Jump to content
Existing user? Sign In

Sign In



Sign Up

Present

Damp Member
  • Posts

    17
  • Joined

  • Last visited

Recent Profile Visitors

5,160 profile views

Present's Achievements

  1. A military story set in the near-past, near-present or the near-future (take your pick). Enjoy! _________________________________________________________________________________________________________ At 6:43 in the morning, a hand fluttered towards the notebook and plucked it from the bottom of an otherwise empty nightstand drawer. Long fingers pawed at the zipper at the book’s vinyl spine, and when the zipper was flicked open an inch, followed by an index finger pushed it across its track on three edges of its the notebook’s perimeter. A few stray beams of sunlight crept onto its pages and left behind the slight shadow of half-closed Venetian blinds. A second later, the paper was lit in a lamp’s warm glow. The bulb’s light was a sumptuous luxury to the woman who held the pen to the pages. She had spent the better part of her life perfecting her ability to blink at a page in pitch-darkness until the words willed themselves into her retinas. That skill had been left to languish once there was no more need to hide from snipers looking to affix their sights on a faraway gleam. Perhaps she didn’t need the lamp, but it was good to have. Though it was too early for Zeina to do any real thinking, a voice in her head chimed an insistence that what was true of her lamp was also true of notebook – and her underwear. Underwear, at least, according to their plastic package of Delicates in her dresser. The chic-sounding brand names printed alongside cheerful pictures of flowers and a model’s hips drew the eyes away from the eight shaded-in droplets in a corner. Zeina needed all eight of those drops for her sheets to be dry in the morning. The Bic came down and checked the box next to Overnight. It checked the box next to Voided Whole Bladder. It put a cross next to Woke Up? In tidy but plain handwriting, it printed 0644 on a dotted line. The point twirled twice in the air before remarking that the previous night had seen the consumption of a two cups of chamomile. At that, the notebook was zipped shut again and placed back into its drawer. Zeina unwrapped herself from the linen sheets and paced across the room to her dresser. It hadn’t been a good morning, she grumbled in her head, as she pulled out a pair of her underwear from the package. Her notebook contained more mentions of these bad mornings than was comfortable. It must’ve been the tea. I must not drink any tonight. Sitting on the toilet, Zeina had her first good look at the underwear she’d awoken in. Its black cloth exterior could belie her secret, but once she had the garment pulled to her ankles, the urine-soaked padding was plain to see. The pale yellow stain covered the length of her underwear’s quilted absorbent core. But – chimed the voice again – it’s only just a bit of protection: and indeed, Zeina could hardly notice that her fresh pair of underwear held a sliver of dry padding at her crotch. She gave just a seconds’ glance to the evidence of her bedwetting before balling up the used garment and throwing it, along with any lingering indignation, into the garbage. When Zeina met the notebook again, nearly an hour later, she was dressed in a suit and skirt and had put her hair up into a tight bun. A rather cheap leather handbag was in the crook of her arm – it would’ve been a rucksack if not for the dress code. The bag had only three compartments – one for her folder and legal pad, one for her makeup and wallet, and the third, zippered pocket for three neatly rolled pairs of her underwear, tucked carefully into a corner. They were normally further concealed by the notebook in Zeina’s hand. She reached for a ballpoint on the table and clicked it open, and held it between her fingers as she flipped to the page she had written upon earlier. After two seconds’ contemplation, she decided to check the box next to Light Leakage, and scrawled choked on my drink onto the dotted line. It was an accurate answer, she reasoned – the brief spurt was noticeable, but her padding had done its work and absorbed any uncomfortable wetness. Heavy traffic, as usual, marred Zeina’s drive to work. To escape the cacophony of honking, she flipped through the radio, searching in vain for a gem in the sea of pop sludge and lifeless newsreaders. Eventually she gave up and spun down the volume knob. Her idle hand tapped a staccato on the dashboard. With nothing to think about, Zeina’s mind drifted towards noticing the slight twinges fomenting at her bladder. It was the coffee. Dr. Weiss had instructed her, along with keeping a “continence notebook”, to avoid drinking a morning cup of java. “It’s in irritant”, Zeina recalled her saying. “Try and slowly cut down over time”. That was the one piece of advice that had gone completely unheeded. Her bladder be damned, Zeina knew no other way to get up and going in the morning. But now she was regretting not kicking her habit of twenty years. The cars were moving at a snails’ pace today – maybe there was an accident? She grimaced at having conjured that word. Her bladder wasn’t desperately full yet, but she could feel it swell up by the second. For once, Zeina hated that the padding between her legs felt so thin and light. If worst came to worst, she hoped the eight drops on the packaging would be enough. By the time she maneuvered her Buick into the enormous parking lot, Zeina was actively fighting off the urge to cross her legs together. She was late – not late enough for a reprimand, but late enough that the only spots left were ten minutes from the front door. As she slammed the door on her crooked parking job, she suddenly felt her bowels working on her morning oatmeal and coffee. Her shiver loosened a few drops of pee. Zeina grit her teeth. Miraculously, she managed to keep her padding mostly dry for the entire journey to the office. She was even at the doorstep, when everything unraveled. Her whole body was assailed with a freezing blast of air-conditioning just as the brief strain of swinging open the heavy door reached her bladder. Zeina’s plunge into the cold office was suddenly complemented by a spreading warmth at her crotch, followed immediately by one at her cheeks. The receptionist chirped a cheerful “Hello, General Masri!”