw the toilet, her reserves of strength failed her. Adam stared, mesmerized, as pee began pouring out of her shorts, wetting her butt, pouring out the leg holes, running down her lightly tanned legs, trickling down to her toes, one of which was bleeding. Of course, she hadn’t been wearing any shoes. Adam had been too caught up in arousal to even consider it. Maybe demons didn’t wear shoes in hell, but human bodies weren’t made to walk barefoot on gravel. Asha’s shoulders began to shake as the final drops left her body, dripping into the puddle. Her ample butt had a half-moon of glistening wetness, and trails of shiny urine spattered her legs. She was stood in a puddle that extended from the door all the way to the edge of the porcelain bowl. Then a low, keening noise, and then whimpers. The demon was crying. And Adam felt like a right asshole. Without thinking, he put his arms around his demoness from behind, then reached over and wiped away a tear. “Ladies of the Circle of Pride do not cry,” she whimpered. “Sshh,” he said. “I’m sorry.” Why am I apologizing to a demon? This time, she didn’t respond to his internal monologue as if he’d spoken aloud. Instead, she whispered, “Why are you being nice to me?” “Because I just realized I’ve been acting like a horny asshole,” he said. “Assholes are certainly erogenous, but they are hardly the primary locus of arousal,” she said. “Oh, my. Good to see your sense of humor is back.” He put his hands back on her shoulders and turned her around. Her eyes were red, her cheeks streaky with wetness, and the front of her shorts was a mess. Adam handed her some paper towels, but then thought better of it, and instead wiped down her legs himself. She stood mute as he cleaned her up, the waft of fresh, accidentally spilled urine doing unspeakable things to his groin but his empathy telling him no, no, this is not the time to get a boner, and the result being a sad semi. There was nothing to do for her shorts; they were soaked beyond saving. And her feet—that must hurt. “I guess we better get you some dry clothes. And shoes, definitely. But… We’ll have to dip into the occult section and just grab some shit, because we need to figure this thing out.” “This feeling,” Asha said, “is that what you felt last night? When I came and you…” Her face started contorting and her voice broke. Of course, he’d forbidden her from mentioning his own little accident to anyone. “Yes, I guess,” he said. “But what happened to you was in public, so I guess that must be far more humiliating.” “It feels wrong,” Asha said. “Yeah, it sucks, doesn’t it? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have put you through this.” “I never realized,” Asha said, wiping away the last tears, “that humans could be crueler than the scions of Hell.” Oof. “Well, I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I? Feel free to punch me for being a dick.” Smack. Adam was on the floor, a searing pain in his jaw, one hand stuck in the puddle of urine, eyes watering. Slowly, he stumbled to his feet, whimpering. The girl had surprising strength. “I guess I deserved that,” he said, hand to his jaw. That’s gonna bruise. “In the future, if I tell you to punch me, I mean, like, lightly in the shoulder, not a knockout punch to the face.” “You did deserve it,” Asha said, and something like a smirk played on her lips. It was the first time since she realized he’d successfully bound her that he’d seen her smile. It was almost enough to make up for the pain, to see her smile again. Almost. What’s gotten into me? Don’t tell me I’m falling for a god-damned demon. “I heard that, and I have seen no signs of unsteady gait. You do not appear to be falling down very much, unless you happen to tell me to punch you.” “It’s… Never mind. I’m gonna have to teach you some idioms. Okay, sorry to say, you’re gonna have to walk home in this state, and some people will probably stare. You ready?” “Yes.” Adam took her hand and brought her round back to the occult section. He wanted to minimize Asha’s exposure to the public, but he also really needed to figure out what the hell was going on and how to fix it. He had no idea what the laws and rules governing interdimensional travel were, but for all he knew he might have opened a gateway for all sorts of terrible hell-spawn to travel through. And he couldn’t live his entire life with a demon joined at the hip. How was he going to explain that to his parents? To future girlfriends? They’d just have to grab some books, yeah, and then Asha could carry them in front of her soiled shorts to hide her accident from the front. Excellent plan. Except Amy was still there, rummaging through the occult section, desperately looking for something. She turned around and her mouth fell open when she saw the state of Asha’s shorts. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry that happened to you. Adam, why didn’t you show her where the toilets were? Where are your manners?” Asha blushed and squeezed Adam’s hand. Hard enough as to almost be painful. She couldn’t harm him, but she could certainly signal her desire to do so. “Uh, yeah, I’m terribly sorry. We need to just grab some books and then we’ll get out of here!” “Your girlfriend is clearly in distress, humiliated in public, and you care about books? I thought you were a gentleman,” Amy said, frowning. Adam blushed. “She’s not my girlfriend, but yeah, you’re right, we’ll hurry, just really need to grab some stuff real quick...” He was stumbling over his words. Amy raised an eyebrow at him in response. Oh, yeah. They were holding hands. Of course anyone would think they were a couple. “It’s okay,” Asha said, although her tone did not sound OK at all. “We really need some books.” “I’m sorry he’s such a dick, better you found out now than later,” Amy said, addressing Asha. “I’ll help you find whatever it is. I can, uh, I can walk you home, behind, and you can, like, hold the books in front, and then you can maybe hide what happened. What is it you’re looking for?” “I don’t really know, to be honest,” Adam said. “Anything about, like, binding demons and how to return them to Hell, I guess.” He realized as he said it out loud how stupid it sounded. But Amy perked up. “I didn’t know you were into the occult too,” she said. “Wait, you’re into the occult?” Adam hadn’t expected that. “I was just looking for this book I thought I saw here, the Demonic Dictionary, but I can’t find it,” Amy said. No way, Adam thought. “Yes way,” Asha said. “Yes way?” Amy looked confused. “I have it,” Adam blurted out. “The book.” Why did I say that? “You have it? That’s dangerous stuff right there. It’s got a rep for being, like, the only actual manual of demonology in existence, the rest are just bullshit and superstition,” Amy said. “Don’t tell me you’re intending to try a ritual.” Asha and Adam looked over at each other. “Don’t tell me you two actually already did one?” Amy said. Asha, do the thing. The thing with the eyes. You can still do that, right? Asha’s eyes briefly flashed. One second, green, probing, the next, dark, inky voids of nothingness, darkness swallowing all color, then green again. The whole thing was over in a second, but Amy took a frightened step back. “I did the ritual. She’s the result.” “Oh my God,” Amy said. Asha’s face contorted at the invocation of the Lord. “You actually fucking bound a demon. This is so cool!”

An old story that got wiped out in the Great Corruption. At least I think I posted this on here before, but I've posted it on several forums so I'm not sure. But whether it's the first or the second time, here it is again. Chapter 1. The Rules. “Here are the rules,” she said. “There will be no sex. No unnecessary touching of privates. You may undress me as part of your… play, and feel free to admire my body, but look with your eyes, not your hands or, god forbid, your dick. Got it?” Jonathan nodded. “Of course.” “Good. Everything will happen in private. If you want to do public play, we will renegotiate. If at any point I say the word 'roses,' you will immediately stop whatever you're doing. Oh, and I take payment in advance.” He nodded again. “Absolutely. I won't hurt you. Quite the opposite. I want to take care of you. That's kind of my thing.” Jonathan handed her the cash, and she put it away in her purse. “Okay, then the formal shit is taken care of. I'm yours until tomorrow morning, unless you break our contract. Starting now.” Jonathan beamed a wide smile at her. “Now, now. Little girls don't use dirty words, do they?” Eliza blushed. It was a genuine blush, too. Fuck. I'm screwing up already. “Sorry,” she said, casting her glance downward to the floor. “I've never catered to this particular kink before. It'll probably take me a little while to properly get into the role.” Eliza had been a sex worker for the past two years, after she finished college. She'd done porn for some minor producers, and a few times, she'd straight up sold sex. Eliza loved the idea of it: she was the kind of woman who in earlier times might have been referred to a psychiatrist for nymphomania, and today would be known as a slut. But why shouldn't she have lots of sex if she wanted to? The idea of selling herself, not because anyone forced her to, but because she could and wanted to, was both liberating and, in a naughty taboo kind of way, incredibly sexy. That was the idea of it, though. In practice, having to deal with her customers so intimately—the fat and ugly and smelly ones, as well as the ones who looked like they might be carrying super-AIDS—was far from sexy. Just when she'd thought it might be best to give up the whole prostitute thing as an expression of youthful experimentation, she'd lucked into meeting a couple clients who had more particular desires. Ones that didn't even want to fuck her. They were content to fondle her feet or tie her up and mock her, or force her to strip naked and do household chores while they watched. She was still selling herself, but it had been eight months since she'd actually sold sex. What do you really want? She thought, looking over at Jonathan. All her clients wanted things they couldn't or wouldn't express, and if she did those things, they were on the hook as regulars. The man sitting across from her on the couch was her newest client, and definitely the wealthiest. Jonathan was in his early thirties, mop of brown hair and nerdy glasses, but he wore a businessman's suit. He was the founder of a tech startup that had been bought up by Google for an undisclosed, enormous sum, and now he lived an early retirement in a swanky suburban mansion. “That's okay,” Jonathan said. He was sweating, she noticed. Eliza moved to sit beside him. “First time paying for this kind of thing?” She asked. He squirmed on the couch, as if he were a schoolboy who hadn't done his homework. Eliza laughed. “It's okay. Everyone is nervous the first time. It's nothing to be ashamed of. What I'll usually do is, I make us a drink, and then we just get to know each other a little before the roleplaying begins in earnest. Would you like a drink?” Jonathan blushed, then he nodded. As Eliza rose, about to ask him where he stored his liquor, she heard a cough behind her. “I...” He began. Oh, spit it out! She thought. Is he going to be one of those guys who loses the faculty of speech once he has a girl over? She'd had some clients who panicked once their biggest fantasy was about to become real. Guys who clearly had very little experience with real women, and when faced with one, one whom they'd paid to be theirs for the night, it was all too much to them. Some of them she'd ended up simply talking to all night. Fortunately, Jonathan only needed two tries before he spoke. He grabbed her hand and held her back, gently but firmly. “I have a few rules of my own, young lady.” Eliza turned around to face him. “Yes?” She said, trying her best to sound as innocent as she believed he wanted her to be. “First of all, only grown-ups are allowed in the liquor cabinet.” He was trying very hard to sound authoritative, and it was working about halfway into rule number one, but then his voice faltered. Eliza found it endearing. She didn't know much about his kink, so he would have to teach her, but on the other hand, he clearly didn't know much about being a Dom in practice, so maybe they'd have to learn together. “But, uh… I could use a drink. Wait here a minute.” She glanced around the room while he was gone. On the walls hung posters of old 1960s rock artists, neatly framed; there was a large wall-mounted TV; on the living room table lay a couple of coffee table type art books. Jonathan appeared to be a bit of a neat freak, if the order and cleanliness of his house was any indication. He reappeared with a glass of what appeared to be whiskey in one hand, and a juice box in the other. “I thought it was more appropriate for someone your age,” he said, handing her the juice box. Eliza smiled. She was a little embarrassed, but that feeling was also turning her on a little. If this is your fix, I'll gladly take your money and do it again some other time. She inserted the straw and began sucking on it, looking him in the eyes as she did so. “Are you thinking dirty thoughts, little one?” He asked. Eliza nodded. Seductively, she hoped. Jonathan appeared to be getting into the role, and this was a crucial period. If he just warmed up to the feeling of authority, and she didn't mess up and challenge that authority until he was confident enough to put her in her place, this was going to work out very well. “When you grow up, maybe you can do something about that, but until then, you just enjoy your juice box, sweetie,” he said. Eliza moved closer to him, then she whispered in his ear: “May I sit on your lap?” He pulled her in. Eliza was rather short, which no doubt played into his fantasy. There were certainly call girls out there with bigger boobs, but she had a feeling that would have been inappropriate for his particular kink. “Now, kitten, for rule two. You are only allowed in the bathroom under the supervision of an adult. I'm very strict on that. Are we clear?” Eliza nodded, and couldn't help but notice a twinge in her bladder. She'd suspected something like this, but the reality of it, what it might entail, had remained a little abstract to her. “When we finish our drinks, why don't we get you changed into something a little more appropriate?” Shit. Fuck. “I… I didn't bring anything,” she said. He began stroking her hair. “Don't worry, I'm well prepared.” She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be stroked, trying