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Well, I have a new idea (that had to be changed a bit from its unused original idea, but the characters in the story are pretty much similar in name, if not personality and pasts): Juventas' Wings. If you guessed that this was based on the Roman goddess of youth, Juventas, you'd be correct! There's going to be a lot of Greco-Roman lore in this story, even if it isn't revealed immediately. As a WARNING, though, there's a lot of mature content in this story, and this particular segmented chapter has the following: implied domestic violence and abuse, cheating, mental illness struggles, stated sexual assault (not delving into specifics), poverty, drug usage and withdrawals, law stuff for said drug usage, post-traumatic stress disorder, war scenes, anti-trans/gay slurs, misgendering, and deadnaming by bigoted minor chapter-only characters, mentioned maid/petplay fetishes, and a LOT of broken and dysfunctional families. Further chapters involve age regression, both physical and emotional, a remorseless serial killer, implied sexual assault, kidnapping, parental abuse, emotional and sexual manipulation, character death, and description of religion. Just be warned and as always, VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. 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. And now for the beginning of the story: - Chapter One: Seven Lives - Fida Salah (nee Jazuri) didn’t even expect any mail to come to her, let alone an offer from others for her alone. All the thirty-five-year-old London-born-and-raised woman did was cook, clean, and do household chores, her mother, father, and older sibling having long since passed. Her husband, Botros Salah, was the only family she had left, and she knew that he cheated on her a lot with other women, her inability to have kids a…contentious point around him, amongst other contentious points. She wore a full red niqab that covered most of her body, her weary dark-brown eyes, a bit of her coffee skin around her eyes, and her delicate hands the only visible body parts, as she cooked dinner (batata harra, a vegetable dish that her husband always asked for, never seemed to get tired of, and forced her to eat. She was tired of eating it, couldn’t remember the last time she had been allowed a halal meat, but what her husband wanted, she did.) in preparation for her husband returning. The doorbell rang, and she all but jumped out of shock; Botros would’ve simply entered the house. Noting that the batata harra was completely finished, she walked over to the door, looking through the window, expecting to see her husband’s stern face…but instead seeing a very young (probably nineteen or so), yet tall Arabic woman wearing a hijab, accompanied by a young, almost effeminate-looking man with similar features, likely a male relative, as was custom. Fida was a bit confused. Were they friends of her husband? She opened the door, and the Arabic woman smiled. “Hello, you are Fida Salah, are you not?” the woman asked. “My husband should be here soon if you need to talk to him,” Fida said politely. “We’re not here for your husband,” the woman said, still smiling. “We’re here for you.” Fida froze, thinking of the day-old bruises over days-old bruises that reminded her what her husband was capable of. Nothing good could come from this. “I’m sorry, but-” “I understand you wish for us to leave, but I doubt that your husband wants to do spa treatments with you.” “Spa treatments?” Fida was completely confused now. “I’m sorry, but I have to cook and clean. My husband-” “Surely, he wouldn’t begrudge you a bit of time for yourself, right? Only a day of spa treatments, free halal meals like kabsa with lamb, chicken, and beef, relaxation around other women, all to make you feel like a brand-new you.” The housewife’s lips pursed. It was tempting, this offer, but she wasn’t allowed to leave the house without a male relative with her, and she didn’t have any other than her husband. “He can come with us to the spa, if you’re concerned about leaving without permission. We already talked to him.” “At his work? Is it all right if I call him…?” “Of course, dear.” Fida walked to the house phone (she was not allowed a cell phone) and dialed her husband’s cellphone number. One ring, two rings, three rings. “Yes, Fida?” Botros asked with boredom in his Arabic tongue. “It’s about that stupid fucking spa, isn’t it?” “Yes,” she whispered, also