. It took all Zeina’s composure to give a slight wave back while hiding that she was wetting herself. But her bowels’ spasm almost made her gasp – Zeina stopped dead in her tracks as she clamped down on herself, stopping the mess at almost the last moment. Her eyes shot up to the receptionist, who gave her a quizzical look. But she was probably none the wiser. The notebook found itself open in a usual place: the ladies’ room. By then, Zeina had already stripped out of her wet padding and voided her bowels – mercifully – into the toilet. As quietly as possible, she clicked open her ballpoint, and put the ink to paper. Voided Whole Bladder. She paused, thinking of what to write, and settled on the nondescript stuck in traffic. It had been two weeks since she had been given the journal, and still there was nothing less enjoyable for Zeina than recounting her accidents in humiliating detail. This time shouldn’t count, she thought to herself. It could’ve been anybody. If there was one saving grace in this disaster, it was that the padding had let not one drop of wetness leak onto Zeina’s pantyhose. Bravo, Delicates. But now she had only two pairs left for the day, when usually she wouldn’t have to change until lunchtime. Zeina emerged from the washroom carrying all her usual pomp and grace, made slightly difficult by the uncomfortable padding between her thighs. Her rarely-worn black panties were an improvement over her Delicates, but the thick pad stuck inside was not. In the rare occasions that she put one on, she had to wonder each time how she survived five years in service wearing the thick, cumbersome, yet strangely ineffective pads. They beat wet pants, but that was about it. Just good enough for now. No sooner had she finished that thought when Samantha showed up to her desk with a binder in hand. “General Masri, sorry to tell you, your oh-thirteen-hundred has been rescheduled to fifteen minutes from now.” “Why?” “General Masri, it’s because General Cooper is a no-show.” “That asshole can fuck right off”. She should’ve seen it coming. Cooper was always being pulled away to one of his Top-Secret Briefings. They never invited her, of course, all because Cooper was young and blonde and had a senator as a first cousin. “General Masri, I’m very sorry, ma’am, but they must know if you’ll attend”. Zeina rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah”. Samantha skipped off without a murmur. The general turned towards her desk and swept up the thick blue binder. As she was stuffing it into her bag, it suddenly occurred to her that she would have to change back into the underwear that had been saved for this very meeting. Today just keeps getting better. At least the still-dry pad could go back into her handbag. “General Masri, I am truly sorry to have made my scheduling request at such an outrageous hour.” “No bother at all, Miss Lavoie. Let’s get on with it”. Fuck off. She was already unimpressed with the sullen beanpole from the Medical Corps. Women like her could talk and talk – up until they were asked a question. “Yes, yes. Now—I’ve been honored to work with our best and bravest soldiers for fifteen years. Over that time, we’ve made so many improvements to our troops’ survivability. We are always making sure that they have what it takes to fight well and come home to tell the tale. And on this mission, there’s nothing that can be overlooked.” You’re reading from a script, aren’t you. Corporal Jeannine Lavoie flipped a page on her easel pad to one plastered with photographs of piss jugs and bog rolls. Zeina almost laughed out loud. “On the front lines, it’s hard to find a bathroom. Now, we have supplied our soldiers with waste collection supplies, but -” She flipped a page again, this time to one with multicolored graphs. “-but there are actually other concerns on this subject of bodily functions. In nineteen-seventy six, Doctor Johannes Berger, working with the Medical Corps, conducted a questionnaire at Fort McKinsey, with criteria being…” The jargon started. I wonder if she talks this way to her husband. “...thus, the incidence rate of partial incontinence under duress for female soldiers is unacceptably high. Thus, we advise the undertaking of practical solutions to redress this shortcoming”. Zeina’s ears perked up at mention of the phrase that her own doctor had mentioned. Jeannine continued, unaware that her words were only now registering with her audience. “The tender has been offered to three contractors and they have provided samples for their solutions. And – oh yes – the Medical Corps has performed a thorough audit on all the possible solutions that were offered to us, and we have seen that what we have selected was judged to be the best solution in minimizing costs. And the supply is scalable, we can get these on the ground in a few days’ time, if we want. “Mhm.” Zeina wasn’t sure where this was going but already knew that she didn’t like it. “The solution was to make small adjustments to soldiers’ standard-issue equipment. In particular-”. She rummaged around a grey plastic box and produced an olive green toiletries bag. “-we’ve found it prudent to issue a range of undergarments for use in combat”. That was Jeannine’s cue to unzip the bag for the great reveal. Zeina leaned back in her chair and immediately caught a glance of beige fabric. The creases in the elastic immediately caught her eye. Hang on. That’s- “Our preferred partner is Associated Paper. We have contracts with them already for many personal hygiene products. They have provided this sample of a pair of disposable underwear. They claim that the absorbent core can provide six hours’ protection in even the most intense-” “Miss Corporal”. Jeannine stopped. She had expected pushback. “I am running an army, not a retirement home”. In truth, Zeina’s consternation was not at the notion of informing her soldiers that they would have to wear diapers. Rather, the beige pull-up in Jeannine’s hands was all too personally familiar. At one point, she’d bought many a pack for herself. Associated Paper’s slick talk be damned – the underwear’s poor masquerade for a pair of panties had, on several occasions, given Zeina the mortification of feeling a hot trickle down her