to find the calm within herself. Trying to become what he wanted her to be. “Hey, don't fall asleep on me! It's not bedtime yet. If you fall asleep now, I'm gonna have a hell of a time getting you to go to sleep tonight, aren't I?” Eliza blushed. “Sorry,” she said. “It's just so calming when you stroke my hair.” “Why don't we go change right now,” Jonathan suggested. Eliza got up from his lap and offered him her hand. He took it and led her upstairs to his bedroom. On the king sized bed lay a denim romper with snaps in the crotch. And was that…? “Oh, that,” Jonathan said, following her gaze. “That's not a problem for you, is it?” It was, indeed, a diaper. Or, rather, one of those pull-on absorbent training pants for older kids. She shook her head. It was covered in her fee, if that's what got him going. “That's just in case,” Jonathan said. “Let's leave it be for now. I know that some little girls have potty problems, but some are properly potty trained. Are you, kitten?” Eliza blushed and nodded. Of course she was. Well, fuck me. On second thought, maybe he wanted me to say no? “Well, then. I'll give you a chance in panties, then. Don't disappoint me now. I don't want to be cleaning up any puddles on the floor. Okay. Let's get you out of those clothes, they look silly on a little girl.” He indicated for Eliza to raise her arms, and she did. Swiftly, he hoisted her Metallica t-shirt off. Then came her jeans, which she allowed him to undo, one button at a time, and then she pulled them down and stepped out of them. Eliza felt a chill in her bones. The room was a little cold, but also, this was the moment of truth. Soon she'd be naked in front of a near-total stranger who had engaged her to fulfill his sexual fantasies. Eliza had no shame about showing off her body, but there was always the possibility that—despite what they'd agreed on—Jonathan might get handsy once she stood naked in front of him. He didn't seem like the type, though. Jonathan seemed like he genuinely wanted to care for her as if she were a child, and she didn't think child molestation was part of the fantasy. Jonathan walked behind her and unclasped her bra. “Little girls don't need bras. You barely have any breasts to be holding up!” He laughed. “Say what?” She couldn't help it. She may be small, but those were still some premium grade boobs, mister. “Good, good,” Jonathan said. He was in front of her now, admiring her naked chest. “I'm sorry, I'm just getting into character. And I want you to be a bit spunky, to resist me a little, you know? Little girls aren't always well behaved.” Eliza took the hint. She stamped a foot on the floor. “I do not have a flat chest. You're just a big meanie.” She stuck her tongue out, to emphasize that her little outburst was part of the act. “Watch your tongue,” Jonathan said. He sized her up. “No, those panties won't do.” They were black silk, bikini style. “Don't worry, I have something a little more appropriate for you.” He rummaged in a closet and found a pair of pink panties with a teddy bear print on them, and a t-shirt with the same motif. “Do you need any help, or can you put them on yourself, sweetie?” “I… Maybe a little bit of help?” Eliza allowed him to lower her panties, giving him a glance of her pussy, but he only took a quick peek before sliding up her new panties. She shifted a little. The coffee with breakfast, then water on the way down, and then juice were all making their way to her bladder. After the panties came the t-shirt over her otherwise bare chest, and then the romper. Jonathan made sure everything fit snugly—and it did, surprisingly—but his hands didn't linger too long in any sensitive areas. Eliza did a little pirouette to show off her new costume, which had shaved off at least six years of her apparent age, if not eight or ten. Although she was still clearly a young woman in immature clothing, she looked closer to sixteen than to twenty-four. “Uh, about the bathroom,” Eliza said. “Could you show me the way? I kind of have to pee.” “But you have to see all the fun stuff I've prepared for you!” Jonathan exclaimed. He took her hand and led her downstairs, and she offered no further protest. Perhaps he wants me to pee my pants. Perhaps he really wants an excuse to put me in diapers. Jonathan hadn't been quite clear on what age he wanted her to be. A little girl, he'd said. A little girl to take care of. But did that mean six or two? Was she supposed to be a first grader or a babbling baby? Hopefully not the latter, because she'd be bored out of her mind if she wasn't at least allowed to talk. And she didn't think she could do baby convincingly, either. First grader was more like it. But was she a first grader with “potty problems?” Eliza tried to cross her legs, but Jonathan dragged her along to a room adjacent to the living room. It was more of a lounge, with bean bags and a few reclining chairs, and on one of the walls hung a canvas that looked like it might be part of a home cinema setup. There was a little table in a corner, and Jonathan led her to it. “I've got some coloring books, stickers, glue, and glitter. Why don't you have some fun with that? I'll be right here, reading a book.” He indicated one of the chairs. “But I need to pee!” She protested. Her bladder was rather uncomfortable, and the desperation could be heard in her voice. It was a child's whine. Inwardly, she smiled. He must be loving this. “I was really looking forward to some quiet reading. The bathroom is upstairs. Why didn't you say something before?” “I did!” “Hmm,” Jonathan said. “I must have missed it. Well, if it's an emergency, I'll take you. If it can wait, we'll do it after.” Does he want me to say I can hold it? And if I do, does he want me to actually hold it, or does he want me to have an accident? She was a little concerned about ruining the clothes he'd clearly bought just for this occasion. Surely he didn't have more than one “little girl” uniform laying around, and if she peed in this one, well, she'd have to use her regular clothes, which might break the spell. She'd have to find a way to broach it in character. “I'm a big girl!” She said, and pointed to herself. “I can hold it all day.” Then she crossed her legs, both because she really did need to pee, and for show. “But… Just in case I can't, maybe I should go. I don't want to ruin my new clothes.” Jonathan hugged her. “Don't you worry about that, dear,” he said. “Clothes can be washed. And there's more where those came from.” Eliza considered her options. In her occupation, intuition was king. She needed to be both a sex object and a mind-reader, sussing out what her clients really wanted, deep down. Going out of character unless absolutely necessary would kill the fantasy. Considering Jonathan had gone to the trouble of buying diapers for her, it would be a shame if he didn't get to put her in them. Eliza had never done any pee play; hardcore watersports, like drinking pee or having someone pee in your face, rather disgusted her. But the idea of peeing her pants, while not something she'd ever done before, seemed rather harmless. She could maybe let out a tiny bit, just enough for it to show on her clothes, and then Jonathan would get to punish her for it. Eliza spread her legs a little and tried to think of dripping water, Niagara falls, but nothing came out. Guess I'm just too well trained, she thought. “Okay, you can read your book,” she said. “But promise to take me soon?” “All right, kitten,” Jonathan said. Eliza sat down and looked over the supplies he'd given her. Frankly, coloring books and glitter and stickers looked boring as fuck. She tried to look for her inner child, but apparently it had gone into hiding. There was nothing redeeming about coloring books. But considering the pay, she'd bloody well put up with it. I could be getting fucked in the ass by a 300 pound cave dweller, she thought. Instead, I'm getting paid three times as much to have someone attend to my needs, look after me like a daughter, and all I need to do is play with glitter and try not to look bored. Eliza picked up a crayon and began coloring. She debated whether she should color outside the lines like a child, but settled on meticulously coloring within them. That way, she could at least devote a little bit of brain power to the task at hand. Maybe Jonathan would hang it on his fridge. The page she was working on had a castle with turrets, a drawbridge, a fairy and an adventurer carrying a sword. It reminded her of Ocarina of Time, so the swordsman had to be green. She crossed and uncrossed her legs under the table. Maybe if she pushed a little on her bladder, that would be enough to squirt out a little bit, and then she could ask Jonathan to take her to the bathroom. She spread her legs and pushed on her abdomen. For a moment, her muscles resisted, but then Eliza felt her new panties warm to a trickle of pee. It was a strange feeling. She couldn't remember the last time she peed herself. Probably when she was around the age she was playing at now. Eliza had a rather small bladder, but she'd learned early on to compensate with frequent trips to the toilet. She put a hand in her lap; it touched wet fabric. Satisfied that her little “accident” would be visible to Jonathan, she clamped shut. That is, she tried to clamp shut. But she had left the floodgates open too long, and now she couldn't stop. Eliza let out a little yelp of despair as her ass began to get soaked. She twisted her legs and pushed on her crotch with both hands, but the pee kept coming, pooling between her legs and running up her lap and down her thighs. Jonathan was there in a flash. “What's wrong, sweetie?” He asked. There was genuine alarm in his voice, like he couldn't tell if this was still pretend, or perhaps he was so deep in character that it didn't matter. “I…” The hiss as she peed herself was so loud in her ears, she was sure he must hear it. Perhaps he was simply too polite to say anything, or perhaps she was simply hyperaware. She waited until she was done, and then she hung her head. “I peed.” “You peed?” Jonathan looked confused. “It was an accident.” Eliza stood up to show him. When she did, some urine spilled over the chair and splashed on the floor. She was soaked down to her knees, and her ass was sopping wet. It was uncomfortable, perhaps mostly due to embarrassment. She had meant to pee, yes, but then she couldn't stop and it turned into a real accident. Eliza was sure she was red as a stoplight. The embarrassment did, however, allow her to more easily slip deeper into the role. It felt natural to ask, “Can you please not be mad?” Jonathan shook his head. “Of course I'm not mad. But I thought you said you could hold it?” “I totally can. It was just an accident.” She looked down at the puddle she'd made. Eliza was amazed she'd managed to hold that much in the first place. “But can you please help me clean up? It's yucky.” Jonathan was easily a foot taller than her. Before she knew it, he'd swept her off her feet and began carrying her upstairs. “Eliza, sweetie, you should have said it was an emergency.” “I was having too much fun playing,” she lied. Eliza buried her head in his shoulder. This was supposed to make her feel safe. Little Eliza would feel safe in Jonathan's arms, in his shoulder. He smelled of aftershave. She closed her eyes, and again she felt the lack of proper sleep the night before catching up with her. Before she knew it, Jonathan was gently putting her down on the floor. It was a large bathroom, all in marble, with a big tub in one corner and a shower in the other. Each could fit at least two, if not three adults. Besides that there was room for a washer, drier, and toilet. She felt like she were standing in a cathedral of glass and marble. Although the downstairs rooms looked middle glass, this bathroom screamed rich. “Let's get those icky clothes off,” Jonathan said, and began undoing her romper. His gaze lingered for a moment on her wet ass. She wiggled her bum, and he gave it a slap. “Don't show off,” he said, although his continued staring at her told her he didn't really mean it. “Are you proud to be going potty in your pants?” “No, Jonathan,” she said. Is that how he wants to be addressed? Some clients preferred Sir or Master. Others had bizarre alter egos they liked to roleplay. Who was Little Eliza to him? His daughter, his niece, his student in first grade? She leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Is that what you want me to call you? Or is there something else?” He thought for a moment. “Ideally, I'd like to be called Daddy. But I think that's something I need to earn first. In the meantime, you can call me John or Jonathan.” “Okay, John. Please get these icky clothes off me.” He did as asked. “I was going to do this before bed, but I think I'm going to run you a bath. With bubbles. How does that sound?” He asked. “I'd like that.” She was now naked, the wet clothes in a pile on the floor. Jonathan opened the faucet and began running a bath. The tub looked inviting, and she was a bit cold, so she climbed in. “I'll go get some dry and clean clothes. You just stay right here, pumpkin.” Eliza leaned back and closed her eyes. Jonathan had to be the sweetest client she'd ever had, and his fantasies the most innocent. She was short, slim and just the right amount of curvy, yet her wet panties seemed to interest him more than her pussy. He clearly enjoyed looking at her, but he could be doing so much more. The roleplay seemed to be doing it for him. His comment about wanting to earn the name “Daddy” gave her a pang of guilt. Am I exploiting him? It seemed like his brand of kink required an intimate connection with another person. Although all kinky play requires a big degree of trust from both parties, many people enjoy a casual spanking. John, on the other hand, didn't seem like the type who'd go to a BDSM party and tie someone up for the evening, then never see them again. He really just wanted a girlfriend he could cuddle at night. Jonathan sidled up by the tub and poured something into the water, and soon enough, she was covered up by a layer of foam. “Stop me if I'm going too far,” Eliza said. “But your kink strikes me as the kind best practiced in a committed relationship.” Her eyes were still closed, and she found herself enjoying his tender touch as he began rubbing shampoo into her hair. Jonathan sighed. “You could say that,” he said. “But there aren't many girls out there as lovely as you.” “That's sweet of you to say,” she said. “But I'm sure there's someone out there for you. Successful businessman, and probably the sweetest client I've had to boot.” “I imagine you run into some brutes in your profession.” She thought it over. No, no one had ever disrespected her boundaries. “It depends,” she said. “I've been careful. Maybe a little lucky. No one ever laid their hands on me—except in the ways we'd discussed beforehand. I'm not a street walker. I mean, no disrespect to those girls. I'm just saying, what they do is a lot more dangerous than what I do.” In the beginning, she relied on internet ads. Now, all her new clients were referrals. People who were recommended by someone she trusted. Jonathan had been vouched for by a business contact of hers, Jane, although she wasn't quite clear on how they knew each other. She trusted her acquaintance, though. “Come to think of it, how do you know Jane?” Eliza asked. “Oh,” Jonathan said. “She's my ex.” “She's your ex?” Eliza hadn't expected that. Jane worked in the porn industry. “Yeah. She said you might be able to, uh, fulfill the fantasies she couldn't. I told her about my fetish. It didn't go so well.” “I'm sorry,” Eliza said. “Is that why you guys broke up?” “Yes and no. It put more strain on a strained relationship. After a while we both decided it was for the best to call it quits. Well, she decided. I acquiesced.” Eliza opened her eyes, reached over the edge of the tub and gave him a hug. Foamy water splashed all over his shirt. He didn't seem to mind. Eliza held the hug, and then she began rubbing his back, leaving wet fingerprints on his button-down. Finally, he separated himself. His eyes were watery. He rose and attempted to straightened himself up. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm getting a little emotional. I suppose emotional isn't in the job description.” “No, no,” Eliza said. “It was my mistake. I pushed too far.” He cleared his throat. “Well, little one,” he said, in an apparent attempt to regain his authority. He was really such a sweetheart. “Let's get you dried and into some clean clothes.” He offered her a hand as she stepped out of the bathtub. Then he began rubbing her dry with a huge towel. She felt very small, like she was disappearing into the towel. He rubbed her all over to get her dry, and she felt herself getting a little aroused as he worked on her breasts and between her legs. Jonathan was just drying her off—he showed no signs of being aroused himself. But she found herself wishing he'd give a little special attention to her special areas. Satisfied that she was dry, Jonathan turned around to pick up her new clothes. A dress, with a childish floral print in yellow. He must have gone on quite a shopping spree in preparation, she mused. “Now, pumpkin, I told you I wanted to give you a bath before bed. Remind me, why did we have to do it early?” Eliza blushed. He wants to hear me say it. He wants to humiliate me. Humiliation, as it happened, was one of her own kinks. She loved to hate it. “Because I had an accident,” she said. “Oh?” He looked at her expectantly. What is it he wants me to say? “What kind of accident? Did you fall and scrub your knee?” Eliza hid her face behind the towel. She was deliciously embarrassed. “Noooo,” she said. “Not that kinda accident.” “What kind of accident did you have, then, sweetpea?” “In my pants.” She pointed to the wet romper and panties, still on the floor. “I peed in my pants.” “That's right,” Jonathan said. “You said you were a big girl, but then you couldn't make it to the bathroom. I gave you a chance at panties, but I don't think you're quite big enough for them. I can't trust that you'll be able to keep them dry.” “I AM a big girl!” Eliza said, stomping her foot on the ground. That was a mistake. The tiles were wet, and she slipped and lost her footing. For a terrifying moment, she saw the tiles rush up toward her head, but then Jonathan was there and grabbed her before she faceplanted into the floor. “Careful, honey, the floor is wet,” Jonathan said. “One day you'll be a big girl. But until then...” He held up the pull-up diaper she'd seen in his bedroom earlier. “No fair,” Eliza said. “It was only one accident.” “Well, just in case,” Jonathan said. There it was. She knew what she'd signed up for, but the reality of it still hit her like a brick. Eliza had let herself be degraded for money before, but she had never imagined herself ever having to wear a diaper. And not just because she was paid to do it. No, she had actually peed her pants and earned it. She blushed again at the thought. The humiliation was getting her wet in a different way. When she began peeing, it had been on purpose. But then it wasn't on purpose anymore. She'd really tried to stop, and found she couldn't. In a way, she did really have an accident, just like a little girl. Does he want me to protest? He did say earlier that he wanted her to disobey. “NO,” she said. “I'm a BIG GIRL and BIG GIRLS don't wear diapers.” Jonathan looked at her sternly. “Do you want to earn yourself a spanking, little missy?” He didn't raise his voice, but his tone said that he wasn't kidding. “FINE,” Eliza said, in her best petulant child voice. “But only this once. And I'm going to prove to you that I don't need it.” “Very well,” Jonathan said. He looked down at his watch. “It's only 3 PM. If you can keep this one dry until seven, you can have panties for the rest of the night.” Four hours? She could do that. He helped her step into the diaper and slid it up her hips. The feeling of padding between her legs was odd, but the shape of the it was more like a pair of extra-thick panties than a diaper. She gingerly took a few steps. There was a soft rustle as she walked, but it was barely audible. She could feel the fabric absorbing some moisture from between her legs. “Now, this one isn't very thick. It's made for little girls who are potty training. So you need to tell me when you need to go potty, because this diaper can't take a flood like the one you unleashed in your pants.” Touché. “And it's very important that you tell me if you need to go number two, because this one is only designed for pee.” Number two? Goo god. The thought of it had her reeling. Peeing was one thing, she could do that. But under no circumstances would she have anything to do with poop. She had a strong anti-scat policy. “Yes, John,” she said. “I'm going to tell you when I need to go.” It occurred to her that the toilet was off limits without “adult supervision.” Did he expect her to poop while he watched? Open as she was about her body, she didn't think she could do that. She'd just have to hold it if it came to that. Chapter 2. Medium Rare.  Jonathan helped her into the dress, and she twirled around, giving him a peek upskirt. He nodded. “You look stunning,” he said. “Thank you.” He led her hand in hand downstairs. “Are you hungry yet?” He asked. “I could go for some food right about now.” Her stomach grumbled in sympathy. She hadn't eaten since early that morning. “Sure,” Eliza said. “I was thinking steak and pepper sauce,” said John. “It's a little early for such a heavy meal, so maybe we should stretch it an hour, but I haven't eaten since breakfast, so I'd like to eat soon. You know, I would take you to a nice restaurant, but we agreed not to go out in public.” Eliza nodded. “Maybe some other time.” Seeding another appointment, she thought. It was somewhat cynical of her, but she felt it was entirely natural. She was only being honest. “You're welcome to take me out, but we'd have to suspend the roleplay. But I don't mind a nice home-cooked meal.” Jonathan smiled. “I'm an excellent cook.” “Maybe we could just cuddle and watch some TV to kill time,” Eliza suggested. “I love it when you stroke my hair.” Jonathan seated himself on the coach and switched on some mindless reality show. The kind where there is no real goal, except for the contestants to back-stab each other as much as possible—when they're not having sex, and solemnly swearing they never imagined they would be doing it on television, it just happened, because he or she's the one. Eliza curled up beside him, and he obediently began stroking her hair. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine that he was her boyfriend, a trick she used whenever a client wanted romance rather than straight sex. It wasn't hard to see this kind, caring and wealthy bachelor as a partner in another life. Eliza had a strict policy of separating business and pleasure—it wasn't like she were actually falling for him. But with closed eyes, she could pretend. When she lay still, she hardly even noticed the difference in her underwear, but whenever she moved, the padding pushed into her and reminded her of what a little girl she was supposed to be. Before she knew it, she was dreaming. The imagery faded as soon as Jonathan nudged her awake, but it had been a pleasant dream. “Hey, I didn't say you could nap,” John said. Eliza rubbed her eyes. “Sorry. I guess I didn't sleep much last night. I'll be a good girl and go to sleep for bedtime, that's a promise.” “I think it's time for dinner,” John said. “Would you like to continue coloring for me, or would you like to help me cook?” She told him she wanted to cook. Eliza had had enough coloring for one day. She needed some kind of stimulation. Pleasant though it was, life as a little girl was rather boring. One downside of her more romantic appointments was that they didn't provide the same level of excitement as a sexual session. Her clients rarely knew how to inject excitement into a date. But as soon as she'd finished that train of thought, John was over her, pinning her down on the coach, and then he was tickling her. “Eeee!” She squeaked. It was unexpected, but she didn't protest. She tried to contort her body so he couldn't get to her most ticklish spots, but he was devious. One fake maneuver toward her armpits, and then he was lifting up the front of her dress, and for a moment she thought he was going to stick a hand down her diaper—but then he was blowing raspberries on her stomach, and Eliza couldn't help but laugh. When she did, she let down her defenses up top, and he started on her armpits, the most ticklish spot on her body.  “Aaaah!” She said, laughing all the while. “Stop! Stop! I'm gonna pee!” She struggled to close her legs, but then he was tickling her under her feet, and she had to open them, and almost kicked him in the nose, barely missing his glasses. “I mean it! I'm ahhhahaaa—I'm gonna pee myself!” He let up. “Let's get you to the bathroom before it's too late, then,” he said. Eliza was red-faced and panting, exhausted from the assault of tickles. Her breath was heavy, and her chest was heavy from all the laughing, but her smile was genuine. None of her clients ever got into tickle fights with her. Hell, it was even a little bit hot. She'd experimented with forced orgasms using a vibrator and a willing, non-paid partner, and tickling was similarly painful and pleasant at the same time. But she didn't want to pee herself. Eliza wanted to prove to John that she could last until seven. A little silly, she realized. She was an adult and had never peed her pants by accident, not since she was a toddler. Big Eliza, the sex worker, had nothing to prove. But Little Eliza certainly did, after her embarrassing accident earlier. “I don't really need to go,” she managed, after she regained her breath. “It's just when you tickle me, I can't control it.” “Well, let's try anyway. I can't leave the kitchen once the plates are hot and things are cooking to take you to the bathroom, now can I? Here is a potty training lesson. When you know you won't be able to go to the potty for a while, it's smart to go before, just in case.” He offered a hand and led her upstairs. She followed, a light rustling of her underwear probably only audible to herself. “Okay, down she goes,” John said, lowering her pull-up, “and up she goes!” Eliza allowed herself to be hoisted up on the toilet. “See if you can make a little tinkle for me.” She tried, but nothing came out. Eliza wasn't normally pee shy, but something about the situation made her clam up. “I can't,” she said. “Maybe if I turn on the tap?” John offered. Eliza closed her eyes and listened to the stream of water splashing into the sink. Finally, a slight tinkle began. “Good girl!” John said. “Now, do you know how to wipe, Eliza?” Of course she did. And they had agreed on no touching in that area. Eliza found herself aching for some touch down there. The whole evening had been a long series of humiliations, and that was the sort of stuff that got her going. She'd never imagined herself being into this stuff, and to be honest, she couldn't ever see herself roleplaying a little girl for her own pleasure. But the roleplay did facilitate humiliation, and that had her loins all wet and slippery. No. It might set a bad precedent. We'll have to renegotiate. On the other hand… She did say no unnecessary touching of privates, did she not? What if it were necessary? She did allow him to clean her in the bath and dry her off, all over her body. “Uh… Maybe you could show me?” She bit her lip and looked him in the eye. For a brief moment, he blushed, a little flustered, but then he was back in control. “Of course, baby,” John said. “It's very important that you keep clean down there, so you don't get any nasty infections. You don't want that, do you, Eliza?” She shook her head. John ceremoniously grabbed a piece of toilet paper. It was four-ply, premium quality, soft as silk. Eliza considered expensive toilet paper to be literally throwing money down the toilet, so she always went for the cheap stuff. Apparently, she didn't know what she was missing. When John wiped her down, it was like being wrapped in a blanket of good emotions. “Teehee, it tickles,” she said. “Oh,” said John. “I don't think little girls need to think about that.” Eliza was a little disappointed. “There, all done,” John said, and helped her slide the diaper up her hips. “Now let's go cook some dinner.” They entered a kitchen decked out with all the newest in stainless steel and Swedish design. It looked like something out of an unusually upscale IKEA catalog. There was a double-door refrigerator, two hypermodern stoves with electronic displays and more dials and buttons than Eliza's laptop. “I'm afraid little girls and hot stoves don't go well together,” John said. “But you can ready the table. Plates are over there,” he indicated the top of a tall cabinet, “and cutlery over there.” Eliza tried to reach the shelf, but even on the tips of her toes, she wasn't tall enough. The kitchen was clearly designed for