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  1. It's been, like, ten million years since I last wrote a story, but recently inspiration hit from a weird space and we got this! I hope to not drag this out forever, since I got a very concise idea of where I want to go and hopefully will be able to stick to a semi-decent schedule when it comes to posting stuff. For now, enjoy the beginning of this weird little tale! NOTHING EVER HAPPENS or A Story About Ten Thousand Mishaps Chapter I Harper Arley Of course, this was happening because of the orange juice. Why Harper had thought to drink that infernal stuff instead of just ask for some tap water when the outcome was this predictable, he would not be able to explain to anyone. Of course, he loved orange juice. Couldn’t get enough of the stuff even. But in this particular situation? Terrible choice. His eyes darted to the other side of the waiting room, where a woman sat. Her hair was dyed violet and her face was done with so much makeup it looked like it was covered by a mask. Her kid, a kindergartner dressed all up in clothes displaying his favorite cartoon, was sitting at the small table in front, playing with the toys the doctor’s office kept for children. The woman, herself, her eyes remained on the magazine she’d picked up: “Lady’s Day”, it was called and she scoffed and shook her head as she went through the pages as if it was the most thought provoking read. These magazines were yellow pages, all rumor mongering and celebrity gossip, of course. But, nevertheless, with her attention so put on the pages and the little kid so engulfed in smashing his little knights against each other in bouts of what had to be the most glorious combat, Harper’s attention shifted to the door. He could go there, relatively calmly, then on the outside he’d have to move down the hallway to the headdesk, ask the assistant there for the keys to the toilet and then get to the other end and actually make it to the toilet. Even crossed, his fingers moved incessantly, twirling around each other as he figured out how to best approach the problem. If he made a dash for it, he could probably make it. But then he’d alert the woman, and he sure didn’t want to do that. The idea of her even thinking that he might have trouble making it to the toilet made him feel flushed and embarrassed. No, that wasn’t an option. So... walking over then. Or, rather, that was what he wanted to do, yet his body played him for a fool. The moment he shifted ever so slightly, a pang of pain ran through him, as his bladder ached for release. If he got up, he might not make it. So he’d have their attention on him, while having an accident. They would figure him out. So, if today of all days he had chosen to go for his usual underwear and a change of clothes, this would be the death of him. But, to his dismay, his choice to be safe and not sorry, had to pay off already. Harper inhaled, closed his eyes, leaned back a bit and then let go. The warm gush spread against the padding, which first held firmly, then grew softer as his legs squished apart, expanding. Poofing out, even. A second later, he exhaled, and opened his eyes. Her kid was still playing ,but the woman was looking at him. Her gaze was like steel, cutting through whatever social contract like a pair of scissors as her expression shifted from curious, confused, to realizing something and then quickly thinking what best to say. And Harper understood that she knew what just happened. As he looked down, the damn thing seemed so obvious. The bulge between his legs felt and even looked so vast, he could’ve done away with the pants at all and achieved the same amount of stealthiness. Of course, he’d chosen some extra baggy clothes today. A sweater that reached down to his thighs and a pair of pants that had pockets in its pockets and more pockets still. It should’ve been perfect, but now he felt his confidence dwindle. The one thing he hadn’t wanted was for anyone to figure out that he, a grown man in his mid twenties, was wearing or needing diapers. They remained in their positions just like that, with the woman eyeing him, and him trying to find anything of interest on his shoes. After what had to be two lifetimes and half an eternity, the doors to the waiting room opened. “Harper Arley,” a familiar voice came. The nurse, Mathilda, was a welcome face to see. “Alright,” he answered immediately and jumped from his seat, the height always a bit startling. He didn’t want to sit on any smaller chairs, since those were for children, but that also meant that whenever he got on or off a chair, he’d inevitably make a scene. Which was the last thing he wanted. But now the other kid stared right at him. The lad could not have been older than ten, and still, even seated, managed to look decently imposing to Harper. Standing there, knowing he wore a soggy diaper underneath his clothes made it feel all the more apparent to him. Nevertheless, he decided to trod onwards, to Mathilda. With that unflinching look and her attention on the little tablet in her hands, the nurse was well known to Harper. She’d been here at the clinic for as long as Harper could remember, had watched over him every single time he’d come here. Even now, with the child’s and the woman’s attention following him, he felt approaching her making him feel better, safer. Her expression was unchanging, so he hopefully just imagined it being this obvious. “Doctor Sprossling is sick, but Doctor Collins will see you instead. She’s fairly new, but has a good head on her shoulders,” Mathilda explained as she closed the door behind them. The clinic was a place Harper visited once every quarter. He, and as far as he knew, at least four others went to Doctor Sprossling for observation. One couldn’t call it treatment, as they were mostly here so that the doctor could ensure that they didn’t, specifically, need treatment. “And she knows?” He asked, after a bit. “Sprossling Syndrome...” Mathilda shook her head. “She knows, she knows. Wrote a paper on it, even.” They wrote papers on his condition now? As Harper waddled to keep up with the much taller nurse, he found himself curious. “Did you read it?” She giggled. “Of course, she gave me a copy... It certainly had all the details we know. Gathered in one place.” That wasn’t as helpful. All the details