legs. Conjuring those very memories made Zeina’s cheeks tinge. She deepened her scowl to keep Jeannine from noticing. “General Masri, I’d like to say that I, myself, opted in favor of alternative solutions. But – we have to consider that the cost-” “Nobody asked for your ‘solutions’! Nobody needs your ‘solutions’! You go back, and you tell the eggheads that they’ll all be fired by Wednesday.” In the heat of the moment, Zeina almost forgot to keep her voice below what the hardly-soundproofed walls would conceal. She leaned back in her chair and took a swig from her glass – her umpteenth in this meeting. “General Masri, please, we have undergone an- an extensive review, we’ve talked to many – I’d like to say – thousands, of soldiers, we’ve spoken to doctors, there’s a large body of research, so, let me assure you, we did not make this recommendation lightly. I understand-” Spoken to Doctors? Who the hell did Isobel Weiss squeal to? A wave of anger hit Zeina as she suddenly realized Jeannine’s statistic might’ve included her. “What the hell do you know, Corporal? Did you ever do anything but push pencils? Moria stiffened. “General Masri, as a matter of fact-” “Oh! And you pissed yourself when the bullets started flying?” Zeina stabbed a finger Jeannine’s way and put on a devilish grin. “That – that is inappropriate, General Masri!” “My apologies, Corporal”. Zeina smirked at Jeannine’s discombobulation. “I think you had two more examples to show me?” “Er- uhm- yes, I do. Um… Gernsbach Group provided….” The next two pull-ups were clinical white designs that would’ve made a perfect complement to a hospital dressing gown. God, I wouldn’t be caught dead in that. Nevertheless, Jeannine could scrounge up hours of drivel about the bureaucracy's asinine selection processes. Zeina didn’t heckle again, in part because she needed the meeting to be over with quickly. The glasses of cold water were rapidly catching up to her bladder. Jeannine’s droning speech would not let her off the hook. Zeina shifted in her seat, slowly and imperceptibly, while keeping her chest ramrod straight. Asking for a bathroom break was out of the question. Damn you, shut up! She reached for her glass, trying to take her mind off her bladder, with the intention of taking a sip small enough to just wet her tongue. But just as soon as the cold water touched her lips, Zeina’s brain crossed its wires and a spurt of urine escaped into her padding. It was just a few drops, but Zeina could feel every bit of the hot wetness. The speech went on. Zeina had a second, and more sustained, leak when she bent down to retrieve a pen that had been accidentally swiped onto the ground. For a moment, she had felt as though her bladder would give up again, but she had managed to keep it together and hid her discomposure with her face under the table. The leak rid Zeina of some of the pressure, and her self-dehydration kept the desperation from mounting much further. “…and therefore, the Quartermaster Corps has moved to begin issuance of the new items to selected units. We have prepared informational material, and we wish to supplement it with the testimony of senior officers. My superiors have requested that I inform you, General Masri, of your requested participation in this program”. “Participation”. “Yes, General Masri. We believe that, given your exemplary combat record, you may be of help in acclimating our soldiers to the new equipment.” Jeannine opened her mouth, but quickly shut it again and pointed an open expression towards Zeina. “Corporal”. Jeannine put her hands on her desk and pushed herself up from her seat. The sudden motion sent a ferocious throb through her bladder. It was just as Zeina opened her mouth when her floodgates released. “I assure you, that not one of my soldiers needs diapers”. Every ounce of her composure went into the sentence, laced with venom and passion. Immediately after finishing, Zeina channeled all that strength into her abdomen, towards staunching the hot flow of urine pouring into her Delicates. The seconds stretched into lifetimes. “General Masri, I am sorry, but the decision is not mine, and I do not have the rank to overrule it”. It was Jeannine’s turn to be smug. How much more she would’ve gloated, had she known that the unfortunate general talking down to her had almost totally wet herself just from standing up. Zeina’s Delicates had spared her the embarrassment. But her underwear was now uncomfortably damp and heavy with her pee. With a curt few formalities, she sent Corporal Jeannine Lavoie on her way. She left the room half a minute later, and made her way towards the ladies’ room, where she could check light leak, light leak, heavy leak onto her notebook and strip out of the concealed beneath her skirt. Having a sip of water, bending down for a pen, standing up quickly. Zeina zipped the leather-bound book slowly as to not impart any noise. With the hope that no more surprise meetings would befall her, she left for lunch wearing her black panties and pad. 000.0 ml. With a careful and steady hand, doctor Isobel Weiss tipped the beaker, just fast enough that no blue liquid would run down its side, yet gentle enough to leave no splash when the delicate stream struck the fabric. She averted her eyes to the LCD. The numbers were springing to life. The second digit was climbing with a good pace. The last digit was flying with unreadable speed. Turning back to the beaker, she flicked her wrist around, shifting the stream ever so slightly as to evenly saturate the testing medium. She adjusted her wrist's angle as the beaker ran dry, and turned back to the LCD. The numbers flickered for a second and came to rest. 247.3 ml. Perfect. Isobel Weiss reached over to the testing medium and pulled out the three wires embedded in its underside. With the skill of a seamstress, she coiled up the wires around the half-dollar sized device to which they were attached. The finishing touch was placing plastic caps on the three probes, and placing the whole contraption into an anti-static bag. It went into an envelope had been prepared a week in advance, containing a manifest and memorandum marked with the Medical Corps’s seal. Nominally, her involvement was done. But, the doctor grumbled as she lit a cigarette, I just know they’ll have more work for me yet. In