in Arabic. “Speak up, or you’ll regret it.” “Yes, it is about the spa,” she said, a little louder. “Of course. I’ve been asked as well. I asked Aisha to come over to cover your household chores, while you spend your day there. Then I expect you to come back.” “Yes, my love.” “I learned something from Aisha as well. She’s expecting my child.” Fida froze, her heart breaking. “That’s…wonderful, my love,” she said in what she hoped was a happy tone. “It is. I could still use you for household chores, but I’m planning on marrying her and having many more children together.” “Of…of course.” “Well…I expect you back at the time of my choosing.” “Yes, my love. Ila al-lika'a ya habibi.” Her husband - for now, she assumed - didn’t even say goodbye before he hung up, and she forced herself not to cry. She was going to be reduced to a mere servant, all because he found a younger woman who could bear his children. The woman and her male friend were still outside, but looked sympathetic. Fida then decided to take a chance. Fuck her cheating, abusive husband; he didn’t need to know. “I’ll go to your spa, and he won’t be invited.” - Maela Wheaton’s thoughts were in chaos as she drove her Uber cab in Birmingham, U.K., looking for people to pick up for a fare in her company’s Nissan Leaf. She took her meds this morning, she knew it! Olanzapine, clozapine, paliperidone palmitate, valproate, lithium, all sorts of anti-depressants, she took as many as she dared, but nothing worked for very long, and buying extra meds, plus groceries and gas put her deep in the red. She had a small flat that she shared with loud arsehole housemates, but she was barely making rent work. Her dark-brown eyes were trained on the road, as she gripped the steering wheel like a vise. She ignored her long black hair falling in her eyes as the extreme high of the mania made her do stupid things like cut off other cars with a honk of her horn, her paranoia justifying it by their slights, fuck them, fuck them all, they had no idea how hard life could be… Maela shuddered. Being a British Chinese girl, she had a miserable time in school, both primary and secondary, but she made it to college with good marks…until her schizoaffective disorder came into play. She ended up dropping out of college, her family disowning her, leaving her with nothing. But she worked her arse off to get this job, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to lose it. She drove to the city block where her clients, a Ms. Juve and a Mr. Mede (odd names, but they were legal) had asked for her car, and she saw them: a very young woman (probably four years younger than she was, and she was twenty-four) with Chinese features and a very effeminate young man who had similar features were waiting, seemingly unbothered by the hustle and bustle. Maela unlocked the door. “Where to?” she asked politely; they were her first customers of the day. “The ZLS London Zoo,” the woman said with cheer in her tone. “You’re Maela Wheaton, right?” Maela sighed. It would be a long drive, especially with her meds, but it would pay a decent amount as well. “Yeah, I’m your driver," she said as the couple closed the door. “Your fare will be €175-€215 for conversion, and you pay after the ride’s over.” “Is it all right if we talk to you on the way?” the woman, Juve, asked. “Erm…” “I’ll pay double if you allow us to talk to you, Maela,” Juve coaxed. “Fine." She drove away from the busy street, her eyes trained on the road. “What do you want to talk about?” “Well…we’re the owners of a nice little spa in London,” Mede said, his voice very stereotypically gay. “We’ve had all sorts of clientele, famous people, but we serve…others nowadays.” “That’s nice,” Maela said, her voice bored. “We were wondering if you could come to our spa when able,” Juve said. “Me?” Maela said with a laugh. “How much would it cost? I’m not exactly rich.” “The money you get from this drive should cover all of the costs and more,” the woman said with a kind smile. “It would be a full treatment, lots of pampering, massages, expert services, stuff like that.” Maela’s fragmented mind began to wander. Yeah, that did sound rather nice…but she was in the red, and she couldn’t exactly take a day off… “Just feel free to stop by whenever you’re free and willing. You seem like you could use it.” “Yeah, I…I have schizoaffective disorder, so I could use something to help, anything.” “I can’t imagine.” It was sympathy, which Maela hated…but unlike most who expressed such sentiments, it didn’t seem fake from Juve. Then a call echoed from her dashboard. “Hang on, it’s my supervisor. I have to take this.” She opened a line. “Hello?” “Hello,” an automated voice said. “Due to costs, we regret to inform you that after this ride, we will be forced to make cost-cutting layoffs. We wish you the best in your new endeavors.” Maela started to cry. She had been laid off? NOW?! This was a disaster. “Honey, what’s wrong?” Juve asked. “Just…I’m going to have to drop you two off; I’m no longer employed by the company. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but-” “Don’t worry about it, honey,” Juve said sympathetically. “Tell you what, here’s your payment.” She used a debit card and transferred…a very significant amount, to Maela’s utmost shock. €1,000? This is insane! I didn’t even do anything big! “Just consider the spa, honey,” Juve said, handing her a business card. “The money is yours to do as you wish with, but all I ask is that you consider using some of it for a day at the spa.” The two exited the car on a street, having not gone very far from Birmingham at all. Maela looked at the money, a decision to make. Tomorrow works. I’ll search for a job after I go there for a day. - Tawny Wheeler was working at a gentleman’s club in Manchester, U.K. Yeah, it was a stripper’s name to some, but the Black woman didn’t mind it as much; she loved the first name that her parents chose for her. Her flawless ebony skin gleamed in the lights, her lips filled, makeup expertly done. She had to look utterly stunning for her clients, both of whom were in a private room, as was custom. The woman’s hips swayed seductively, her heels clicking on the floor as she entered the room with the clients: a woman and an effeminate looking young man, both of them Black and beautiful to her, both of them with pretty long locks, looking a year or two younger than she was, in their early twenties. She danced on the pole in front of them. It was an opening act, the start to a lap dance, and maybe something more, if they so wanted and were willing to pay her on the side for it. Tawny was bi as hell, had no issues with men or women paying for sexual favors from her on the side, so long as they weren’t…her. The woman who raped me. Just because I was an exotic dancer, she brought me to her home, and… She had tried to report the woman to the police, but they weren’t very sympathetic to her plight, said it was her fault. Just because that woman was rich, powerful, and obsessed…she could - and did - stalk Tawny everywhere she went, hiring private investigators to see where she went, demanding to see her at her job, even stalking her to her house in Moss Side, one of, if not the, worst area in Manchester, where she would do anything to get out of… Then again, would her family be proud of her and what she did? They had either passed a while ago or moved out of the U.K. to other countries. Would her father look down on her for being an exotic dancer? Would her mom call her a whore for what she did to survive another day? And her sisters had left for American jobs a while ago, both of them far smarter and gifted than she was. Tawny tried to drive the thoughts out of her mind, tried to keep tears from pricking at her brown eyes; she was performing, not focusing on herself, but the woman seemed to notice her turmoil. “Are you okay, dear?” the Black woman asked. Tawny flipped her bleached-blonde braided hair in annoyance. “Yes, I’m fine,” she replied, her voice not inviting conversation. “Well…you seem like you could use a bit of a break. You know we own a nice spa, right?” Tawny seemed to perk up as she continued dancing. A spa? An actual honest-to-God spa? She could use some R&R, but her job…and the payment… “Don’t worry about it. The money we'll give you for this session will more than pay for a day at the spa. A treatment tailored to you, dear.” The woman’s eyes were quite warm and inviting, and Tawny was more than just a little tempted. “Sure,” she said. “What’s the earliest you can have me?” “Tomorrow, easily.” Tawny pondered it and made her decision. “I’m in. But first, that lap dance I promised you two…” - Former Petty Officer (honorably discharged from the Royal Navy) Sable Stokes was at the Royal British Legion in London, looking for help and not getting what she wanted. She wanted to take things to keep her up, to stop the nightmares of the