they knew about Sprossling Syndrome were with Harper and the other folks and kids that had grown up, were growing up and would grow up. Or whatever one might describe happening. "Now, are you well? You seem a bit nervous today.” He blushed, though the question confirmed that she, hopefully, hadn’t realized why his gait was as stiff as it was. The padding was sodden, and that thanks to him accepting the orange juice from nurse Taylor beforehand. The younger nurse had mistaken him for one of the regular kids, and he had failed to correct her... “I’m...” he started, halting himself as he thought over what to answer. His job was going well, his little apartment was nice, his life was quiet... “I’m doing fine. On the whole. Lots of stress at the job, but paper is patient. It’ll work itself out.” She nodded. “Makes sense.” Mathilda didn’t talk much. Or rather, she didn’t talk much to people who weren’t Harper. She’d held his hand when they’d first taken a blood sample and helped him change out of many a pair of pants ruined during the long wait. A children’s nurse through and through, she’d stuck out for “Sprossling Kids”. The way to the doctor’s office was colorful. The city’s children’s hospital had spent the money it earned partly thanks to him well. He remembered the hallways before the renovation, the water damage from the rain, and the faint smell of mold. All that was gone in favor of a colorful interior, cartoon images of children playing plastered on the wall and the otherwise clean hospital floors having colorful balloons painted on. The weight of the colors filled him with some sense of glee, raising his spirits as he walked towards uncertainty. From what he gathered, most adults marked the interior down as “cute”, but he felt like it had meaning, like it was something special only he truly understood. It wasn’t a feeling he could put down, but what it was, was a reason why he preferred still being a patient here despite his now advanced adult age. The office they went to wasn’t Sprossling’s. The doctor held a special place in the clinic and had their furnished their room like that of a curmudgeonly university professor, with stacks and stacks of books. It was also very close to the bathroom. The room they went to now wasn’t. Which made him hope today’s session would be short, at least. A hope which was only amplified once he stepped into Doctor Collins’ room. Unlike the antique charm of Sprossling’s office, which allowed him to at least preserve some dignity of visiting this place, this was just as colorful as the hallways. The exam table had a small set of steps leading up to it, and on the wall by it were friendly looking cartoon animals cheering for whomever was lying on it. There was a box stuffed to the brim with toys in one corner and a whole shelf with kid’s books. Mathilda showed him to the exam table. “You can sit down, doctor Collins will be with you shortly. Do you want something else to drink?” She asked. He wondered about the wisdom of that. Knowing he should decline he opened his mouth. “I’ll just get you some juice,” Mathilda said with a wink, utterly misinterpreting his thoughtful expression. He couldn’t well tell her that he didn’t want any more juice. How would that look? What would she think? So instead he gave in and sat down as she left, awaiting this new doctor and contemplating the office. At the tail end of the exam table lay the saddest looking dog plushie Harper had ever seen, one that clearly wanted to be hugged so dearly. Yet, Harper, being an adult, refused to fall for such an obvious trap. His wait was interrupted by Mathilda bringing some more orange juice in a clear glass. He’d complained about getting kid’s glasses often enough over the course of his years coming here and now that he was alone, without his parents, he was glad they still acquiesced to his whims. However, he still had more of the blasted juice that was so thoroughly responsible for his ruined underwear. Out of defiance, he drank the glass in one gulp. And, once again misinterpreting this action, he soon found himself with another glass, and then a third... and a fourth. “You are incredibly thirsty, didn’t you get anything to drink on your way here?” She chided, to which he blushed. “...I,” he stammered. There was an empty water bottle in his backpack and before that he had drank two cups of coffee with lots of milk and ate some cereal with even more milk. He sure as heck had enough to drink before. “I’m fine.” She, of course, sighed and shook her head, thinking something he refused to attempt to grasp. And with that, Mathilda left. It took another five or so minutes before another person entered, with a dark shirt underneath a pink vest with a white coat above. The name tag she wore read “Dr. Collins - Pediatrician”. The woman was shorter than Mathilda, with pronounced cheekbones and a widow’s peak adding to her black hair’s silhouette. She came in looking at a tablet herself, mumbling something before finally looking up at him. “Harper Arley, I presume?” She asked, a smile growing on her face. “You are slightly bigger than Doctor Sprossling had alluded to.” “...Do I even want to know what he “alluded”?” He asked, warily. In response, she chuckled. “Nothing to worry about, now... Mr. Arley, right?” Harper nodded. That was appropriate. “I’m going to do your checkup, but with a caveat,” she said, pulling up a chair to the exam table and sitting down on it, closing in on eye level. Regular people were so tall... She smiled. “We will only need further exams once a year. For your regular checkups, you’d best go to a local pediatrician afterwards. The data accumulated shows that Sprossling’s isn’t a dangerous disease, if an elusive one. All I can tell you is what you already know. You’re a grown man in a child’s body, and no medical procedure we attempted helped. We know that if we do nothing, you are, from a physical perspective, a healthy child, and from a mental perspective, a healthy adult. There isn’t much more we can do and personally... I advised against more therapies. And I’ll advise you the same. We’ve had you going through medications, through hormone therapy and god knows what else. Quite frankly, the last few tests showed you are better off without us interfering.” He looked at her, a bit unsure how to exactly respond. No more