her countless years of service, General Zeina Masri had never set foot in Forward Operating Base Cherokee. Nevertheless, the Corps of Engineers’ total lack of creativity meant that she felt at home within an hour of stepping off the plane. She’d spent more than half her life enveloped within drab tan walls that must’ve been all been made on the same production line. The food was as inedible as it had always been, and the air-conditioning remained far too weak for anything but a t-shirt. Still, some things had changed. There was not one officer whose presence demanded a salute. On the contrary, every soldier she ran into promptly greeted her with a sharp salute and quick greeting. Zeina didn’t mind that at all, but took a lot less delight in it than Cooper surely would have. Best of all was that she had her own bedroom. For once, she didn’t have to listen to the snores from three beds over. Moreover, she had a bathroom where she could change at her leisure. This time around, there was no need to carry around a handful of pads plundered from the infirmary. Zeina began August sixteenth by dialing in the combination to her bedside cabinet and plucking out the notebook from within. With the dawn’s breaking light as her only guide, she flipped to the first unmarked page and clicked out her pen. She almost grinned as she checked off light leak and wrote down on the way to the toilet. Countless daily cups of coffee and the occasional beer had her waking up to a wet pair of Delicates most mornings. But the past three nights, she had managed to empty most of her pee into where it should’ve gone all along. If I keep this, up, I won’t need this anymore. The notebook was zipped shut and tossed into the locked cabinet. Halfway across the base, the rotors on the Sikorsky wound down and ground to a halt. As its pilot flicked switches and muttered jargon into her headset, Isobel Weiss straightened her back and rubbed the bleariness of half-sleep from her eyes. She was completely exhausted. Never could she have imagined that helicopter blades would be so loud. Oh boy, what a day it’s been. Oh boy, what a day it’s going to be. Despite the assurances of FOB Cherokee needing only “minimal assistance”, Doctor Weiss already had already packed her first day on base to the brim with meetings and consultations. She undid her belt with and jumped with some pep to the back of the helicopter, where two stony-faced men were hauling the olive-green containers from the hold. “That goes in-” Isobel consulted her map “-E4”. “Yeah, we know”. “There’s another box at the very back”. She stood on her toes to point out the crate that was shrouded by two canvas bags. “Yeah, we know”. Neither man looked up. Isobel decided to not offer any more conversation on the walk to the medical bay. Her mind was already on her appointments, one of which was a name she was already familiar with. “General Masri, ma’am! Doctor Stephens asks for your availability at 1500!” From the corner of her eye, Zeina could make out the man in the doorway holding a stiff salute. “At ease. 1500 is fine. Where does he want me?”. “General Masri, in E4, ma’am!” The man had lowered his salute but was still standing as stiff as a board in the doorway. “OK. At ease, soldier”. “Yes, ma’am!”, belted the young man, with no sign of ease. He turned quickly on his heel and walked curtly off into the hall, closing the door behind him. Zeina turned back to the heavy brass pen and manila paper upon which her report was written. The inspection, as her trip was nominally designated, had gone without a hitch to this point. There was little to say, but the Pentagon insisted that General Masri fill the pages and skip no detail in the process. So once again, she dove headlong into her work until she was once again totally enraptured by the military minutia being put to paper. That was perhaps Zeina Masri’s greatest talent: she could dedicate all her faculties to any task set before her at just a moment’s notice. But it didn’t come without cost. So engrossed had she been in her work, that the soldier’s sudden request had startled a quick stream of urine from her bladder. At the same time, her focus in conjunction with her Delicates’ quick absorption meant that the leak had gone totally unnoticed. This time, Zeina’s notebook was untouched. The time was 1457 on the clock when E4’s door swung open and the general, clad in just a standard-issue short-sleeved shirt and fatigues, sauntered into the antiseptic-smelling medical bay. Clarence Stephens was just about finished cramming his papers into his briefcase, but quickly dropped his prescription sheets and broke into a salute. “General Masri!” “At ease, Doctor Stephens. You asked to see me?” Clarence relaxed his body. “No, not me today. Her”. He jabbed a thumb to behind the light-blue drape. “She’ll be seeing you. Just flew in from the states. Doctor… doctor… uhm….” “I’ll be right with you!” Isobel Weiss knew that to be the voice of general Zeina Masri. She finished straightening the medicine shelf, and pulled open the curtain, just in time to catch the right boot of Clarence Stephens fall out of sight into the hallway. “Afternoon, General Masri”. She did not salute. “Doctor Weiss!” Clearly, nobody had told Zeina Masri who her doctor would be. “I will be performing your examination today, General Masri. And-before you ask, I was asked to assist in the deployment of a new piece of equipment that is currently beginning trials”. You too? “I hope you didn’t make that recommendation.” “General Masri, I’m sorry to say that nobody asked for my opinion at all. Anyways, it isn’t within my area of expertise. Now, could you open your mouth?” Zeina opened her mouth for Isobel’s flashlight. “Yes, everything looks good today. As usual. Anyways, as for our new equipment…” Anglea ducked down to her stainless steel drawers. Zeina rolled her eyes. “Doctor, I know all about our new equipment. You don’t have to show me again.” “Perfect! So you know how to put one on, then?” “Doctor Weiss, you know that-” Zeina’s protest of I’m wearing one already was cut short when she saw the tiny plastic bag in Isobel’s palm. “What’s that?” “Uhm- it’s the monitor, the new equipment.” “I haven’t heard of it.” “Oh, uhm, hmmm…yes, are you still keeping the continence notebook which I prescribed?” Zeina