Somalian pirates that invaded her small ship, seeing her mates all die to protect her, brutally killing the pirates, all of their faces - her friends and foes alike - in her nightmares every night. Why did everyone refuse that? Why did they want her to sleep? Why did they want her to feel all of that pain? “Look, Petty Officer Stokes, we’ll recommend you to our therapist, but we can’t prescribe you amphetamines; it’s illegal.” “I don’t want to sleep,” Sable said desperately, the nails on her olive-skinned hands digging into the handles of the wooden chair she sat in, her brown hair falling over her face. She hated that she had even joined the Royal Navy eight years ago on a promise and a prayer. If she hadn’t, she would’ve had a normal life… “Petty Officer Stokes, you have to sleep some time.” The secretary was seemingly sympathetic, but she didn’t want sympathy; she wanted the nightmares to go away. “The doctor will discuss things shortly. Do you have a next of ki-” “I don’t!” Sable screamed, the tenuous string holding her temper snapping. “My family’s from Ireland, and they hate me! My husband is dead from brain cancer! My mates died on the HMS Ladon! I - have - NOTHING!” “Security, please-” "There's no need for security; she's merely distraught," a new male voice said. A gentle hand on Sable's shoulder guided her away from the panicking secretary as she started sobbing. “There we go, get it all out, that’s a good girl,” the male doctor whispered in her ear as Sable relaxed in the soft, yet firm grip. “Who are…” “Doctor Alex Juves,” the male doctor said kindly. “Sable, if you could follow me to my office?” Sable reluctantly followed, feeling glad that the man hadn’t called her by her rank. She was not proud of being part of the Royal Navy, even with the friends she made. She had spent years on ships, not knowing her husband was secretly dying, wanting to be strong for her sake. Her mates on the Ladon, all dead. Every one of them in her head at night. No, she wanted nothing to do with Royal Navy services…but she didn’t have a choice, being unemployed and living disability check to check. The office was full of baby, toddler, and children’s pictures, an equal amount of boys and girls from the look of things. Sable tried not to sob; this is what she and her husband wanted: children of their own. Now he was lost to her for good; Steven Stokes was in Heaven without a doubt, while she was certainly headed down below. The male doctor looked oddly youthful, much younger than she was (she estimated him to be twenty-one years old, while she was seven years older), athletic, with trimmed brown hair and no facial hair, and calm green eyes. “Honey…” the doctor began, and Sable relaxed a bit at the paternal tone, “I think a spa trip would be for the best. It’s owned by a woman whom I trust with my life, and I think a day of relaxation would be for the best.” “A spa trip?” Sable snorted. “What do you take me for, a girly-girl?” “It’s not just for girly-girls. I’m just thinking of a day of relaxation, and that can be for anyone, even the biggest tomboy.” She sighed. “How much does it cost?” she asked. “For military discounts such as yours? Nothing at all.” “Nothing’s free-” “I know. All I’m saying is that the military discount is valid for this spa. A day of relaxation, freedom, and free of worry. Is that something you’d want?” “But the nightmares-” “And you have the choice of sleeping or not sleeping, Sable. Nothing will be done that you don’t want. I’m just recommending it for relaxation, and I’ve scheduled tomorrow as your day. Sound good?” Sable bit her lip. It seemed as though it had been decided for her…but hey, it was just a fucking spa! What was the worst that could happen? “Fine.” - Russet Royal had just been fired, arrested, and was awaiting her sentence for failing a drug test and getting caught with glass (crystal meth), lamenting her life choices as she sat in the London slammer cell. The skinny transwoman sulked, curled up in a corner, knowing that she had been placed with two men, one of whom was leering at her with ill intent. She merely glared at them with her icy-blue eyes, her red hair falling in wavy strands over her pale, freckled face, daring them to try something. “Hey, little bitch,” a man sneered. “You got a man? I can give you what your pussy wants…” “Dude, that thing’s a tranny,” another man said, rolling his eyes. “Unless you’re a poof?” “I’m not a fuckin’ poof! Fuck, how