clinic visits? That sounded great. And he wasn’t too sad about there not being a solution. He’d really lived with this condition since everyone around him hit their growth spurts and he’d made the best of it. Built a life, with his own apartment, his own colleagues at work accepting him despite his shortcomings. So, yes, he shrugged. “I’m fine with that.” She nodded and started the examination. She checked him through, starting with his hair, mumbling something about dandruff, which had gotten worse over time. He was still looking for a shampoo to deal with that. His skin was irritated in some areas, she said. Psoriasis had been a companion for the better part of the last four years. The checkup required that she looked at everything, of course. As he pulled up his shirt, he forgot the obvious until he found her staring. While baggy, his pants were sagging quite a bit on their own, especially because he had gone without a belt. Which, of course, revealed the waistband of his undergarment, and even the upper tapes. It wasn’t even the worst. One might have expected it, but no, he’d never been good at putting the damn tapes on, nor had a sense of how much the diapers could hold. Not enough, not today at least, as the area around his crotch and on the insides of his thighs was stained dark. Growing red, he looked down, mouth open. How could he have been this stupid? Even worse, tears started to well up. And then he felt her soft touch on his shoulder. “It’s okay...” she started but didn’t say his surname like she wanted. A loud sob escaped his mouth, interrupting her. It then took her another few seconds to react as she looked him over, unsure how to best address him. How could she know, while she had her share of young patients, an adult, presented like this was sure to be different. “We’ll fix it up. Can you get out of your pants, I’ll get you something new to change into.” Walking over to the biggest cabinet, she started to talk before she rummaged through the lower drawers. “I’m sorry, you’re hardly my first patient that had an accident today, but... I didn’t hear about you needing... incontinence pants.” That word made him shudder, not as much as the other, more common phrase, but still there was a deliberateness to her choice of words that did not escape him. Flushing, he did pull down his pants. “Uh;” he started, unsure how best to address this. “I just wear them...for protection.” “I think that applies to most all people who wear,” she responded with a shrug. “I guess it makes sense, an underdeveloped bladder is very much a Sprossling symptom. Sadly, we’re not spoiled for choice of underwear for your size, but I should have something in one of the shelves under the table.” Under the table? Who kept underwear under an exam table? Harper leaned forward and found, sadly, not what he wanted to find. He’d missed, or rather wanted to miss, them priorly, the piles upon piles of diapers.He flushed, finding something akin to his size in some bedwetting pants, quickly getting down the little stairs and picking them up. “Is there somewhere I can change?” He asked, wiping his tears off. Some form of composure was all he wanted to regain. “We still need to finish the exam, just change into some new underwear and we’ll continue from there.” This was not the sort of answer he’d expected or at least hoped for, but it was her answer nonetheless and Harper was not one to argue with doctors. So, he disposed of the wet disposable as quickly as he could in the pail next to the table and pulled up his new “underwear”. It wasn’t as bad as the diaper, but in turn, should he suffer another accident, he doubted it would offer much in terms of protection. Usually, he went for thin products as well, but these sort of trainers he avoided for so many reasons, fear of leaks was just a very prevalent one. Another was the cartoons covering it. It looked so, and he hated to even think of the word, childish. Sitting in it, letting the exam go on, was something he was used to. Back when he was way younger, he used to be stuck in diapers. He used to wear them for longer than other kids, and his parents had almost given up on potty training him. He rather vividly remembered having needed them during the day well into his teenage years and for longer trips, well, he always preferred them to coming into a situation where he couldn’t hold it. The remaining tests were all very standard stuff. Blood taken, vitals checked, reflexes tested. And as always, he came out being told he was as healthy as one of his stature can be. Which, of course, didn’t help with the stature itself but confirmed why he shouldn’t come here as often anymore. “And that’s that. You can get dressed,” the good doctor told him. The imperative made him feel uncomfortable, small. At least he got to pull on the darn pants. Or tights, in this case. Dull grey things of thick wool. Ideal for the season, but not so ideal for his fashion sense. Better than nothing, he assured himself. Yet, it wasn’t like he could walk out of here just like that. His jacket would obscure his underwear, but the pants themselves? Nope. And he couldn’t go out there looking like this. Sadly, it almost seemed like a better option when she revealed what he should wear over it. “It’s been snowing outside, so it shouldn’t be too bad.” This was an unhelpful statement, on quite a few levels. The thing she showed him was a snowsuit, bright pink with a pale white fox on the front and furry inlay for the hood. It was a little girl’s outfit. And she expected him to wear that? No way in hell.