someone John's size. “I can't reach up there,” she said. “Silly me,” John said. He grabbed some plates and glasses, and she decked out the table. Then he kept her busy grabbing ingredients and explaining every step of the cooking process, just as if she were in grade school. It wasn't the world's most complicated meal, and Eliza was sure she could've managed it on her own. But she allowed him to teach her. The meal was delicious. Medium rare steak, pepper sauce and cooked potatoes. Anything would have been good at this stage; it was close to five and she hadn't eaten since around nine in the morning. But John wasn't lying when he said he was a good cook. Eliza tried to imagine herself as a young child. She deliberately missed with her fork, allowing some sauce to spill onto her face. Once she was done eating, John playfully scolded her for being a messy eater, and wiped it all away. “We'll have to teach you some table manner,” he said, and laughed. With the weight of a full belly, her tiredness returned. She wasn't sure if she could keep her promise of staying awake until bedtime. When was that, anyway? John led them back into the living room. She curled up on the coach, and he handed her a blanket. Eliza yawned. “I'm gonna stay awake, promise,” she said, by way of apology. He sat down beside her. “It wasn't easy,” John said. “Telling my ex about this fetish.” He stroked her hair. It was auburn, flowing down to her chest in curlicues. “I always knew, kind of. I always enjoyed caring for my baby brother, but not in a sexual way, of course. And then when I hit my teens, I would see these cute girls, and the guys would be like, 'Damn, I'd like to fuck her.' Behind her back, of course. And I'd go, 'Yeah, man, you got it.' But inwardly I'd be thinking, 'I'd love to take her home, kiss her forehead and tuck her in.'” “So it isn't sexual at all for you?” Eliza said. Jonathan blushed. “Don't think I haven't caught you looking at me that way,” Eliza said. “It's no big deal. I'm hiring out my body, after all. Feel free to think any dirty thoughts you want, as long as you don't act out anything we didn't agree on.” He resumed stroking her hair. “Oh, Eliza. I have to admit, you're stunning. And I could see myself in bed with you, having some adult fun. But I'm perfectly happy caring for you without touching you inappropriately. The truth is, when I look at you right now, I see a child and a woman at the same time. I'm attracted to the woman as a woman to do man-and-woman stuff with, and to the child as a child to care for.” Eliza sat up. She didn't want to pry into his evidently difficult feelings toward his ex, but he was the one to bring it up. She was curious. “So I take it your ex didn't take the news very well?” “I was a stuttering mess. I think if I'd proudly stated my preferences like they were no big deal, maybe things would have gone over differently. But I acted like I was ashamed of it, and so she assumed it was shameful.” Eliza nodded. “Yeah,” she said, her sleepiness somewhat slurring her words and dragging them out. “I find that people almost always adopt the attitude that you project to the world. Act confident, they will see you as confident. Act ashamed, they will assume you have good reason for it and pile on with the shaming.” “Jane told me maybe she could help me get over it,” John said. “Maybe there was some other fantasy we could act out that would make me forget all about little girls and diapers and all that. She offered anal. She even hinted that a threesome might be on the horizon, she had some open-minded friends—Jane is in the porn biz, after all. But once it became clear that it wasn't a phase and it wasn't something that would ever go away, it became a constant source of conflict. She just couldn't deal with the fact that I was fantasizing about her as a little girl—I mean, as an adult acting like one, not that I was jerking off to her childhood portraits or something.” “I'm sorry,” said Eliza. “But she led me to you,” Jonathan said. “Jane told me you might be open to something like this.” “I'm all yours, until tomorrow morning.” Suddenly, his hand was under her skirt. He pushed against the dry padding of her crotch, but then he withdrew his hand as quickly as he put it up there. “Just checking,” he said. “Don't want you leaking on the couch.” Eliza wiggled free of him. “I'm a big girl and I don't need this thing,” she said, lifting her skirt to indicate the diaper. The bottom of her breasts peaked out, giving him a nice little underboob look. “I told you, I'm gonna keep dry until seven.” “We're almost there, kitten. Just tell me if you need to go potty.” They sat in silence for a while on the coach. Again, Eliza's eyes drooped, and she had to fight for them to stay open. “Hey, could you make some coffee or something? I'm almost falling asleep here,” Eliza said. “I would, but not so close to bedtime. I don't want my baby all hyper when she's supposed to go to sleep.” Eliza sank back into the couch. “I can tell you're bored. We're supposed to have fun! Don't you forget that. Little girls are allowed to be fussy if they're understimulated. Not too fussy, of course, or I'll have to take them over the knee,” John added. “Look, it's almost seven o'clock. Come with me to the bathroom. If your pull-up is still dry, we can forget about your accident earlier”—a blush, at that—“and go back to panties. Come with me.” Eliza stayed where she was. She felt as if she'd eaten a pot brownie, and now she was couchlocked. If only she had some sleep the night before. She'd been worried about finances. Her landlord had hiked up the rent, and if John had decided to cancel on her for some reason, she'd have been shit out of luck. She saw now that she needn't have worried. His fee alone would cover a month's rent and more, but she couldn't have known that he wouldn't back out. A few of her clients had done that. The idea of hiring a prostitute sounded appealing, but when it came to it, they didn't have it in them. Society at large still frowns upon the practice, no matter how consensual it is. What she did was technically illegal, although her operation was luxurious and professional enough that, in practice, she was largely safe from law enforcement. But some of her clients, like John, were upper class with a reputation to protect. Some were so worried about being blackmailed, they demanded video footage of her conducting the transaction, themselves conveniently off screen, in order to have some dirt on her. Eliza refused such requests, of course. But no matter the validity of her concerns, they'd kept her up at night, and now she didn't want to do anything but close her eyes and drift into sleep. John picked her up and carried her to the bathroom. He was surprisingly strong for his lanky build. Then again, she was petite. John set her down in front of the toilet. “Okay, Eliza. Moment of truth. Did you have an accident, or are you still dry?” “Still dry,” Eliza said, although her gaze was on the floor. “Then you wouldn't mind if I check?” He asked. Eliza lifted her dress in response. John slipped a finger into the side of her diaper, although his fingers never strayed toward her pussy. “Almost completely dry,” He said. “I was turned on for a bit,” Eliza said. “That doesn't count.” “I suppose not,” John said. “Okay. Do you want panties for the rest of the night?” Eliza nodded. John disappeared for a moment, although he stopped in the doorway to assure her he wasn't leaving her alone for more than a minute, as if she were a child with separation anxiety. Once he was back, he made her try to pee in the toilet again. This time, she managed a little trickle without the aid of a running tap. Then he slipped on her panties, and a little bit of her adulthood was restored. The used diaper went in a separate trash can, she noted. John really was prepared for everything. Eliza's eyes were drooping. “John, please, I really need that coffee if I'm going to stay awake,” she said. “Pretty please? Just a little cup.” “No,” he said plainly. “And I don't want to hear any more about it. Stop nagging.” Eliza stopped and resisted his attempt to lead her onwards. “Please,” she said again. “I'm so tired. Don't you want me to stay awake and play with you?” “Enough,” John said. She tried one last time. “Please?” John turned around. His demeanor had changed. His size advantage had made him feel like a big, strong protector, but now it felt like a threat. Eliza took a step back. His face was red, his mouth contorted into a frown. “Enough is enough. You will go stand in the corner for twenty minutes, and if I hear as much as a peep from you, you're going over the knee. Is that clear?” Eliza gave an uncertain nod. She had awakened the beast. Eliza hadn't seen this side of John before. One part of her was terrified; the other, secretly excited. He was finally warming up to the role of the Dominant in their scene. “But what if I need to go to the bathroom?” Eliza asked. “May I speak then?” “You just went,” he said curtly. “You can hold it for twenty minutes. You were so eager to prove that you belong in panties, so here's your chance. Come to think of it, I don't want you to get dehydrated. I'll bring you a bottle of water, and I expect you to finish it by the time your timeout's up.” Time passed glacially in the corner. She stared at the off-white wall and tried to distract herself with happy thoughts, occasionally taking a sip of water. It was no use. Her punishment was boredom, and she deserved it. Little Eliza had pushed it too far. Although her eyes drooped, standing up kept her awake. She attempted to sit down, thinking perhaps she could sneak in a powernap while John wasn't watching, but he told her to stand up immediately. Eliza was frustrated, tired, and now her stomach was starting to hurt, too. What do babies do when they're sick and tired and want to get their will? They cry. Eliza wasn't much of an actor—well, that wasn't true. She was very good at inhabiting the roles her clients wanted her to play, but that was the extent of her abilities. Eliza couldn't cry on command. But right now, she felt very much the fussy baby, and focusing on her tired and frustrated state made her all the more upset. Once she added in the mental image of her true love dumping her—that was long ago, before she stopped believing there was one and only one person out there for her—she managed a little sniffle, and soon tears were rolling down her cheeks. Quickly, John was beside her. “Baby, don't cry. What is it?” He said. His tone had changed from stern to paternal concern. “I'm tired. My tummy hurts. I don't want to stand in this stupid corner anymore,” she said, between sniffles. All of which was true. That part wasn't an act. John looked her over. She was standing there in a juvenile summer dress, the one he had put her in after she peed in her first outfit of the day (second, really, since he had removed the one she came in). She had puffy eyes and drying tears down her cheeks. The sight of her so miserable seemed to break through his defenses. John squatted down beside her and gave her a hug. “Now, now, don't cry, sweet child. I think you've learned your lesson about disobeying me. Haven't you, kitten?” “Yes, Daddy,” Eliza said. Chapter 3. Sub Drop. Eliza didn't know why she said it, but it seemed natural. John wanted to earn the title “daddy,” and in her eyes, he'd done so. His punishment and his compassion tipped the scales. John had shown all the qualities of a good Dom, and he'd picked them up quickly and naturally. Although she had never called a partner “daddy,” before—her preferred nomenclature in a BDSM scene being Sir or Master—if that was what, to him, represented the same as those names represented to her previous partners, then Daddy it was.  John separated himself from her for a moment. “Oh, baby,” he said. “Come on out of the corner. I think we can call an early bedtime soon, since you're already tired and fussy. But there's one more thing I want to do before bed. I'd like to read you a bedtime story. How does that sound?” “I'd love that,” she said, and added, “Daddy.” He led her upstairs to the bedroom. Then he bent down and rummaged under the bed. When he emerged, he held a large adult diaper, with a yellow stripe going up the crotch. “Now, you've been very good at going potty today, but you did have an accident earlier,” John said. “I know some little girls have trouble at night, so I think it's best if we take our precautions. Do you know what the word 'precautions' means, sweetie?”  