knit her brows. “Sure. Do you want it?” “No, that won’t be necessary. See, this—this is a little computer, this is, and it works—it works just like a journal. It works with the absorbent garments that have been issued. Excuse me, that will be issued. So, these three probes, after you take off these plastic caps, will go into your underwear, and you can seal it with this tape. Oh, uhm, use this other tape to attach the monitor to your waist. And-” “And you’re asking me to wear one?” What the hell, why’d they suddenly care about our bathroom habits? “Well, yes.” “Why?” “Well, please bear with me – the equipment is being tested for use, but, ah, the subject must be able to – make use of the device, and your medical record indicated…” Zeina said nothing but averted her eyes. Isobel decided that she had said quite enough. “But – I understand that you won’t be issued the standard issue – erm – absorbent garment, correct?” “I wear – absorbent underwear. Is that fine?” “Hmmm… yes, that should be fine. But – to be sure, could you try one on? All you have to do is press the probe into the-” “I heard you the first time. Could you look away?” “Yes, yes, of course”. Isobel pulled the curtain aside and drew it closed behind her. Zeina was alone to examine Doctor Weiss’s device. The three probes were adhesive patches with a pins on a latch. A brief fiddle with the mechanism told Zeina that the application was best done while she wasn’t wearing her underwear. With a second’s pause to make sure Doctor Weiss wouldn’t pop in, Zeina undid her belt and pulled the olive-green fatigues down to her legs, along with her panties. A cold, air conditioned blast whipped up her thighs and her nether regions. It was the sensation of the moment just before she relieved herself over a toilet. Zeina realized that fact by the wave in her bladder building almost instantly and crashing over just as fast. Reflexively, she squeezed her abs with all her strength, but despite her best efforts, a brief squirt of pee escaped from her crotch and fell, in full view, into the padding between Zeina’s ankles. The sight made her face burn a crimson red. She fumbled with the miniature pins with her arms draped awkwardly at her ankles. Her fingers, skipping over both sides of the Delicates’ padding, found that the Stay-Dry layer had worked as advertised in wicking away the moisture, but the yellow stain on the white fabric revealed the truth. Zeina hated to spend so long staring at the evidence of multiple accidents, but there was no way she could work the pins in otherwise. Even then, she still couldn’t get the pins to slot into the thickly-woven waterproof layer. In frustration, she stripped out of her panties completely and tried to work the pins in with the panties in her lap, still to no avail. Doctor, I need help. Zeina was about to open to mouth when the stained padding caught her eye again. She suddenly realized that she’d almost handed to Isobel Weiss a pair of underwear that was wet with her own urine. For the second time in a minute, she blushed to her neck. “Doctor, I’d like to leave for a change”. “Oh – OK. The bathroom is-” But by then, Zeina was already shut the door. It was no doubt a strange twist of fate that had Isobel Weiss requited with the notebook seven thousand miles from home, in the middle of a warzone. There it sat on her desk, looking just like the day she had tore open its plastic wrap and handed it over to Zeina Masri, sitting on a bed in Ramstein. There was no indication that a finger had been laid on it since. General Zeina Masri takes good care of her things. Or maybe she just doesn’t listen to me. Isobel was delighted to find that it was the former: leafing through the pages revealed a good two-thirds to be marked with wonderfully legible handwriting. It was always nice when patients made the job easier. She turned to the heavy manila sheets that had come out of the hanging folder marked Masri, and with her free hand, held open the vinyl notebook that the general had dropped on her desk. It took only a few minutes’ time to parse through the months’ worth of records, all of which were written with the same laconic brevity. At any rate, it was more than enough for Isobel to furnish her report. Diagnosis: Incontinence. Severity: Moderate. Symptoms: Loss of urine in physical stressors, overactive bladder. Managed with pads? Yes. Mental/Emotional effect: That question always gave Isobel pause. It seemed that from the first time Zeina Masri had strolled into her office and admitted that she wore a pad every day of the month, to the appointment just two days ago, the general had never once let the issue get beneath her skin. It seemed almost just another order of business for her: Isobel had long given up her canned reassurances, because Zeina hadn’t ever shown the slightest hint of embarrassment or dejection. Not in her office, at least. Mental/Emotional effect: None. Zeina Masri was the only patient for which that were true. Isobel Weiss laid down her pen and reached for her softpack of Virginia Slims. As she fumbled with the white ladies, a flicker of the computer screen caught her eye. She flicked the beige mouse twice to brighten the dimmed monochromatic screen. An extra line had appeared below Online. 1616 0816: 043.1 ml detected. Isobel suddenly realized that for all her careful planning, she had totally neglected to think about what to do in now. Her hand flinched to reach out for the notebook, but was quickly drawn back and directed towards the cigarettes. I’ll think about it after my break. “Careful with that, it’s hot!” The passing soldier’s warning came just a moment too late for Zeina, who had already tilted half a mouthful of coffee machine java into her mouth. Her eyes shot open as she realized the usually-lukewarm drink had been made scalding hot. She threw her head forward to keep the burning liquid from her throat, and braced her arms against the table as the hot coffee rushed to her tongue and gums. As she retrained a choke while contending with the searing drink at her lips, a ripple of the initial shock reached her bladder, and Zeina was suddenly aware that a substantial stream of seemingly lukewarm pee was escaping into her underwear. The hot coffee forgotten, she pulled all her attention down towards staunching the steady