  2. Hey-lo, and welcome to another new story of mine (no, I have no shame in the use of this title). This is a dark spin on a babyfur story with real-world elements (with an evil member of Big Pharma being the Big Bad), so please pay attention to the content warnings on the tags. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. So, with all of that said, do enjoy~ - Chapter One: Jealousy, Rage, and a Gilded Cage - Archer Dove was furious. That…bitch had broken the heart of the wrong man! Charmaine Dryden, a.k.a., the bitch who broke his heart. A top FBI special agent along with him (with him holding seniority as a senior special agent), beautiful platinum-blonde hair in a bun, sky-blue eyes, a towering 6’5” without heels (he was still taller at 6’7”), huge hips, ass, and tits to match her size. He had asked her out. “Married to my job,” she said. “Not interested in dating,” she said. “I would like to remain friends only,” she said. Bullshit! No woman could resist his charm! Every single one of them fell for him the moment they saw him. But he didn’t want them. He wanted her. And she dismissed him. Rejected him. Publicly humiliated him. He was strong, masculine, handsome, a talented shot, amazing in the sheets, everything a woman could want! Why did she reject his advances? Was she threatened by him? Of course, in her twisted little mind, a supposed “independent woman” would be threatened by a strong man. The horror of having a man tell her what to do! Unlike that fucking cuck friend of hers, Veil. She probably fucking pegged him and took it up the ass from the higher-ups, probably a bit of both at the same time. Dove smirked through his anger. Speaking of pegs, he had a plan to destroy her foolish pride and knock her down a peg or two. He’d have her no matter what, one way or another. Humiliate her a bit, have her fail miserably at her assignment, get her fired. And he’d be there to save the day for her, and she’d respect his authority. All he had to do was get a fall guy, and Shadrach Veil fit perfectly, the nerdy little nobody, stuck playing his stupid D&D games on his computer on FBI business, while the real men fought on the front lines with their guns drawn. He hated everything about that fucking geek, from his oversized horn-rimmed glasses covering his mud-brown eyes and baggy clothes two sizes too big for a weaselly 5’3” frame (probably why he was a fucking cuckold), to his nasally voice and twice-broken nose, all the way to his long (to the length of feminine) brown hair and messy brown beard that could probably hide a bird’s nest in it. Yeah, he had absolutely no issues with throwing the blame on Veil with his plan. The computer expert had his…sordid little past that should’ve disqualified him from the FBI, anyway. Dove tried to get him fired once before, but failed. He would say publicly it wasn’t personal between them, but privately? It most certainly was. It had been simple to get Veil’s computer password; as a supervisory special agent in the FBI, Dove had that power and oversight. It had been done in such a way that nobody would even remember he asked. From there, it was simple to hack into the nerd’s computer while he was away on his hour-long self-defense classes that the FBI all but demanded he get after he had his ass saved by Charmaine for the third consecutive time in the field (what a pussy, having to get saved by a woman!), see where Charmaine was going, where she had gone undercover…and burn her. Dove smirked, his green eyes showing cruelty at his little game. Charmaine wanted to fuck with Big Pharma, the biggest pharmaceutical company out there: MVF, based in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Technically, the name was Belgian: Mensheid Voorop Farma, standing for “Humanity First Pharma”, but “MVF” simply rolled off the tongue easier for most Americans. It was worth multi-billions, which, to him, at least, was more money than anyone could ever know what to do with. They made new treatments for cancer, stem cell research, shit that got grants up the ass. She had gone undercover as a scientist, apparently had a big enough brain for it, and had somehow managed to worm her way into the middle rankings (probably by sleeping with someone). Why she did it didn’t concern him an iota and what they “supposedly” did concerned him even less; let the rest of the FBI deal with the embarrassment of trying to deal with the fallout from her and “Veil”. It had been a simple matter from there to call them - from Veil’s phone, of course; it had been no easy feat to steal it and have him think he lost it. The security guard, some woman with a Dutch name and South African dialect - he didn’t particularly recall or care - was quite intrigued by his description of Charmaine’s false identity down to its entirety. She got him talking to her boss, the CEO of the company, the founder, a shockingly young Belgian man by the name of Augustijn Van der Aart. From his voice, Van der Aart sounded like he was in his early forties. To be that young and rich…well, at least he wasn’t more handsome than Dove was. The CEO sounded very interested in his proof, seemed to believe him, but Dove refused payment. “Too easy to trace,” the FBI agent said. And the only payment he wanted was Charmaine getting what she deserved. And now, all that remained…was to wait. - Augustijn Van der Aart was not surprised to hear the news from the man named “Veil”; just the person he expected the news to be about. The founder of MVF had long since known that there was a mole somewhere fairly high in his organization; such was the case when one was into the things he was. He had not expected it to be the woman known as Catherine Darden. She was fairly high in sciences, and she had earned every bit of it. From everything he heard about her, this woman (whom he now knew to be Charmaine Dryden) seemed to be an ideal candidate to be promoted to the mid-levels: smart as a whip with a personality to match, an ideal aptitude for company work, driven - all things Van der Aart admired in a woman. However, he had no tolerance for moles (to him, they were not really much different than rats), no tolerance for the FBI being in his business - and thankfully, this FBI agent’s selfishness and pettiness (he could tell even from the phone that the man had probably been rejected by her, and to be honest, he could certainly see why; Veil seemed extraordinarily toxic.) gave him a perfect opportunity for his latest test run. Apparently, he had covered Dryden’s tracks from the FBI well. Nobody in the Bureau knew where she had gone specifically, just that she was deep undercover. He had looked up her familial records: both parents had died when she was young, an orphan without any siblings, not even a spouse. Perfect for his line of…specimens. Nobody to miss her, nobody who would give a shit if she disappeared. He had called up his chief security officer, Margaretha Roijakkers, and his head scientist, Deborah Leblanc, to his office to discuss the matter discreetly. His chief security officer was a white South African woman born in an upper-class