Eliza shook her head. “No, daddy.” “It means we think about what might happen in the future, and then we do something to mitigate—to limit the damage if that thing were to happen. You're so tired, I'm afraid you'll fall asleep while I read you a story. Will you be a good girl and let me put it on you for bed?” Eliza nodded. He laid out a towel on the bed, and she laid down. John slipped off her panties, and then he set to work on the diaper. He'd procured a white powder from somewhere, and proceeded to put some over her crotch, “to prevent rashes,” he said. Then he carefully taped her up and slipped off her dress. “This one's designed to take anything you can throw at it and more. I have a washable mattress pad, too, so don't worry about having an accident. You won't ruin anything.” Now she was sitting naked apart from a bulging adult diaper between her legs, in front of a man she met less than twenty-four hours ago. “I have some pajamas for you,” John said. “I prefer to sleep in the nude,” Eliza said. “Okay, pumpkin.” Eliza looked down at the padding between her legs. This diaper was bulkier than the previous one, and its size made it impossible for her to ignore. Every movement, even lying completely still, it was there to remind her of how little Eliza was. “This one is boring,” Eliza said, pointing to the diaper. “Can we put stickers on it?” “Excellent idea,” John said. “Let me just—” But before he could do anything, Eliza had slipped off the bed and began running downstairs to grab the glittery stickers she'd been so reluctant to play with earlier. The diaper gave her a slight waddle, but she managed all right. On the way up, she met John in the stairwell. “I don't like it when you run off like that,” he said. “I brought the stickers!” Eliza shoved them in his face. John grabbed them, then her, and carried both back into the bedroom. Eliza nuzzled into his neck and allowed her mind to drift, her consciousness to whittle down, and she was all but sleeping when he put her back into bed. John nudged her, and she woke up enough to grab a handful of stickers, placing them haphazardly on her diaper. It looked ridiculous. Very appropriate for Little Eliza. John began reading her a fairy tale. Little Red Riding hood, with sound effects when the terrible wolf showed up. He rubbed her tummy as he read, and soon her eyes were closed, and then she was asleep. It must be early morning when she woke. Jonathan was sleeping by her side. The room was too dark to see anything but rough outlines. Her crotch was hot and sweaty. But what woke her up was her stomach. The pain was back in force. There was no denying it. Eliza needed to poop. She had a dilemma. Jonathan had laid down the rules: she wasn't allowed to use the bathroom without his supervision. But she couldn't see herself pooping in front of him. She just couldn't. Eliza's mind was locked and set. It was a mental block, but those are often harder than the physical ones. She didn't think she could bear him looking at her, hearing her, smelling her go number two. On the other hand, she was hired to obey the rules. Bathroom control was within the limits of their agreement. Eliza was a professional. She had yet to break a contract and disobey the rules she'd agreed to obey, unless the other party broke their end of the deal first. This was a special case. Maybe she could sneak off and go while Jonathan was asleep. But then there was the issue of the diaper. She would have to remove it, of course. Eliza knew nothing about how adult diapers work, but as a general rule, tapes don't stick as well once you untape them, if they stick at all. Maybe she could snag another diaper from the pack—surely there was a pack with more where this one came from—and hide the used one deep in a trashcan somewhere. He'd never notice. Her stomach rumbled. She felt a pressure down there, had to squirm a bit to contain it. Eliza wasn't sure if she could last until morning. The contract was twenty-four hours, do whatever you want to me and make me do anything you want, as long as it's within the rules we agreed to. She'd arrived at eleven. Although there was a clock in the room, Eliza estimated that it couldn't be much more than five in the morning, if that. Six more hours of this? It hurt, it was uncomfortable, it made her squirm. Eliza had to do something. Silently, she slipped out of bed. Only a slight rustle between her legs betrayed her, but a snore from John confirmed that he didn't notice a thing. Eliza got on her knees and rummaged around under the bed until she found her prize: a big pack of adult diapers. She snagged one out of the pack and pushed it back under the bed. Then there were the stickers. She must not forget them. John would be sure to check her in the morning. He seemed very fond of the checks. They afforded a legitimate reason to touch her between the legs, and even if he never strayed too far, she could tell he enjoyed it. Silent as a mouse—a diaper-rustling mouse—Eliza tip-toed out of the bedroom, heading for the bathroom. When she reached the right door, a cramp hit her, and she had to bend down, diapered rump in the air, and clutch her abdomen. The cramp subsided, and she was able to stand up again. Why, oh why didn't I add a “no poop” clause? The truth was, she hadn't given the idea of actually using the diapers much thought beforehand, and it hadn't occurred to her that she might need to go number two. Eliza reached for the door. Locked. Fucking cock-sucking ass-licking satanic bullshit fuck fuck fuck. Her train of thought descended into a series of profanities and violent images. She banged on the door, knowing, of course, that no one was there. If anything, it would wake John up and her plan would fall to pieces. Defeated, she slid down onto the floor, clutching her stomach. Although she was in pain, she was also sleep deprived, still. Her eyes began to droop, and soon she was floating in and out of terrible dreams. Monsters were out to get her. Even worse, there were rows of toilet stalls, but every single one of them was empty. Not even a sign of plumbing, just empty toilet stalls, mocking her. “Baby, what are you doing out here?” Eliza was confused. It took her a minute to reorient herself. She was flat out on her stomach, on the carpet in front of the locked bathroom. Her padded butt was sticking up, and her joints hurt from lying in such an uncomfortable position. Her tummy hurt. Through sleepy eyes, she resolved the image of John, a shadowy figure that became clearer as he hoisted her to her feet. “Baby, what's wrong?” He repeated. Eliza didn't even realize it, but she must have been crying. John held her in his arms, and she leaned in. Then another cramp hit, and she pushed away from him, arching her back and clenching with all her might. “My tummy hurts,” she said. “Oh, sweetie, do you need to go to the toilet? Why didn't you say so?” “I don't,” Eliza said. Her posture and potty dance belied her statement. “Then why is your hand on your butt?” He said. She had no answer to that. “Come on, I'll unlock the toilet and then you can go. I don't want you to be in pain.” “I can't,” she said. “Nonsense! It's no trouble.” Eliza shook her head. “It was just a bad dream. I sleepwalked. The tummy pain went away.” She was so close to relief, yet so far. “What's this, then?” John picked up the fresh diaper from the floor. “I sleepwalked,” Eliza whispered again. “Okay.” John had a look of gentle concern. “Are you absolutely sure you don't want to go to the bathroom?” She shook her head. “All right, baby. It's only six, and a Sunday. I want to sleep in, at least until half past seven. That hardly qualifies as sleeping in, I guess, but you're already awake. If you can manage it, I'd like to go back and slumber in bed for a while. I promise, I'll protect you from bad dreams.” But will you protect me from pooping my pants? Five hours. Just five hours. When she nodded in assent, he scooped her from the floor and carried her back to bed. Eliza tried to close her eyes and sleep, but the pressure in her abdomen and further down was too much. John seemed to be a deep sleeper, quick to fall asleep and sleep well. Before she knew it, he was snoring again. Eliza rubbed her stomach and wiggled around. No position was any good. No matter what she did, it hurt. She could only think of the toilet. The money. Yes. She could think about that instead. Her rent paid, with some extra spending money on top. All she had to do was not fuck up on the home stretch. Money. Toilet. Poop. Roses. No. Rent. Rules. Professional. Obey. Roses. Poop. Toilet. Obey. OBEY! Eliza didn't know how long she'd been lying there, fighting a desperate fight against her body and its natural needs. She wiggled, grabbed herself, clenched and fought. Her eyes were droopy, but every time she was about to slip into sleep, another cramp woke her up. The cramps were getting more frequent, and harder to fight. Then there was an enormous pressure, starting in her tummy, a painful push that stung like a bee, then fastened around her midsection as if there were a fist squeezing her from the inside. Tears were forming in her eyes, and the pain continued. Eliza arched her back and lifted her butt to alleviate the pressure, and now it was spreading, downwards, pushing towards her colon. The pressure was now localized, and the pain was unbearable. Her poor muscles. Roses. No. OBEY! Eliza lost the fight. With her diapered ass raised, her body pushed, whether she wanted it to or not. The mess began slipping out her back, pushing against the padding and spreading outward, then drooping down. The pain lessened with each push, and she was so tired of it, so out of it, she willed herself to push harder, anything to make the pain stop. As she continued emptying herself out back, her bladder gave out as well, and a warmth spread in her front, further lessening the pressure. The pee spread up her crack, soaking into the thirsty material, and pushed back to meet up with the mess in the back. Utterly devastated and defeated, Eliza sank down and felt the mush squish further out into her back. Then the smell hit her. An awful stink, impossibly to ignore. A hundred farts in one. Eliza almost gagged. The pain was gone, but now it was replaced by shame. What she'd just done was on the top three list of her hard NO's. There was no way in hell she was ever incorporating poop into anything sexual. Two of her clients had asked, and she'd taken to handing out a sheet with a list of what she would very much like to do, what she was open to, and at the bottom, the things she would under no circumstances do, whether the price was a penny or the Tower of London. Never. It was her own stupid fault, too. Her stupid block about pooping in front of someone—even in public bathrooms, alone in a stall, she couldn't do it, she'd rather be in pain until she was home—and her stupid professional pride. ROSES. That was all she'd have to say, and Jonathan would suspend the play and allow her to go do her business in peace. There was no doubt in Eliza's mind that he'd comply instantly. Everything she'd seen from him indicated that he was one of the good guys. Eliza lay there, silent, not wanting to deal with what she'd inevitably have to deal with. Maybe if she ignored it, it would all go away. No. That's Little Eliza talking. Your problems don't disappear if you hide your face behind a stuffed animal. Eliza didn't know if it was the smell or her whimpers, but John woke up, and instantly, he knew. “Oh no,” was the first thing he said. “Oh, Eliza, sweetie.” He took her in his arms and held her, for a long time. Eliza attempted to mumble “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so stupid,” into his chest, but he shushed her and pacified her with little whispers and strokes of her hair. She didn't have to think of anything sad to bring tears to her eyes. John wiped her tears away, and then he got out of bed. The smell filled the room like a cloud of shame. “Let's get you cleaned up right away,” John said. Quickly, he had his supplies ready, and then her butt was on a towel. He set about removing the tapes. The front was soaked, a blue stripe pointing to her belly button where a yellow one had been. John had her lift her butt into the air, and then he carefully slid the soiled diaper out from under her. Eliza didn't dare to look at the mess. She closed her eyes as he used the front of the diaper to wipe away some of the dirtiness smeared all over her butt, and then he set about cleaning her with a bunch of wet wipes. The cold wipes gave her goosebumps. But the way he was cleaning her, the careful motions around her holes… Stupid brain. It was turning her on. Behind the shame was a layer of excitement. Eliza loved to be humiliated, but only on her own terms. Now that the acute phase of the shame was fading, she could see how this was the ultimate humiliation. An adult woman, pooping and peeing in her diaper and helplessly crying for Daddy to clean her up. No. This is stupid. It's shameful. It's no fun. It's a hard limit, for fuck's sake. And yet his motions were making her wet. It's just mechanical stimulation. That's it. Just like forced orgasms with a vibrator. Just like some rape victims get wet, and yet they hate it. Not that this is anything like rape—John isn't doing anything he isn't allowed to. He could be doing so much more to me right now. No. That was crazy talk. Bad precedent. Fucked up. “I'm so sorry it came to this,” John said. “This isn't acting, is it? You're genuinely upset.” Eliza nodded. His tone was soothing, like a real father talking to his infant daughter, although the words coming out of his mouth were those of one adult talking to another. “I'm sorry,” he repeated. “No, it's my stupid fault,” she said. “I could have said the safeword. I could have, but I didn't. It's just… I can't do that in front of others. But then I ended up...” Her voice broke and she trailed off. “I'm so sorry.” He was still cleaning her. Was she really that dirty? Eliza didn't dare look. If she looked down and saw the mess with her own eyes, she might break down and cry again. Her back was arching a little more than it needed to. Willing or not, the stimulation was working. “In the future, we'll have to make a clause about situations like this.” “In the future?” Eliza was surprised. She'd have thought he'd be too disgusted—that he was just being kind because he felt guilty, hiding his true feelings. “I'm having the time of my life—I mean, I don't enjoy seeing you hurt like this. I just mean, yesterday in general. You and me. I'd love to meet up again in the future. Hell, I'll double the price, if that's what it takes.” Eliza opened her eyes. A peek downstairs: she was clean, and the dirty diaper was gone, hidden somewhere she wouldn't see it. She certainly wasn't about to go looking. He was still cleaning her, still tickling her in all the right places, but it seemed like he was doing it absentmindedly. John wasn't turning her on on purpose, not for her pleasure or his. He was simply moving the wet wipe around as he was talking to her. Eliza thought for a moment. “Let's say a 50 percent price hike,” she said. “That is, if you're really not disgusted and just saying that to make me feel better. I can tell you're a good guy.” A little moan escaped, and she reflexively covered her mouth. John didn't seem to notice. “Disgusted? Little one, how could I ever be disgusted by you? You're the cutest girl in the universe.” Eliza blushed. Am I really lying here, enjoying this? Some of her clients were handsome businessmen—workouts five days a week, muscular chests, abs, pecs, biceps—probably too busy with their sixty hour work weeks to go out on the town and pick up a hot chick, although they certainly would be able to. She wasn't foreign to the idea that paid sex could be good sex, for her too. Eliza had gotten into the business because she was a sexual creature, constantly craving stimulation. But to be so utterly degraded and yet to feel so good at the same time… “You're adorable,” John said. He was finally finished wiping, and taped her up in a new diaper as a matter of course. Eliza didn't protest. Of course she should be diapered. She'd just emptied her bowels and bladder in her underwear. “You know what, I think we deserve breakfast in bed. How about some bacon and eggs?” Eliza didn't want to be alone with her thoughts. “Daddy,” she said. “Daddy, please don't leave me.” “Oh, sweetie.” He climbed into bed beside her. As he did, she noticed for the first time that he was hard. It was impossible to hide in his tight-fitting boxers. Oh, well. What did