stream, and managed to do so before an uncomfortable wetness could collect in the padding. Her coffee cool enough to swallow, Zeina could open her mouth to whisper a curse as she stood up with the paper cup in hand. Shoving open the mess hall’s heavy door immediately imparted the sound of close footsteps. A half-step forward brought her almost face-to-face with the blonde wearing a stethoscope. The smaller woman gave a little jump of surprise. “Sorry, Doctor Weiss” “Oh! General Masri!” She’d quickly shuffled the cigarette pack into her left hand before flashing a latex-gloved salute. “At ease”, muttered Zeina, without looking back at the doctor. She’d made it halfway down the hall to her private room and bathroom before realizing that her notebook would not be waiting for her there. Doctor Weiss… said that she’d do the recording. Doctor Weiss. She’d just run into her. Did – she know already? Zeina found herself suddenly flushed at the notion. Her attention turned towards the Delicates, whose padding felt reassuringly light and dry. It… wasn’t much of a leak. Constant trips to secluded bathroom stalls had been struck off Zeina’s agenda, but she didn’t prefer this arrangement at all. At sunrise, FOB Cherokee had the most beautiful air in the world. The richest of men back home could never hope to taste something so untarnished by humanity. Each time Zeina drew in a quick breath, she could swear by feeling her lungs savoring each molecule of delectably pure oxygen, without ever choking on a smear of pollution or pollen. The strength coursed through her body. Even at thirty-nine, she still had it all. In a forever heart-pounding, white-knuckle life, these early morning runs were the times when Zeina Masri found the most perfect solitude. She had missed this most of all. Few soldiers had awoken and none had joined her, yet by now any insurgents’ chance for a strike had been dashed by the sleepily rising sun. Only now, and only here, was Zeina’s mind truly unburdened. But her mind did not sleep. After it had studied every tree and every rock on the distant mountains, it turned towards every crevasse of her body. The loose t-shirt made of cheap cotton scuffed her stomach. The stiff bra chafed her back. The baggy shorts flapped errantly against her thighs. The heavy boots dragged in the sand. Of her Zeina’s wardrobe, the only comfortable item were the Delicates she had brought from home. They were her second pair today. To the annoyance of a little voice in her head, Zeina’s mind had floated to the few memories it made since it was last awoken. One of the first things it had noted was an empty bladder and the cool dampness of soaked padding. The streak of light leaks had been tarnished three days ago, and Zeina had woken in a pair of wet Delicates every morning since. Or was it two days ago? Her memory had grown fuzzy since her notebook was taken away. Zeina’s thoughts moved to a half-hearted attempt at recalling what she would’ve written down, and eventually drifted to dwellings about the young soldiers she was getting to know. But all throughout her run, her mind had never paid an ounce of attention to her bladder. Despite many drinks from a collapsible water bottle, it was completely empty – but only because almost every footfall’s impact loosened the few drops of pee that had the chance to collect. By the time Zeina sauntered through a security checkpoint, her underwear was nearly as soaked as the pair she had awoken in. They felt no more damp than the rest of her outfit, bathed by now in a cool sweat, but the weight of the sodden padding made it clear to Zeina that her Delicates would soon have to be changed. Regardless, the run had filled her with a childlike mirth. As the base sprung to life all around her, her inner peace was melting away, and the usual furious tempo was muscling its way in. In the last moments that she could call her own, Zeina was thankful for every second and every detail of her morning runs – thankful, even, for the fact that her mind had ignored the accidents leading up to her soaked Delicates. In that moment, the nagging voice postulating that the same ignorance might have occurred outside of morning runs had been completely drowned out. Isobel Weiss woke up hardly ten minutes later than Zeina Masri, but her day would begin with none of the general’s speed. It was only after she had a relaxing shower, breakfast, and cup of Darjeeling that she placed herself in front of her desk and sorted through the work she would have to do. By the time she groggily fired up her computer, the sun had already fully crested the faraway mountains. She flipped through an inbox full of unimportant messages before scrolling through a quick check of her ongoing experiment’s digital logs. The notebook led her to expect one or two entries, made in the middle of the night, with a considerable volume logged next to ml detected. What she found instead was a cascade of entries, all made just seconds apart from each other, all of which had recorded just drops of leakage. In her still-groggy state, Isobel immediately concluded that something was very amiss. She strolled down to the general’s room and rapped sharply on the door. It took a few seconds, and the closing of a door inside the room, before the door opened to reveal general Zeina Masri with a towel draped around her neck. “What’s the big – oh, Doctor Weiss”. “Good morning, General Masri. I was – ahem – wondering… well… I think I’d better discuss this in E-4”. “You wanna come inside?” Isobel nodded and obliged. Zeina shut the door behind them. “Well…” Isobel lowered her voice, despite the closed door. “Have you been wearing the device?” “Yeah.” Hmmm. “Well… uhm… did you happen to wash it?” “No. Should I?” “No, no, in fact, please don’t. But… well… can you tell me when you… uhm… used it?” Zeina knitted her brow. “I – uh – voided overnight.” “Twice? Or – did you… uhm.. void in the morning? Em – I mean, into your underwear?” The possibility that the device had broken was beginning to mount. “I went on a run in the morning.” Of course! Isobel almost kicked herself for forgetting those journal entries. Light leaks, with the s penned in, and the comment describing some variation of running. It was only natural that… “Oh! You leak urine while running!” She blurted out the line