family, a driven woman with a vicious cruel streak that unnerved even him…but she was undoubtedly, unquestionably loyal to him after he saved her from a very long imprisonment for mass murder and crimes against humanity in her home country, and for allowing her sadism to be unchecked and hidden from the law. His head scientist, a Belgian like himself, had made all of his dreams possible. She was driven, ambitious, and at the same time, cared less about the subjects than one would an ant they had stepped on. All the “volunteers” were mere statistics, mere stepping stones to her rise, and yet she was also loyal to him for giving her a job after science groups had spat on her…and because he indulged her perverted fantasies about her work - so long as she kept it to her work. He discussed things with both women, neither interrupting until he had finished discussing the situation. Then Roijakkers brushed a loose strand of short blonde hair out of eyes as blue as sapphires, yet dead like the many Black men she had murdered and buried. “So, how do you want to play this?” she asked. “I’ve looked at her file; she’s very quick with a gun and knife, and if we tip her off, we’re finished.” “Well, you stated it succinctly, Margarethe,” Van der Aart said, steepling his long fingers, his green eyes never leaving the desk of papers, his bald head gleaming in the light. “We can’t let her leave here, and we can’t tip her off. Deborah, is there room for another subject?” Leblanc’s blue eyes lit up like a Christmas tree as she panted excitedly, her long blonde hair tickling her heaving chest. Roijakkers, for her part, looked annoyed at her colleague. “I could easily use another test subject!” the scientist said, her glasses askew. “And if the FBI finds out?” Roijakkers asked. “Then we’ve ruined our entire operation.” “The FBI doesn’t know she’s here at the moment,” he said calmly. “I expect Veil to turn on us again; if he’s turned on the FBI, he’ll turn on anyone. His cooperation is simple: to him, he wants her, and he thinks he can have her no matter what she thinks about him. But if we simply kill her or fire her, we risk having everything crumble. Making her disappear and paying off or blackmailing Veil? Definitely the best option - and our science works perfectly in that regard.” “I could have the formula ready by today!” Leblanc said. “Ooh, do give me the order, Sir, and I’ll have her in chains, ready for her dosage, oh, yes, I will!” “We’d have to keep her as a lab rat for the rest of her life, much like the others,” the South African said coldly, trying - and failing - to ignore her colleague all but orgasming out of ecstasy. “If she’s ever freed, she’ll talk, and people will listen.” Van der Aart smiled. It was not the warm, well-meaning smile that most were accustomed to seeing at work; the malice behind it was as deadly as a pit viper, unnerving even the psychopathic sadist that was his chief of security. “Then we see to it that she’s never able to talk again.” - Charmaine Dryden was preparing for another day at work undercover at MVF. The science team was nice for the most part (even if Dr. Leblanc was absolutely creepy as hell), work was fun and she was able to do it easily. Even the vast majority of security she saw was easygoing, even if the things the FBI had on the head of security painted her as the Devil in heels. She stretched her arms out, as sharply dressed as a scientist could be: lab coat, a white blouse, black slacks, and casual flats. Normally not her style (she wouldn’t be caught dead in a skirt, dress, or heels; that just wasn’t her), but that was okay. She was just eager to get the day started, especially with what she had seen yesterday after digging through MVF’s security camera files (with a huge amount of thanks to Shadrach for teaching her basic computer hacking skills). Many odd specimens, both human and animal. Small, probably children or around that age. It was very limited information, and she needed more info, needed to know what, exactly, she was dealing with, but what she did know was that the FBI - and Dove, in particular, much as she was extremely annoyed at his constant flirtation towards her - was right to send her on this mission: whatever MVF was doing couldn’t be good for humanity, as much as they proclaimed the origin of their own name to be. Then a voice blared on the intercom, obviously one of Van der Aart’s secretaries. “Can I request Miss Darden to the CEO’s office in terms of a promotion?” the pleasant feminine voice said. “Again, Miss Darden to the office of the CEO for a promotion.” The scientists crowded around Charmaine excitedly, some of them giving her fistbumps, others shaking her hand, and still others clapping her on the back, and for a moment, she truly regretted having to burn these men and women. Perhaps when this was all over, she’d try to convince the FBI to give them jobs somewhere - at least, those who were innocent of any crimes. She walked over to the elevator, feeling naked without a gun or knife on her. MVF had stringent policies about weapons, and even better detectors that could pick up the smallest trace of a weapon. If I need to, I can just get a weapon from a security guard? But they have no reason to suspect me, right? Nobody knows I’m FBI…right? Charmaine knew that it was a possibility that someone had caught her snooping around. A small possibility, but not too small to fully ignore; after all, mob families had given out promotions to lull targets into complacency before killing them. Just stick to the act. You are Catherine Darden, a normal scientist getting a promotion. Stick to the act, and you’ll be fine. She was used to acting; this was far from the first undercover mission she had undertaken. She was in the drama club in high school, and this wasn’t much different; all she had to do was get into character - and it was easy getting into character for this Michigan girl, born in Detroit’s tough streets (Fiskhorn, if one wanted to be specific), orphaned at a young age, doing everything to survive in the various foster homes. That was where Charmaine met Shadrach Veil. They had become inseparable, like siblings, even though they looked completely different and had different interests. They had both worked hard to become the people they were because nobody expected anything from them…and when she had been selected to the FBI (mainly because she was an expert sharpshooter in college marksmanship, but also because of her abilities as someone who could go into any role needed), she had insisted that they hire him as well, despite…his history. Charmaine was lost in thoughts as the elevator stopped at the top floor, the office of Augustijn Van der Aart. She opened the door nervously, seeing the man himself greet her with a warm smile. Then she felt the prick of something behind her neck and immediately collapsed, her muscles no longer supporting her, a whirlwind of nonsensical thoughts forming a cacophony in her brain before everything went completely black. - Hope y'all enjoyed~