she expect? Wasn't she here to turn him on and fulfill his fantasies? “I think you should sleep a little more, kitten. I'll stay here until you fall asleep, and then I'll make breakfast and wake you up when it's ready. Okay?” She nodded. He put her head on his chest and she closed her eyes. Soon, she was drifting into sleep. She didn't wake up when he slid out of bed, and he had to shake her gently to return her to the world of the waking. John had set two wooden trays on the covers, and on them, plates with bacon and eggs and white bread, and a glass of orange juice on the side. Eliza dug in. The smell of her mess was gone, replaced with a mix of something flowery—she suspected John had sprayed something in the air—and the delicious smell of warm, crispy bacon. Eliza wasn't a vegetarian, exactly, but she mostly ate vegetables and fruit, rice and whole-grain bread. It helped her figure. Now she'd have two big meaty meals in one night and morning. Perhaps the steak was what had upset her stomach; or perhaps it was just the natural need to void after a certain time had passed. The bacon and the steak the night before reminded Eliza of how delicious meat could be. “So,” said John. “It's been quite a day, hasn't it? I can't believe you've taken to the role so well. I was afraid, well… I'll admit, I've tried to get other partners to get into it. Never admitted the full extent of my fetish until, well, until Jane. But I've done, like, schoolgirl roleplay with previous exes. None of them managed to get really into it. You could always tell they were a bit uncomfortable with it. But you…” He stroked her hair. It felt so, so good when he did it. Almost better than some orgasms she'd had. Warm affection trumped cold hedonism, sometimes. “You,” John continued, “despite the unfortunate mishap earlier, you've almost convinced me you're really my little girl.” “That's what you pay for,” Eliza said, munching on a strip of bacon. “Don't talk with food in your mouth. It's rude.” Instantly, she was back to Little Eliza. “Sorry, Daddy.” She felt as if she'd swam to the surface, up to herself, her real self, only for someone to yank her back underwater. “As I was saying,” John continued, brushing some strands of hair from her face, “you really know what you're doing.” Yes, she did. She also knew her limits well, and not to push too far past them. Certainly not with a client. A regular partner, perhaps, but to a client, she must always be in control. This was no time to expand your horizons. “Rmphoses,” she mumbled. “What was that?” “Roses,” Eliza said, bacon and eggs clear of her mouth. There was no panic in her voice: she said it as if she were chatting about the weather. John recoiled. “Did I say something wrong?” “No, no,” Eliza said. “It's just, I'm exhausted. I think the humiliation earlier was a little much. It wasn't supposed to be part of the scene. I'm a little…” She sunk down into the pillows, almost toppling the glass of juice in the process. “Have you heard of sub drop?” John shook his head. “When a submissive has a particularly overwhelming emotional or physical experience during a scene, the release is like getting high. Like shooting heroin, almost. Not that I've ever done that, I just mean, it's a feeling of infinite pleasure. But then there's the comedown. You're exhausted, spent, and suddenly all the negative thinking, all the prejudice and condemnation of society hits you like a brick. The terrible things you've been made to do or had done to you are just terrible, and no fun anymore. The submissive may get depressed, scared, anxious. That's when you need to stop the scene and move on to aftercare. I think the breakfast in bed was a nice touch, it helps normalize things. You're a natural.” Her throat was getting dry. She was used to delivering monologues—she had a whole spiel about safe, sane and consensual that she presented to most clients, unless her intuition told her it was unnecessary. She hadn't delivered it to John. But now she was tired, and it was hard to focus. Usually, the words flowed out of her, but this time, she had to struggle to find them and arrange them in the correct order. “But it's time to drop the roleplay. Let's just be adults for the rest of our morning together, okay? I'm really sorry I couldn't keep it up for the whole twenty-four hours. If not for my… my… the accident, it would have been no problem.” Jonathan nodded. “Of course. Of course. Don't think I'm gonna dock you in pay or anything. Let's get you out of that diaper. I mean, sorry. You're a grown woman, Eliza. Of course you can change out of your own diaper.” She blushed. Eliza had almost forgotten about the bulk between her legs. At first, the dry and clean padding had felt heavenly, but then she'd gotten caught up in bacon and eggs. “I'm not quite done,” she said. Eliza imagined a waterfall and pushed. A little warm trickle seeped out into her diaper. It wasn't much, but she could feel the wetness. Jonathan watched intently, although the diaper was hidden under the covers. “I'm wet,” Eliza announced. “I'd appreciate it if you'd clean me up before I change back into panties.” It wasn't a hard ask. He was quickly back with the wipes. Away went the damp diaper, and back came the good, warm feelings. “We're renegotiating right now,” Eliza announced. “You're allowed to rub a little extra down there. In fact, I must insist.” “I thought you were spent?” Jonathan said. “Not quite.” She had endured too much and been too worked up not to get the climax—and she was sure Jonathan would enjoy it. He began to rub rhythmically. Soon, all the delicious humiliation found its release. Eliza shuddered as the pleasure began between her legs and traveled upwards. Now she was really spent. They whiled away the last few hours in bed. Eliza, back in the panties she arrived in, taught Jonathan to praise her and tell her the things she needed to hear. Tell her how good she was, how much he appreciated her performance and presence, how well she had handled the challenges thrown at her, and to stroke her hair all the while. He was a quick learner. The dark clouds which had begun to form in her mind were preemptively dispersed. She asked him questions about his company, what it was like to make it big; he countered with questions of his own, about what she'd studied in college and why, and what it was like to be your own boss. She found the last bit amusing, coming from a multimillionaire entrepreneur, but she answered him truthfully, if at times a little generally (always cautious, never toopersonal). It was past 11:30 when she finally rose from bed. By now, Little Eliza was a distant memory. She was back in control. The professional. Jonathan escorted her to the door. “I'd love to see you again same time next week,” he said. “And then we could renegotiate the thing about going out in public, if you don't mind. It's probably my ultimate fantasy. It would be totally discreet. No one but you and me would know.” Eliza smiled. “I'm sure we can work something out,” she said. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then she was out the door. Jonathan watched the Metallica shirt walk down the porch to her car. Eliza waved, and then she was off. Back to the real world. Back to roses. Epilogue. “She's the worst. She can't do anything without making it look cute. I knew you'd love her,” Eliza said, sipping at her coffee. “I don't know about love,” said Jonathan, clearly a bit uncomfortable to be talking about his new crush. “She's very sweet, I'll give you that.” “Sweet isn't even the beginning of it. And I know for a fact she's into the same thing you are. Did you bring it up with her yet?” “No, it didn't seem appropriate for a second date,” Jonathan answered. “I knew you wouldn't, which is why I might have mentioned something to her.” “You did what?” Jonathan furrowed his brow. “You didn't tell her… about us?” “Of course not. Client-whore privilege. What happens in diapers, stays in diapers,” Eliza said and chuckled. She became suddenly aware that they were sitting in a crowded café, and any eavesdroppers could hear them discussing their fetish adventures. She glanced around, but no one seemed to pay them any heed. There was a murmur of conversation in indoor voices, drowning out their own if you were farther away than their table. “I don't like that you did that,” Jonathan said, although his demeanor was once again calm. Eliza couldn't help but reflect on how much more confident he seemed than when they'd first met, six months ago. Now, he was sitting up straight, and when he spoke—and she didn't throw him off balance like she'd just done—there was a quiet authority to his voice. Jonathan was now a man who was more accustomed to getting what he wanted, and if not, asking for it. “I'm sorry. I was just trying to help. Now you can't help but bring it up to her soon, because she knows and you know she knows.” “Shhh, she's approaching,” Jonathan said. Eliza heard a rustle of clothes behind her, and then a coated figure appeared at their table. Jenny wasn't much taller than Eliza, golden hair tied in a braid behind her head and red lipstick. “Eliza!” She exclaimed, and stepped up to hug her. She held the hug a long time, shaking Eliza every which way. Jenny was clearly excited. “What are you two lovebirds up to tonight?” Eliza asked. “I was thinking the classic, dinner then a movie,” Jonathan said. “I hope it's not a long one,” Jenny said. “I always have to run to the bathroom when I'm watching a long movie. But then I can't help but have popcorn, and you can't have popcorn without a cold drink.” “I know just the solution for that,” Eliza mused. Jenny blushed, but you could tell she was thinking naughty thoughts already. “Oh, don't get me started,” Jenny said. “What do you think, Jonathan?” Jonathan was a bit flustered, but he quickly composed himself. “Who, me? About what?” “Should we maybe go for a short movie?” “I think you can handle yourself, sweetheart,” Jonathan said, putting his hand over hers. “Oooh,” Jenny cooed. “I love it when he calls me stuff like that. Little nicknames and stuff. Where did you find this stud, Eliza? Why didn't you snag him for yourself?” Jonathan was frantically trying to signal to Eliza behind Jenny's back. Please don't say anything. Of course, Eliza had no intentions of doing so. “John and I met in a cooking class. He's an excellent cook. You should totally cook for her at home, John, I know she'd love it.” “That's kind of you to say,” Jonathan said, clearly relieved. “I'm going to the ladies' room,” Eliza said. “Jenny, would you come with me?” Jenny took the hint, and together they began making their way through the throng of Saturday café dwellers, taking a break from shopping and daily life. Eliza turned and winked at Jonathan, who blushed and began his hand signals again, but by that time Eliza had already turned around, and they'd made their way into the ladies' room. None of the stalls were occupied, so they were free to converse. “So,” said Eliza, “did you do it yet?” “No. But we did have some wonderful kisses. I was thinking tonight was going to be the night. I put on some sexy lingerie, but then I also packed some protection in my purse. I wasn't sure if I was going to use it...” Jenny said. She surreptitiously gave Eliza a peek into her purse, where a small, pink disposable lay. Eliza took her hand. “Honey, go into a stall right now and change. I promise you, you won't regret it. He'll love it.” “How can you be so sure? How can you know so much about his kinks? Did you two…?” Well, shit. Had she accidentally revealed her and Jonathan's little secret? Come to think of it, Eliza would have suspected a fling if one of her girlfriends started telling her about what this cute guy she was trying to set her up with liked in bed. “No, nothing like that,” Eliza said. When she began the sentence, she didn't know how to follow up, but she trudged on. If she hesitated, her cover would be blown. “John and I are good friends. He knows what I do for a living. He knows I've seen some weird shit, and don't judge anyone for it. I'm the only one he could possibly talk about this stuff with. He was pretty down because he told a previous girlfriend about it, and it didn't go so well. He wouldn't go into detail at first, but I managed to coax it out of him. But never tell him I told you that.” Jenny appeared satisfied with that answer. “Now, baby girl,” Eliza said, “get your cute butt in that stall and change before you have an accident.” She smiled and stuck her tongue out, and Jenny laughed, if a little nervously. But Jenny was, if anything, more submissive than Eliza even, and she did as she was told. Eliza had met her a few months back at a fetish event. Jenny had been dressed in a schoolgirl uniform, with her hair in pigtails, and there was something unbelievably innocent about her. Of course, many people liked schoolgirl play without being into the full regression experience. But Jenny had seemed rather unsure of herself—it soon became clear this was her first live kink event—and Eliza, much more assured in her preferences, liked to gently introduce newcomers to the world of kink. She'd come to see herself as more than just a girl who enjoyed lots of steamy, kinky sex; more than just a prostitute who catered to unusual interests. Eliza wanted to help people achieve peace with themselves and gain confidence in their sexual proclivities, whatever those might be. It was especially important to help fellow women, since they were more susceptible to creeps. Even if no one outright assaulted them, Eliza didn't want anyone to come away from their first kinky experience with a bad taste in their mouth. That might just lead them to denial of their true selves, which was a surefire recipe for mental issues and relationship troubles down the road. She had guided Jenny to a sofa in a somewhat secluded room, sat her down and told her that she knew how overwhelming it must be to be thrust headfirst into the world of kink. “I'm rather experienced in these things,” Eliza had said. “I'm actually a sex worker who caters to various fetishes.” At that, Jenny's eyes had gone wide. “Oh, does that offend you?” “No, no, it's not that,” Jenny said, shrinking her body. Eliza put a hand on her shoulder. “Relax, I'm joking. A lot of people react like that. If you don't want to talk to me, that's fine, but I know kink, and I could help ease you into this. Help a sister out.” Slowly, prodding carefully and most of all, engaging her ears rather than her mouth, encouraging at times but mostly sitting back to listen, Jenny's