was I supposed to know? I’m not fuckin’ tranny ass!” Russet ignored the slurs, tried to ignore the depression, exhaustion, and aching all over her body and head: all signs of her amphetamine withdrawal. She was homeless and on the streets, the only job she was able to get was a barista job that she used to buy the next high. And now she was fired and looking at a serious prison sentence. Then a banging on the cell. “Paulson Pritchard?” Russet ignored her deadname, both first and last, her parents being so horribly bigoted that she long since discarded it when she had been kicked out. “Paulson Pritchard!” It had to be a withdrawal hallucination at this point; nothing would surprise her. “PAULSON PRITCHARD, GET YOUR FUCKING ARSE UP OR I’LL MAKE YOU!” “It’s Russet Royal, arsehole!” she snapped back in her Cockney accent. “Call me by me right name, an’ I won’t fuck ya up!” “Your barrister is here. Your choice if you want to go to him pepper sprayed or not.” Russet sighed in annoyance, getting up with her wrists long since handcuffed behind her back, as the guard roughly dragged her out of the cell, the pain from his grip causing her to grimace. He led her to a small room with a table and chairs, one of them holding a surprisingly young man in it (two years older than her age, she guessed, and she was eighteen), athletic, tall. The guard stood to the side until the young man, his brown hair long over his cleanshaven face, waved him off before saying, “I want her handcuffs off. Now.” Russet stared into space, a bit confused. Did the man say… “He’s a dangerous drug-addled prisoner. I won’t risk your safety.” “I want the handcuffs off of this young lady. She’s trans, if you somehow didn’t know. How dare you put her in a cell with two older men?” The tone wasn’t truly accusatory, but it caused the guard to fume before he unlocked Russet’s cuffs, as she tried to rub feeling into her wrists. “And now I want you out of the room whilst I discuss the magistrate’s judgement.” “You’re serious? This is a criminal-” “First time offender with no history of violent crimes and mitigating factors. Out.” The guard looked like he was going to explode with anger, but he left, thank God. Russet sighed in relief. “Fanks, Mr. Um…” “Call me Nick Juves.” The barrister’s bright blue eyes were kind. “I talked to the magistrate about a private sentence if you plead guilty: time served but with probation and house arrest at a place of our choosing.” Russet sighed again. “And if I don’t?” she asked in an irritable, yet dead tone. “Russet, you’re looking at seven years if you plead not guilty. Evidence is there and everything. You will be convicted, and I don’t want that for you. You have so much to give and deserve to receive help. I remember seeing you at your barista job in London. You were so kind to everyone, and asked everyone how they were doing, including me.” She stared at the barrister in shock. “I don’t-” “Remember it? No, I don’t suppose you would. But that’s why I took your case. The magistrate knows the place where you’d be at house arrest. Technically, it’s more of an upscale spa owned by a woman I dearly care about. Rest, relaxation, spending your free time there. All he asks is that you don’t leave.” Russet immediately brightened up. This actually sounded like it could be fun. “It’s…it’s a deal,” she said, her tone happy for once as she shook his hand. - Joan and Hazel MacTaggart were twins that had been separated for quite some time. Joan worked in Liverpool as a grocery store checkout operator by day and a waitress at night, Hazel worked as a morning waitress and a night shift petrol station attendant in Rotherham, both of them separated from birth in spite of Grandma Mac’s protests, not even being told of each other by their petty family members after the messy divorce. It was truly a messy situation, with each of their so-called “families” disowning them after they insisted on seeing each other, and for…reasons neither had admitted to each other…yet. Not that it mattered to them; they merely took the maiden name of their maternal grandmother - the only person who accepted both of them for the women they were - without hesitation, and even though she passed a year after they met at twenty, they always made sure to make their days together count, just like she always said. When they found each other after all that time, they were overjoyed, but were unable to visit each other due to their full job