  3. A/N: Story is not finished yet but has some stuff I am very happy with. Will be releasing once a week for at least the next three weeks and hopefully motivated to keep working on this one. TIA for reading! Update (06/15/24): Chapter 2 submitted Continuing Education Chapter I: “Let the Lesson Begin” Life was supposed to be better than this. Michael Mason was twenty seven years old. He had a Bachelor’s Degree in forensic science. His gorgeous wife loved him deeply. And yet all he could think was how relieved he was that his boss was getting ready to write him up. It got him off the sales floor for awhile and away from all those damned boxes of merchandise. The manager’s office was small, little more than a desk and a couple of chairs. The room itself was unusually hot. Surprising since the company was too cheap to pay for heating in the store at night and the building felt more like a freezer. The only job Michael had been able to land was an overnight stocking gig. Every night, five nights a week, from 9 PM to 6 AM he opened boxes and stuck things on the shelves for minimum wage. The job was originally supposed to be something temporary while he found something in his field. Every morning he drug himself home, physically exhausted from the manual labor and from battling his circadian rhythm. What little free time he had he wanted to spend with Alyssa, his wife. The store itself had completely unrealistic times. Lectures about safe stretching and lifting exercises didn’t mean much when the only way to get the work done as quickly as his managers expected was to bend and lift in the most unsafe ways possible. And while he was tearing his body up to get product on the shelves, the people complaining that he wasn’t fast enough were doing what exactly? Hanging out in the back office on TikTok. It had been more than once that he’d wandered to the back in search of equipment or supplies, things his managers never seemed to know where to find, and caught them all crowded around someone’s cell phone, laughing their heads off. So the job was dogshit but at least he was bringing in money. He’d probably be fired eventually but he wasn’t going to quit on them. If they did plan to fire him for being “inefficient” then he was going to get every last penny he could out of them first. Kyle, the overnight assistant, who thought he was a store manager himself, sighed dramatically as he dropped into the chair on the other side of the desk, sitting upon it as if it were the throne from which he lorded over his subjects. “Mike, I’m tired of having performance conversations with you.” “It’s Michael sir.” His nametag said Michael. He indicated on his forms he preferred Michael. He’d told Kyle on numerous occasions he preferred Michael. “Mike,” Kyle continued, ignoring the protest. “To be blunt, your performance is wholly inadequate for this job. We have written disciplinary actions for you twice and this will now be the third time in less than a year. As such, we’ve decided to move forward with separation. I’m going to need your nametag, box cutter, and any other company equipment.” Kyle gestured to the third man in the room. “Jack will have to escort you out after you clean out your locker.” So, that was it. Game over. There was a part of Michael that would be completely relieved that he wasn’t going to have to show up anymore. Of course there was also the part that knew Alyssa was going to be absolutely furious with him. They could barely afford their rent now and they had just managed to open a savings account and drop spare bits of change into it. Going back to a single income was going to set them back by months. There was no point in complaining about it. Michael tossed his boxcutter and nametag on the table and stood up without a word. He was not going to give Kyle the satisfaction of crying or begging for his job. In silence, he strode out of the room, only slightly irritated that Jack was following him every step of the way. “It’s a tough thing,” Jack said. “But you really did it to yourself Mike.” “It’s Michael,” Michael sighed as he pulled a few personal things out of his locker. “Well look on the bright side Mike,” Jack said, “In six months you can re-apply.” “Jack, why would I re-apply for this shithole job?” Michael had tried his best to keep his cool but he’d failed. His only recourse was to blast his hate through his eyes directly at Jack. The expected effect occurred and Jack smirked as he saw the anger in Michael’s face. “You’ll be back,” Jack said. “Your type always comes back.” “You know what Jack?” Michael was already headed for the exit. “Go fuck yourself.” * * * Michael wasn’t sure how manly sitting in his bathrobe at the kitchen table with a container of ice cream and a scoop was but it was making him feel better. It was barely after 2 AM and Alyssa was fast asleep. He’d quietly changed and moved back out to the living room to wallow in his own misery. She was going to be so damned angry when she found out. He had no idea what time it was when the light in the bedroom turned on. He was cold. His robe was barely hanging on him and the ice cream had mostly liquefied. He slopped another bite, getting sticky melted goo all over his face, and sending another jolt of brain freeze to his head. “Michael? Why are you home so early?” It should have been a crime how easily Alyssa made it seem to look beautiful. Despite having slithered out of bed, her hair cascaded down her back as if she’d just had it styled. Her face was perfectly shaped and her eyes popped as if she had a ring of mascara. She could have done a hell of a lot better than an almost thirty year