story had come to light. How she had always been interested in childish things, how it turned her on to play at being a little girl, and how she wished for a strong, kind man to help her fulfill those desires. A light bulb had gone on in Eliza's head instantly. She'd be perfect for John. But she had mentioned this to neither of them, instead continuing to nurture her relationship and build trust with each separately. Although no longer weekly, John had engaged her services sporadically ever since their first meeting. Eliza had quickly come to realize that rules are made to be broken, and she couldn't keep up the facade that John was just a client. In another life, he might have been a great boyfriend, but Eliza's interest in him lay more in the realm of friendship. He was so supportive and kind to her, taking such good care of her when they were together, but she, too, had to support and build him up, help him learn to fully accept who he was. To accept that his desires were legitimate, and to nurture the hope in him that there really was a girl out there for him who would participate enthusiastically in his interests, with no money on the table. The first time Eliza had invited John out for coffee, “to talk as adults, as friends,” he had balked at her offer. “I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that,” he'd said. Eliza was a bit taken aback, almost offended. Had she totally misread him? But she could see his misgivings. She, herself, had lots of misgivings about fraternizing with clients outside of work. It broke all her rules. Perhaps John thought he pitied her? Or that she was angling for more money with less work? “John,” she'd said on the phone, “coffee's on me. Because I really like you and want to get to know you outside our professional relationship. We can never be together, you know, but I think we can be friends. I'd miss you if we didn't see each other anymore, and I'm not talking about your money.” At that, he had broken down. He couldn't refuse her. Eliza enjoyed having that effect on people, although she worried she might be manipulative if she used her charm on friends outside work. “The way we each support and care for each other, at times one being the caregiver and moral support, at other times, the other, isn't that what friendship is?” He had agreed. Since then, they'd have coffee or lunch once a week, whether they had an appointment or not. And two weeks ago, she had set up a blind date between Jenny and John. Even their names seemed perfect together, like those couples whose names roll so well off the tongue together that it feels weird to mention one without the other. Jenny exited the cubicle while Eliza washed off her face with cold water. She knew that John preferred her without makeup, and frankly, that was fine by her. Having to get all dolled up could be a bitch sometimes, and it was refreshing to know that there was someone who found her sexier without it. “So, did you do it?” Eliza asked. “Did you put on your protection for me, honey?” “Uh-huh,” Jenny said, and bit her lip. “Show me.” Jenny lifted her sweater, then lowered her tights slightly, giving Eliza a peek at her pink waistband. At that moment, a woman entered the restroom, and Jenny scrambled to cover up her diaper, blushing madly. Eliza put her arm around her. “I'm so proud of you, baby. Come on, let's not leave your date hanging.” “There you ladies are,” Jonathan said when they returned. “Tell me, did you stay in there gossiping?” “None of your business,” Eliza said, smiling. Jenny sat down beside Jonathan and gave his hand a squeeze. “Well, you two better get going,” Eliza said. “I expect to hear from each of you how it went.” She rose to leave, giving each of them a warm hug, and Jenny a secret little pat on her padded bum. The next afternoon, Eliza received two phone calls in short succession. The first was from Jenny. “Oh my god,” was the first thing Jenny said. “Baby, I can't tell if that's good or bad.” “He was so sweet and we had such a nice dinner with some wine, and then we went to see a movie and, ooh, he picked the longest one there was! We didn't even get through the credits before I started to feel like I had to pee. And then by the middle of the movie I was desperate! I looked for the exit sign, but then I just kind of gave up and tinkled a little in my… protection. And then it wouldn't stop! I was soaked by the end of the movie!” “Oh, I bet that felt good,” said Eliza. “You didn't leak, did you?” “No, it held up! But then he invited me home to his place, and I was super nervous because I really wanted to sleep with him, but what was he going to say when he found me in a wet diaper? I was so afraid he'd throw me to the curb.” “I take it he didn't,” Eliza said. “If he did, I'm going over there right now and kicking his ass.” “No, no, he didn't. We began making out on the couch, and then his hands started to wander down below, and I really wanted to feel him touch me there, so I let him. When he found the wet padding, his eyes went wide, and for a moment my heart stopped and I was thinking, my god, my life is over… But you know what he did? He asked me if I had a little accident!” “You did, didn't you?” “Well, obviously,” Jenny said. “But I couldn't admit to that. I was just blushing and denying it, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. He led me by the hand upstairs, and you won't believe it… He changed my diaper! He had, like, a collection of different types!” This is so sweet, Eliza thought. Sounds like it went exactly as planned. I'm so proud of John. He's come so far. “That's wonderful, sweetie.” “It was amazing! We ended up having sex, and I don't think anyone's ever made me feel so good about myself! I'm so grateful you didn't snag him up while he was on the market, because now he's mine and you can't have him!” “I'm so happy for you two,” Eliza said. “I don't want him like that. But if you don't want us to be friends, you'll have to fight me for him.” They continued chatting for a little while, but then Eliza received another call, this time from John. “Jenny babe, we'll have to talk later. I have another friend clamoring for my attention,” Eliza said. “Oh my god,” was the first thing John said. “You too? Are you two psychically linked already? I just spoke with Jenny, and she said the same thing,” Eliza said. There was a tone of worry in John's voice. “Oh god, what did she tell you?” He asked. “Relax. She had a wonderful time. She's claiming you—I couldn't have you if you wanted to, she says. Watch out or she'll pee on you to mark her territory.” The line went quiet for a few seconds. “… Jonathan?” “No, it's just funny you should say that,” John said. Eliza rolled her eyes, although she was smiling. “You two already got your kink on, I see.” “You could say that. Yesterday, at the café, when you two were in the bathroom. You made her wear that diaper, didn't you?” “It was her idea. I just gave her the confidence to go through with it.” “Well, I don't know how to thank you,” John said. “You can thank me by not becoming one of those couples who never have time for anyone but themselves. I expect we have a coffee date next week as usual, or I'll have to come round to your house, tie you up and throw you in the trunk, because I'm not letting go of you that easily.” “You'd do it, too, that's the crazy part,” John said. “Take good care of Jenny, and I'll make sure she takes good care of you. You two are quickly becoming two of my favorite people, and I'm so happy you found each other.” “With a little help from you.” “Hey,” Eliza said, “I live to please.” After she hung up, Eliza walked over to her bed stand. On it sat a stuffed animal John had given her, which—loathe as she was to admit it—had come in handy on cold autumn nights when she was alone in bed. Beside it was a flower vase. She leaned in and smelled the fresh red roses she had received that morning. The note only said, “Thank you,” with no name. Eliza didn't know from whom, but she could take one good guess.

Author's note: This is cross-posted from another board,. I'm continually amazed at the creativity of people here: while the vast majority of stories are derivative in the extreme, there are some very talented writers on here that manage to invent new twists on the same old, which is very hard to do in fetish stories. I've tried to do that myself at times, and hope I succeeded. This is not one of those times. This is just my twist on a very familiar scenario. I hope the character dynamics and quality of writing make up for that. Besides, sometimes you just want to read or write a fantasy, not invent the universe to bake an apple pie. Enjoy!Out of the Question“That’s simple not happening, mom!” Karen had been dreading this conversation, and now Ashley was getting hysterical. Her face was red, her eyes watery, sitting there on the edge between anger and sadness.“Ashley, please,” Karen tried. “Think of your sister!”“I’m sixteen! Six. Teen. There’s no way….” Tears were flowing down her cheeks now.“Ashley, this is gonna be a hell of a race if we’re going to make it to this wedding in time. I’m sorry, I got held up at work and we had to delay the trip a day, but it is what it is. There’s simply not going to be time for more than maybe a single stop.”“Mom! Surely you don’t think I can’t…?”“No, honey. I’m fairly certain you can hold it. Well, there was that one time….” Karen trailed off. This wasn’t the time to bring up that incident. She needed Ashley to go along with this, and then she needed to finish packing, and she needed it done yesterday. “Sorry,” she continued. “Forget I mentioned that. Tell you the truth, that was years ago and I had a similar incident at that age. But your sister is another story. She needs this, and she’s really vulnerable right now.” Anna, Ashley’s twelve-year-old sister, had recently lost her best friend to a car accident and was really down in the dumps. “I don’t think she can handle anymore emotional stress right now. But if you agreed to this, she wouldn’t feel embarrassed. No one else will know. It’s only a one-time deal. Please?”Ashley bit her lip. Apparently Karen had hit on the right track. The two sisters were inseparable, and she knew Ashley had been mildly depressed herself lately, feeling like there was nothing she could do that would ever make up for what Anna had lost. Finally, Ashley nodded.“Fine. Fine. Only for her. But there are conditions. No one can know, you will not put me in any position where anyone could ever find out, and you will not make me use them. You will never even allude to the fact that I’m wearing them. It will be a thing between Anna and me, and you’ll stay out of it.”Karen nodded. “Thank you for being so understanding.” So it was settled, then. Her two daughters would both be diapered for their trip.After some hurried packing, they packed lunch for the car and piled in. “Make sure you use the restroom before we go,” Karen said to Anna, carefully avoiding any similar admonishment to her older daughter. She did note that Ashley had both coffee and juice for breakfast, and didn’t notice her popping off to the restroom before they set off. Oh dear, she thought. Hopefully this won’t be an issue later. * * * “So, is it true?”, Anna whispered to Ashley. “You’re really wearing one too?”“Anything for you,” Ashley said. “You know I don’t need them, but I just didn’t want you to feel alone.” Secretly, she hated her mother for pulling on her heart-strings like that and forcing her into this embarrassing situation, but she couldn’t bring herself to say no.“Can I see?” Anna said.Ashley sighed. “Anna, please, this is really embarrassing for me. You know it, mom knows it, but let’s not mention it again.” Nevertheless, she lifted up her shirt to reveal the waistband of her pull-up.“That’s so cool,” Anna said. “But how come yours is different than mine?”“Because I’m not gonna use them,” Ashley said. “Yours is designed for… heavier use.”Anna looked a bit dejected at that. “Hey,” Ashley said. “If it makes you feel any better, you can imagine that I do need them, I just grew out of the heavier ones. Just please, let’s change the subject.”Anna smiled. Evidently the fantasy that her older sister was still having accidents was enough to take her mind off her own frequent mishaps.“So, looking forward to the wedding?” Ashley said, as they entered a stretch of forest road with nary a house in sight.“Can’t wait!” Anna beamed. “I’m gonna be a flower girl!” It was their cousin’s wedding. Ashley wasn’t all that excited, but family is family.It was still early morning, and she was tired, so Ashley soon fell into a slumber. When she woke up, they’d been on the road for three hours already, which suited her fine. Long road trips were terribly boring. This area had very unstable cell reception, too, so she didn’t even have social media to distract her. She did notice a twinge in her bladder, but nothing urgent. Although Mom had said there would be few stops, they’d have to make at least one, to eat dinner, and besides Karen must surely need a restroom at some point herself.The bladder twinge brought her mind to Anna’s little problem. She’d always had a somewhat weak bladder, but nothing that approached a medical issue. It was more the fact that she had ADHD—well, not diagnosed, but Ashley was sure she must have some sort of attention deficit—and often got caught up in one activity or another and left it a little late. Since her friend’s death, Anna’s accidents had been more frequent, but who could blame her? She’d slept in Ashley’s bed several times the past few weeks, and Ashley could hear her whimpering in nightmares. The poor girl must be reliving her friend’s death every night. No wonder she wet the bed.As for herself, she was as potty trained as any sixteen-year-old. Blushing, she remembered that one incident years ago that her mother had alluded too earlier. Too much soda at the cinema, caught in traffic on the way home, didn’t quite make it all the way up the stairs to the bathroom when they reached home. But that was only once! It could happen to anyone. Her friend Nicole, for instance, had once leaked in her shorts when the two of them were busily competing in Mario Kart, with the toilet just a minute away. She felt her cheeks flush. Why was her mind so focused on accidents? Why couldn’t she think of anything else? But the constant feeling of the padding around her bottom made it hard to ignore such thoughts. She glanced over at Anna, and noticed her squirming a bit. Hopefully she’d last a while longer.