with the jubilation of a quiz-show contestant. As soon as the garbled sentence escaped her mouth, she cringed from the deepest part of her soul. The humiliation welled inside and painted her cheeks a bright red. Isobel’s quick stammer of “I’m so sorry!” was masked by Zeina’s indifferent “yeah”. She mustered the courage to look at the general’s face and found nothing more than a knitted brow. In that instant, she decided to cut her losses. “I – I got it. Thank you so much for bearing with me, I’m just – getting used to the new device, too!” Her face reddened at saying those words, and she left Zeina’s quarters blushing like an apple. A deep gratitude towards the general’s saintlike patience welled inside her chest. Who the hell does she take me for? With Doctor Weiss out of the room, Zeina could snarl and grit her teeth in annoyance. Does she think that I’m a baby? But, though it made Zeina all the more irritated, the irate sarcasm was somewhat muted by the cold and wet padding that was still at her crotch. She had just pulled down her Delicates and seen the urine-stained padding when the knock came and she had to hastily pull the soaked underwear back on. Wearing them over a discussion about how she’d thoroughly wet herself was nothing short of mortifying. But – at least Doctor Weiss hadn’t noticed. And – it could’ve been worse. Zeina shuddered at the possibility of a lieutenant calling her to action stations. The fresh pair of Delicates that she was about to change into still rested on the bathroom counter. As she reached to pick it up, a flash of irritation appeared in the back of her nostrils. Zeina stiffened up, clean Delicates in hand, and loosened a heavy sneeze. In that instant, Isobel Weiss’s computer flashed to life, and recorded 021.1 ml detected. The same event had no register in Zeina Masri’s mind. Every so often, a fleet of tan-colored trucks would be brought out of their corrugated iron pens and were neatly lined up on FOB Cherokee’s concrete staging grounds. It was always a time of cheer for a smattering of soldiers, and a time of grumbling for their less savvy compatriots who had already expended all their available leave. A sergeant stood with a list and carefully inspected each man jumping onto the benches in the canvas-covered truck beds. To date, no soldiers had gone AWOL with the convoys into The Oasis. Today, the profanity-laden epithets coming from the stocky sergeant were of great mirth to the lucky passengers, most of which who knew that Sergeant Grissom had no leave to spend. The news had even reached Zeina’s ears, despite herself being six ranks clear of the next most decorated man going to town. She would be denied the joy of hearing the disgruntled man’s insults, for as soon as she fell into Chuck Grissom’s view, the stocky man broke into a stoic salute and courteously showed her the light armored car where she would sit. Joining her in the air-conditioned cabin was a young girl of no more than twenty, who held only a blank stare on her face – Aya, the base’s local interpreter. The gates of FOB Cherokee had not even fallen out of view when the trucks broke into songs that even the drill instructors had deemed too profane. The loud and jubilant voices of thirty men in each truck were loud enough to drown out the big diesel engines’ roar, and entered the noisy cabin of Zeina’s car. She smiled a bit as the chants about hookers and the insurgents’ mothers and the Navy echoed across the desert. There were even verses that she hadn’t yet heard in her five years at FOB Alpha. Her days of being in that number were probably finished, but just knowing that the soldiers of her time had passed their musical legacies along to the next generation filled her with joy. It was around this time that interpreters would become noticeably irritated with the epithets hurled at the locals, but Zeina could discern not an inkling of discomfort across Aya’s blank face. Completely fine by her, since she never had any inclination to chat with the interpreters. Her mind joined the soldiers’ songs in sync with their voices, dreamily recalling the years long gone before she would be granted a jumpseat and a personal driver and a canteen of ice-cold water chilled by the portable air-conditioning unit. As the convoy trudged along, however, Zeina found her greatest luxury to be the privacy of the light truck’s cabin. Too many refreshing drinks had given her a fresh need for a restroom, and clearly there would be none available until the convoy reached town – Zeina had no idea when that would be. The twinge from her belly was enough reminder for her to stop touching the canteen, and she prayed that holding off on the water until The Oasis would be enough to stave off an accident. She fidgeted a bit in her seat, trying not to arouse Aya’s suspicion. Each rock on the unpaved road’s surface sent a jolt through the cabin and rapped hard against her bladder. There was still nothing ahead on the road except miles and miles of desert, surrounded by brown shrubbery and draped by mountains behind dust clouds. Zeina took a deep breath, trying to ignore her ever-mounting desperation, and inhaled more grains of desert sand than her sinuses cared for. Zeina bladder gave in as soon as the irritation flared in her nose, but the heavy sneeze that followed would transform the weak dribble of urine into a heavy spurt that even her Delicates struggled to absorb. If not for her bladder only being half-full, Zeina would have completely wet herself, but she had enough strength in her sphincter to stop the leak while she sniffled. Nevertheless, the hot wetness at her crotch was quite obvious. It was some consolation that Aya’s blank expression had not changed at all. Is this girl even human? Just as she locked eyes with her wordless interpreter, Zeina got her answer when the young girl quickly averted her gaze. I wonder how old she is. Anyways, she had half a mind to take her attention off her bladder with a bit of talk. “Hiya!” Zeina called in a saccharine voice, as though she were talking to a puppy. “Yes, Madame General?” The quiet and steady voice was so deep that Zeina almost thought she’d gotten the interpreter’s sex wrong. But no – Aya was no doubt a girl, if only a baritone one. “Name’s Zeina. You can call me Zeina. You’re Aya?” “Yes, Madame