old loser who couldn’t even hold down a job at the grocery store. Here it came. Might as well rip the band-aid off. “I got fired.” He gritted his teeth, prepared for the explosion. Which didn’t….come? He caught a whiff of Alyssa’s perfume, vaguely scented like lilacs, as she wrapped her arms around him in an embrace before gently prying the spoon from his fingers and pulling it away. “Honey, you’re sticky,” she frowned as she disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a washcloth, which she ran over his face. Rather dumbfounded that he wasn’t having his face ripped off, Michael sat there and let his wife clean his face instead. “You’re not…huh?” Michael blinked. Alyssa had a bit of a temper but they didn’t exactly fight. He was expecting her to be mad. Mad in that sort of, “I’m disappointed in you” type of way that would make him feel like a total jackass without her actually raising her voice at him. “Not what?” she smiled as she sat down across from him. “I’m not a mind reader babe, use your words.” “I thought you’d be mad at me,” he confessed. “I’m not thrilled, no,” Alyssa frowned. “You don’t need me to tell you it’s going to hurt us. But you’ve been pretty unhappy at that job and I feel like I barely get to see you. We’ve got to be able to find a way to make things work where we don’t have to be apart so much.” “Yeah,” Michael nodded. His stomach growled in protest at him. Gorging on ice cream had not exactly been his most erudite moment. “What if…” Whenever Alyssa had an idea that she thought exceedingly clever, a grin spread across her face not unlike the Cheshire Cat. “...what if you finally followed through with your plan and went back to school?” “Yikes,” Michael sat up, pushing through his angry stomach. “That’s not gonna help our money situation at all Alyssa.” “That’s the best part,” she replied. “I found a place, let me show you…” her phone appeared in her hands and she played with it for a moment, “Look at this place!” Michael glanced at the phone, reading it off, “The Finch School? What am I? A bird?” “It started as a finishing school,” Alyssa said. “Miss Finch’s Finishing School for Marriageable Young Ladies. That was back in the 20s. It’s evolved into a co-ed liberal arts college. And they offer scholarships for returning adults. Finish your education and all that.” “Yeah but Alyssa, this place is ten hours from here,” Michael frowned. “How is that going to get us more time to be together?” “That part will suck,” Alyssa nodded. “But I barely see you as is. If you go to the school, you can finish your Master’s Degree, land that inspector’s job, and get away from all of these back breaking places you’ve been applying to.” Michael looked down at his wife’s phone again. He’d have to get a place near the campus. Or a dorm room, heh. And of course there was no point in any decision at all if he couldn’t claim that scholarship. There was no way he was taking loans out and they definitely couldn’t pay tuition out of pocket. “Ok then, I’ll apply for the scholarship and we’ll go from there.” “Good boy,” Alyssa beamed at him. * * * He’d done it. He’d gotten in. The application process was very easy and had been done completely online. He’s sent in some writing samples and records from his time at the state university. A few days later he’d received an acceptance email. The terms seemed almost too good to be true. He was required to accept campus housing, agree to a code of conduct that mostly boiled down to not doing stuff he’d hated doing when he was twenty anyway, and had to keep his grades up. That’d be easy enough. Michael had always learned his lessons well. He’d briefly met his roommate Nick when he’d dropped his luggage off at his dorm room. Nick was a few years older too so there was definitely a level of relief there that he wasn’t going to be shacked up with some eighteen year old kid fresh out of High School. It was a little odd that they’d been roomed together but Nick just laughed when Michael voiced his concerns. It would work. “The campus is beautiful babe,” he had his phone glued to his ear and was chatting with Alyssa. She was back at home getting ready for work. “My room’s not too bad. We’ll have to video chat later. My roommate seems cool. There’s a lot of…” Michael glanced around. There were a lot of girls at this school. It had been a women’s college originally. If it was one of those schools that ended up recruiting the kids of former students, maybe that wasn’t too surprising. He was pleased to note that there were plenty of older students but some of the styles of dress…he’d walked by an entire group of girls in Japanese lolita style! A girl, a woman really, who had to be at least thirty but nevertheless was wearing shortalls and had her hair in pigtails, literally skipped by him swinging a Hello Kitty backpack from her left hand as she bounced along the sidewalk towards one of the class buildings. “...girls here.” “That’s not a problem is it?” Alyssa asked. “Not for me, but uh….” Michael trailed off, too embarrassed to finish the thought. His half comment was greeted by a shriek of laughter. “Not to toot my own horn Michael but, you’re not going to cheat on this, are you?” His phone chirped and he pulled it from his ear long enough to glance at the picture that his wife had just sent him. She wasn’t wearing anything at all. And she had her fingers between her spread legs, pulling a pair of lips apart. “Alyssa!” More giggling from the phone. “We’re gonna have to get used to sexting sweetie. And babe, mommy is going to need A LOT of pics while you’re at school.” “Maybe save the NSFW for when I’m not walking around a college campus in the middle of the day,” Michael laughed. “But seriously babe, you are gorgeous. You just made it that much harder for me to concentrate on my classes.” “Well then, I guess you won’t get any more pics until you show me that you’ve learned something,” Alyssa said. Michael was outside his classroom now. “I’ll show you exactly what I’ve learned tonight babe. I’ve got to go now though, I’m at my first class. Love you.” “Love you too. Learn a lot!” Michael hadn’t been in a college classroom in several years but the room he stepped into was certainly not what he expected. The walls were a pastel green with rainbows adorning them. Along the back wall were rows of cubbies, many