“Lunch, ladies?” Her mom interrupted Ashley’s train of thought from the front seat. Come to think of it, she was getting hungry, and thirsty too. “I packed some sandwiches, water, juice, take your pick,” Karen said. “Take your pick and throw me a sandwich while you’re at it. They’re in that plastic bag between your seats.”Anna nibbled at her sandwich, and Ashley voraciously consumed hers. Not before taking a healthy gulp of water. It was a hot day, and she seemed to be constantly thirsty.Anna’s squirming was now more pronounced. “Sis,” she whispered, “I kinda need to pee. I really don’t want to...”Ashley gave her sister a pat on the shoulder. “We’ll stop eventually. You’re stronger than you think. I believe in you.” That seemed to calm Anna’s mind, but not her body. She was now resorting to holding herself openly.By now, Ashley’s water bottle was empty, and she was beginning to wonder about her own strength. Her bladder was now sending insistent signals—not ones that she couldn’t fight for another hour or two, probably even longer, but she was getting uncomfortable. After all her protests and her perfect record, the thought that she might actually need her “protection” at some point mortified her. If only she’d remembered to pack a book to read, so she’d have something else to think of. But in the rush of things, she’d forgotten a lot of things. She wasn’t sure if she even remembered to pack a toothbrush, and she definitely needed to pick up some tampons.They had passed the empty stretch of forest road, and scattered houses were beginning to appear. Soon they’d be passing through the first real city on their journey. “Anna,” she whispered. “We’re gonna be passing a town soon. Now might be a good time to ask for a break.” Secretly, Ashley hoped she’d get a chance to visit a restroom, but she was too embarrassed to ask herself. Besides, her mom had been quite insistent that they had no time to waste, but it couldn’t hurt to ask, right?“Hey mom, can we stop at the next town?” Anna asked. “I kinda need to pee.” Probably the understatement of the year, judging by her body language.“Sorry sweetie, there’s no time. We’ll grab dinner at some point but right now we really need to be speeding on. Wouldn’t want the flower girl to be late to the ceremony, would we?”Well, that wasn’t quite true though, was it? The ceremony was early, sure, but it wasn’t until the next day. On the other hand, arriving at a party sleep deprived wouldn’t be much fun. And then it hit her: her mom had been held up at work. Maybe she hadn’t had time to buy a wedding gift? Maybe that’s what it was all about. Ashley was pretty sure her sister had inherited her inattentiveness from their mother. By her own admission, Karen had done poorly at school, but once she entered the working world, her people skills had led her to quickly rise in the ranks. Now she was a manager, which meant more responsibility, and afforded her daughters nice things. A little gratitude might be in order, Ashley admonished herself. She was, after all, a teen, and as teens do, she had plenty of conflicts with her mother. But deep down, she had to admit, Karen was a great mom. Being a single mother to a teenager and a preteen couldn’t be easy.As they passed the town, the look on Anna’s face told it all. She must know she wouldn’t make it. And sure enough, on the outskirts of down, her eyes glazed over, and her eyes fell down to her lap. When it was all over, Anna leaned over and whispered tearfully, “Ashley, I didn’t make it.”What do you even say to that? “Don’t worry about it,” Ashley tried. “Your pants are dry. You tried your best. If mom wasn’t so hell-bent on making this trip non-stop, you would have made it.”Anna gave a sniffle, but Ashley launched into a couple of funny stories about the various relatives they’d be meeting at the wedding—their family, like any extended family, had its share of weirdos—and that seemed to take Anna’s mind off the state of her underwear.Ashley’s own predicament, however, was getting worse. She was now forced to fidget a little to maintain control, and this wouldn’t escape her sister’s notice for long. How long until their scheduled dinner-stop? Surely it couldn’t be that long. Surely… No, she could not even permit herself to think any other way. To even consider that she might end up like Anna was unthinkable.Well, an hour later, she could think of nothing else. Her hand was now lodged between her legs, and Anna had definitely noticed. “Sis,” Ashley whispered. “You must be uncomfortable in your wet underwear. And between you and me, I’m seriously dying here. If you ask nicely, play the sympathy card, maybe mom will make a stop and let you change.”Anna nodded. “Moooom,” she said. “I’ve been… I’ve been wet for a while, okay? It’s embarrassing and now it’s getting real uncomfortable. Can we please please make a stop soon so I can change?”Karen glanced at her daughters through the mirror. Ashley was lightning fast in straightening her posture and removing her hands from her crotch, hoping her mom wouldn’t notice her own predicament. “Sorry, Anna,” Karen said. “We’ll have to go on a while longer. But in a couple of hours we’ll stop for dinner.”Two hours? Ashley could not believe it. The horrifying thought of two more hours of extreme desperation was almost enough to make her leak right then and there. Instead, she redoubled her efforts to squeeze and squirm, and tried to think of anything but pee, but right now pee was an elephant. Can’t unthink what you’re actively trying not to think of.Time passed incredibly slowly. After ten hours of Ashley’s internal clock, only one had passed in real time. She was now getting frequent bladder cramps, and each one threatened to unleash her bladder into her pants. Why hadn’t she gone before they left? Last time she went was before bed, and now it was afternoon the next day. How could she face her mom if she had an accident, after making such a fuzz earlier about her wholly unearned diaper situation?The landscape they were passing by was once again forested and devoid of any landmarks, anything of interest. Every answer to “I spy” would be “a tree”. There wasn’t even another car on the road. Nothing at all to distract Ashley from her bladder. Unbidden, a list of shameful memories entered her mind, one after another. Every time she had not quite made it, as far back as she could remember. In order:1. She wet the bed once when she was four. Okay, which four-year-old hasn’t? That was the last time she ever wet the bed.2. School trip in third grade. She made it all the way home, but her panties had a wet spot when she entered the bathroom.3. Seventh grade, she leaked a little when Nicole made her laugh too hard. But that wasn’t so bad, was it? It was only a tiny spot on her panties, no one ever knew.4. Eight grade, the aforementioned theatre accident. Her only true full-on wetting since she was potty trained.4. Ninth grade, she had an almost accident, but made it completely dry. It was a combination of unforeseen circumstances. Every time she was about to go to the bathroom, something came up that required immediate attention. Still, this one would have to be counted as a victory. After all, she made it with not a single drop outside the toilet bowl.5. Last year, she woke up desperate and found the bathroom occupied. Ironically, it was Anna changing her wet diaper. By the time she entered the bathroom, there was a small damp spot on Ashley’s pyjamas.All these memories made her question her confidence that she was, indeed, “as potty trained as any sixteen-year-old.” On the bright side, those tiny leaks didn’t count as real accidents, did they? At least Ashley couldn’t allow herself to see them as such. She imagined similar incidents had befallen her friends, too. And even her mom had confided that she’d had an incident similar to Ashley’s movie theater mishap.Another cramp hit her, harder than before, and Ashley had to furiously squeeze her crotch to prevent the flood. Anna leaned over and whispered, “Ashley, are you gonna have an accident too?”Ashley blushed. “I hope not,” she whispered back.“Don’t worry,” Anna said. “I’m sure you’ll make it. And besides, you’re always so nice about my accidents. If it happens, we’ll pretend like nothing’s wrong. If we’re smart, we can maybe even hide it from mom.”Oh god. Ashley wanted to cry. How could she even face her mother in a wet diaper? No, no, no. This is not the end. I will make it, she thought to herself. Repeating it like a mantra. Admittedly, the mantra was somewhat undermined by her constant fidgeting.Another hour passed, and they entered another town. To everyone’s relief, Karen announced that it was finally time for a break. “I’m starving,” she added, making no mention of any other bodily needs, her own or her daughters’. They pulled into a McDonald’s, and Ashley gingerly stepped out of the car. By now, it was impossible to hide her desperation. She could not stand still, she had to stop and cross her legs twice on the way to the entrance, but miraculously, she was still dry. Another two minutes and she would be unleashing a torrent in the toilet, and her dignity would only be slightly damaged. Ashley noted her mom’s knowing look, but there was no time to argue. She power-walked straight to the bathrooms, each step feeling like a sledgehammer to her abdomen, and found an empty stall. Anna followed, carrying her diaper bag. Mercifully, the bathroom was empty. No doubt some customers had noted her predicament on her way in, but if Ashley could make it one more minute, all would be redeemed. She’d seen grown women desperate before—although no actual accidents—so surely those stuck-up ladies could sympathize.Ashley was in the stall before you could say “accident”, and unbuttoned her jeans at record speed. She had made it. She had made it! Except she hadn’t. The sight of the toilet so close proved too much for Ashley’s overworked bladder. She began leaking as she undid her pants, and when she tried to pull down the diaper and seat herself, the floodgates opened in earnest. An unfamiliar warmth enveloped her nether regions, pooling around her butt. Once she started going, she couldn’t stop. Ashley realized that if she lowered her diaper now, the pee would go straight down her pants. Defeated, she sat down on the toilet and finished up her accident into her diaper. Ashley couldn’t suppress a whimper. This wasn’t supposed to happen! How could she…? What would her mom say? And then there was a knock on the stall. Probably her mom. Ashley’s life was over.“Sis, you okay? Can I come in?” It was Anna, not Karen. There was no use denying what had happened, at least to her sister.“The door is unlocked,” Ashley said. In her haste, she’d forgotten to lock it. The stall was a little cramped with two people in it, but Anna entered anyway and locked the door behind her.It was obvious what had happened. Ashley sat crying on the toilet with a sagging, yellowed diaper between her legs. Anna stepped over and gave her a hug. For the first time in years, it felt like the big sis-baby sister relationship was reversed. Ashley leaned in and cried into her sister’s shoulders. After a minute, she had calmed down sufficiently to release her grip and consider your options.“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Anna said.“Not as sorry as I am.”“Are you gonna tell mom?”Ashley considered it. There was nothing she would rather avoid. But how could she possibly hide this? Her pull-up was so full it was leaking out the sides. Even if it wasn’t, it was now bulky enough to be visible in her rather tight jeans.“No,” Ashley said. “I can’t. But I don’t know how I’m gonna hide this.”“Easy,” Anna said. “Throw away the soiled diaper and go commando. Mom won’t notice. I would offer you one of my spares, but as you said yourself, they’re… Designed for heavier use. Much thicker.”Well, that was one solution. “Okay,” Ashley said. “If you don’t mind giving me a little privacy, I’ll get rid of this filth and clean myself up, then we’ll meet up and pretend like nothing’s wrong.”Anna fished out an opaque plastic bag and handed it to her. “A little trick I learned,” Anna said. “For disposing of embarrassing evidence in case anyone else is around to see.”“Thanks. I love you, sis.”“Love you too. Now, get yourself cleaned up,” Anna said, and with that, she left Ashley alone.The cleanup wasn’t as bad as she had feared. Except for a little bit of pee on her upper thighs, everything was contained by the pull-up, and her pants were completely dry. She ripped off the sides of the dirtied diaper, cleaned herself with copious applications of toilet paper, put the diaper in the bag and raised her jeans. After hiding the diaper bag in the trash under a mountain of paper towels, she washed her hands and face, and once she was sure her face no longer showed any evidence of her previous crying spell, she entered the restaurant and joined her mother and sister. Thankfully she’d forgone her makeup today since they’d be traveling all day and no one but her immediate family and perhaps a few strangers would see her. Running mascara would have given her away.“Hey, honey, took your time,” Karen said. Then she lowered her voice and asked: “Did you make it? I know you were pretty bad off there.”“There was only one empty stall and Anna called dibs,” Ashley lied. “You’re right, I was in a bad shape, but I made it. I told you I was only doing this for Anna.”Ashley would never know for sure if her mom had bought her lie, but she seemed satisfied with her explanation. They finished their meal while speculating on which of Ashley and Anna’s more questionable relatives would get drunkest at the reception, and then they set off again. Anna in a fresh diaper, Ashley commando, and Karen—presumably—in grown-up panties, not missing the opportunity to use the facilities herself.The rest of the trip was uneventful. The wedding turned out to be more fun than expected, and Anna won the bet on which intoxicated uncle would make a mess of his speech. At night in the hotel, Anna and Ashley shared a bed. Unprompted by her mother, Ashley decided to wear pull-ups to bed, mostly as a thank-you to Anna for all her help and support. She stayed dry, of course, and in the daytime she went for panties.The trip home, Anna wet herself twice, but as they were in no hurry, they made frequent rest stops, and Ashley was more careful about her liquid intake, so no further incidents occurred.Many years later, Ashley would fall in love with a man who got extremely excited when she worked up the courage to tell this story. But that, my friends, is a story for another day.