schedule. Until today. They were in London, both of them dressed to the nines, both of them with their long light blonde hair in shag-style haircuts, both of them were heavily tattooed (and with both of them wearing spiked chokers, they were definitely punk-culture oriented), their green eyes each showing love for their twin as they had coffee and chatted at a small cafe that catered to fetish cultures (something both of them hadn’t yet admitted to each other, but wanted to, waiting for the other to make a move first). The only difference between them was their clothing, even though they both wore all black: Joan was wearing a blouse, a knee-length pleated skirt, and heels, while Hazel wore a long-sleeved shirt, a knee-length skirt, leggings, and flats. “God, it’s bigger than I thought it would be, Joan,” Hazel murmured. “I don’t know what to do.” “Me neither, Hazel,” Joan said, sipping on her coffee. “There’s just so much to see…” “Why not our spa?” a feminine voice said. Joan and Hazel turned their heads to the side, as they saw a woman who looked about a year younger than they were, also wearing a spiked collar with her brown hair and beautiful in a full latex suit, as well as an effeminate blond boy in a frilly maid costume wearing a dog collar with spikes, the woman holding his leash as he was lying on the ground. “Where did you two come from?” Hazel asked. “I didn’t see you earlier…” “OH, we just sat down,” the woman said cheerfully, pulling the lead. “I’m Juve, and this is my little pet maid, Mede.” “I’m Joan, and my younger twin is Hazel,” Joan said with a smirk. Ever since she found out she was the older twin from her grandmother, she always lorded it over her sister. “Dammit, Joan, it was ten minutes. Ten minutes.” Juve merely smiled. “I’m pretty sure that you both could have fun at our spa. We cater to fetishes of all types as well as doing relaxing procedures. Oh, and the food is amazing.” “Is it in London?” Joan asked. “Yep! Here’s my card, one for each of you.” Both twins took the card. “Juventas’ Winged Oasis, huh?” Hazel said. “You said it caters to fetishes?” “That it does,” Juve said with a smirk. “You have a poison?” Neither twin seemed eager to share, looking embarrassed all of a sudden. “Aww, it’s okay, we’re friendly here. I have my own fetish, Mede here is a maid and petplay addict, can’t get enough of it.” “Mistress,” Mede whined. “Heel, girl.” The order was a bit stern, and Mede lay at Juve’s feet in a shockingly docile manner. “Feel free to say as much or as little as you want.” “Do you cater to adult baby fetishes?” Joan asked, before blushing and covering her mouth. “Sis, you too?” Joan turned in shock to see Hazel blushing. “Wait, Hazel, you also-” “Well, that solves a lot of problems.” Juve looked genuinely happy, and not in a mean way. “We can easily do that at our spa. No need to bring anything other than stuffies and favorite dummies.” Both twins looked sad, and Juve seemed to look sad as well. “You don’t have any stuffies or dummies?” “No,” Joan said. “I have to survive. It’s hard enough to buy nappies.” “Yeah, adult nappies are the only thing I’ve allowed myself,” Hazel admitted. “Tell you what, we can find you a stuffie each and provide the dummies, the bottles, actual adult baby nappies, everything a happy baby girl needs.” “How much will it cost?” Hazel asked in trepidation. “Tell you what: first time’s on me. It’ll cost more for extra ‘sessions’.” The woman almost seemed to transform into a dominatrix in front of their eyes. “Sound good?” Joan and Hazel looked at each other incredulously, unbelieving of their luck, before saying simultaneously, “You bet!” - Apologies in advance for the long, fragmented chapter: it would've been too short to post each person's response, and I want to move into this story as quickly as I could. Anyway, here are the translations of some of the foreign words: Halal = Islamic limits to what one is religiously allowed to eat. Kabsa = an Arabic rice dish that has a meat (usually lamb or chicken, but can include beef, fish, goat, even camel) with vegetables and a mixture of spices. Batata harri = a Lebanese dish with potatoes, vegetables, and spices. "Ila al-lika'a ya habibi." = "Until we meet again, my love." (Directed towards a man.) Hope y'all enjoyed this very long chapter - and for you Brits out there, let me know how I did~ I swear to holy fate, I researched as much as I could, but if I made mistakes, please let me know.