filled with bags and other things. Many students were already sitting at desks with their hands folded. Every person in the room was a girl, none younger than twenty five, and none dressed older than twelve. Along the front wall was a chalkboard - a chalkboard! And above it a poster showing the alphabet. If it weren’t for the size of the desks, Michael would have sworn he had walked into a kindergarten classroom. This couldn’t be his class. He was here to take an advanced criminology course. The worst part about walking into the wrong room was that all the heads had turned to gawk at him. The teacher was the only person dressed remotely normally - if goth scientist was “normal.” Her long curly hair was died sea green and coiled halfway down her back. She wore a black lab coat over boots, fishnet stockings, a leather skirt, and corset. Goth…bondage…scientist? The mix of styles was almost too much. Her piercing pale blue eyes seemed to be digging into his skull and he caught just the faintest hint of lilac from her. “Oh excuse me, I must be in the wrong class,” he muttered as he turned to leave. “Stop right there!” the woman called. Michael found himself stopping in his tracks. “You come inside right now and put your things in your cubby please.” Michael found himself walking back into the classroom. Did he actually have a cubby? Impossible. That would be the easiest way to prove that he was in the wrong spot. Jennifer, Kelly, Lisa, Daisy, see…no…Michael blinked and rubbed his eyes. Right next to “Daisy” was an empty cubby labeled “MIchael.” “Well?” the instructor called out. “Uhh, yes ma’am,” Michael swallowed as he tossed his bag into the cubby and turned around. “Very good,” the instructor smiled sweetly. “Now if you’ll take your seat please.” “Oh, which one is mine?” Michael was a bit confused. There were several empty seats, so he wasn’t exactly sure where he should sit. “Oh Professor!” the blond in pigtails that had skipped past him earlier had raised her hands and was waving it excitedly. Dress aside, Michael was definitely sure that this girl had to be in her early 30s at least. Meanwhile the professor looked like she couldn’t be more than about twenty two. “Yes Daisy?” the Professor smiled sweetly. “Professor, can she sit at my table?” the girl named Daisy asked. She? Michael had to admit that he was a bit on the thin and small side but still, there could be no way he’d be mistaken for a girl right? Short hair, tee shirt, jeans. He practically screamed “guy going back to college after failing at life.” “Yes, that will be fine. The new girl can sit with you Daisy,” the professor replied. “Oh, but, uh…” Michael cleared his throat. He wasn’t entirely sure where this misconception was coming from but it was definitely something he wanted to clear up. “Yes sweetie?” the Professor beamed at him as if he had just answered a really hard question. “Can you use the words to share your thoughts with the class?” “I’m a boy actually.” Michael said. The classroom erupted, first as every girl gasped and then peels of laughter echoed from all around the room. Every table seemed to burst into chatter as all the students began talking and pointing at him. “Girls, settle down!” The Professor grabbed a yardstick from her desk and wrapped it three times. The knocking sound killed the conversation. “Is that any way to treat a new student? Now sweetie, I want you to come to the front of the room ok? I promise, you’re not in trouble.” Feeling foolish, and knowing he was blushing, Michael walked up to the front of the room and stood next to the teacher. Her lilac perfume wrapped itself around his nose in a way that was intoxicating. He could feel his head going light. “Now sweetie, this is Miss Finch’s Finishing School and it is a school for girls. If you’re a student here, you have to be a girl here. You are a student here, aren’t you?” “Yes, but…” Michael went to protest. The school hadn’t been a girls only school in fifty years! And it wasn’t a finishing school anymore, it was a liberal arts college. Something in the back of his mind told him that whatever was going on was so strange that his best bet would be to run. But that smell… “And if all the students here are girls, that means you’d have to be a girl too, doesn’t it?” “But I’m not a girl!” Michael insisted. “Oh don’t worry sweetie, I’ll help you with that,” the Professor said. She reached for his face, caressing it in her hands, and pulled him forward before delivering a peck on the cheek. “You see, I can make it all better with just a kiss.” Michael felt just slightly off. He couldn’t quite place it but something was different. His shirt seemed to hang from him loosely as if it had grown two sizes too big. Oddly, it felt tighter around his chest than it had before. The reality of the matter, that he had somehow shrunk, set in when his pants slid right off his hips, now hopelessly larger than his waist. “What in the…” Michael’s hand slammed across his mouth. That hadn’t been his voice! Michael had a deep, husky voice, just slightly gravely. The voice that had escaped his lips had been honeyed, soft, and very feminine. When he glanced down, he realized more was wrong. The hair on his hands and legs had disappeared completely, his skin now soft and smooth. He had previously had many blemishes and moles all across his body, they were all gone now. And his chest? The reason his shirt was tight was that he now had cleavage! A strand of hair fell into his face, dirty brown having turned into a silken brown mousse - short length having transformed into mid length curls that coiled around his shoulders. His…more like…”What did you do to me?!” “I told you sweetie,” the Professor replied with a smile. “Only girls attend Miss Finch’s Finishing School. Since you’re a student here, you must be a girl.” “I’m not a…” Michael stopped himself, no…herself, as she felt a new sensation. Her underwear was becoming warm and wet. She was peeing herself! The escaping fluid quickly turned into a flood as her boxers became uselessly saturated and pee dripped down her legs, pooling in her jeans at her feet. “Oh dear, oh dear,” the Professor shook her head. “Daisy, will you go into the supply cabinet and get me the diapers? It looks like our new student had her first accident.”
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