General Zeina, I am Aya Sahin.” Her accent was strong but her English wasn’t slow or slurred. Impressive for a girl her age. “How old are you, Aya?” Zeina dropped the singsong voice. “Fifteen, Madame General Zeina. Impressive for a girl her age! “Hey, you’re so young!” Her next question was where are your parents? but Zeina knew to bite her tongue. A child here would never have a good answer to that. “You like it here? They pay you well?” “Yes, Madame General Zeina, the pay is well. It is more than my home town”. “Your hometown -” dammit, why can’t the town be closer? “- is it the town that we’re going to?” The words had only just left Zeina’s mouth when the truck hit a big rut in the gravel. Despite the truck’s pliable ride, the shock brought Zeina nearly out her seat. It was too much for her to handle – a long stream of hot pee dribbled out into her underwear. Her frantic efforts to control her bladder while keeping her composure blocked out Aya’s voice. “….very, very far away” were the only words that reached Zeina’s ears after she’d stopped her leak. In that time, the atmosphere of the truck had changed. I pried too much. Aya was too young a girl to be very, very far away from her home. What remained of their conversation was dry and forgettable. By now, Zeina had little mind to focus on her interpreter's words, for she was too caught up in her attempts to keep her Delicates dry. On the pothole-ridden desert road, it was quite the losing battle. No more than half a mile separated each episode of Zeina’s incontinence, and by the time The Oasis came into view she was wondering if her soaked padding might leak at an inopportune impact. Mercifully, by then Zeina’s bladder was too empty to leak much more. Though a warm wetness clung against her butt, a quick glance towards her lap revealed her fatigues and canvas seat to be completely dry. As she stood up, the added bulk at her crotch became patently obvious. Though her Delicates had performed admirably, Zeina would need to find a place to change into the pair in her bag, and soon. “Aya…” “Madame General Zeina, do you wish to use a restroom?” “I – hey! Yeah, but -”. What the hell? Zeina knit her brows and inadvertently broke into a piercing glare. “Why did you ask?” “Uh – Madame General Zeina, I would like to … how to say, use a restroom, if that is fine…” Only then did Zeina notice that the little girl was shying away from her terrifying expression. Shoot. “It’s fine, yeah, of course. I need to too.” Her face was burning a scarlet red for having scared her interpreter. Shoot, she’s too young! With Aya out of the car and leading the way, Zeina could see that the girl barely came up to her chest. She scuttled past the crowd of men gleefully disembarking from the tan trucks. “It is this way, Madame General Zeina”. The clay-colored buildings bristled with men slouched over counters and eyeing the strangers with suspicious eyes. Zeina did her best to avoid their hard gazes – it was strange enough already being dragged around by a girl half her age. The alleys seemed to narrow with each footfall. Just as Zeina was starting to wonder if Aya knew where she was going, the girl turned a corner and found a supermarket, automatic doorway and produce stand and all. “Let us go in here”. A few words to a cashier later and Zeina was in a bathroom stall at the back of the market. Though, on the outside, this market could not be further from the supermarkets at home if it were built on Mars, its inside was hardly different from the supermarkets in America. It was dirtier and the signs were unintelligible, but the bathroom’s white fluorescent lighting and tiled linoleum floor weren’t far removed from a lady’s room in a Kroger. Zeina had changed in similar places countless times. But – I could’ve changed earlier at home. Pulling the Delicates to her knees revealed to Zeina just how sodden her padding had become over the course of her car ride. I’m just lucky today. The soaked underwear couldn’t have held another cup of liquid. Had the journey lasted for another minute, Zeina knew she might have emptied herself onto her pants instead of over the toilet. I must watch my water. The fresh pair of Delicates she’d retrieved from her bag inspired confidence, but who knew when the next bathroom break would be? Zeina was ready to toss her used pair into the small trash bin when her hand brushed against the sensor attached to the dampened cloth. Oh – the ‘journal’. She unpinned the device and turned it over in her hand. Do I need to attach it? No doubt, whatever sensor Dr. Weiss was using could not possibly work over the umpteenth miles she had traveled. And anyways, she’d already put on the fresh pair of Delicates, and Aya was surely waiting outside by now. Without a second thought, Zeina pocketed the little sensor, threw away the wet underwear, and went to reconvene with her young interpreter. Aya was waiting furtively just outside the bathroom door. “Hiya, Aya”. “Hello, Madame General Zeina. Do you wish to buy any goods here?” “No, I’d better catch up with everybody else”. It was Zeina’s turn to drag Aya, if only to the door of the market. She was almost at the cashiers’ when she found a loudly humming freezer printed with the fading image of several smiling children. They all had popsicles in their hands. Zeina stopped. “Aya, do you eat ice cream?” She looked down and found the girl shaking her head. “Not many”. Poor thing! “Pick the ice cream that you want. It’s a gift.” For the first time, Zeina saw Aya’s dull eyes light up. “Thank you, Madame General Zeina!” Not even half a lifetime in war could keep Zeina from bursting into a warm smile at that. Ice cream – that was the only diplomacy she knew with children. It worked every time. For the rest of the trip, Aya let a bit of happiness into her voice every time she spoke between bites of her ice-cream cone. Zeina had to keep a happy face in turn, but it only took five minutes before the crushing boredom set in. Apparently command has decided “hearts and minds” would be won through glorified shopping trips to scowling hawkers who were almost surely charging the uniformed soldiers too much money. Aya didn’t mention it, but Zeina knew that all interpreters had express orders not to haggle. The blazing sun soon made Zeina forget all about her commitment to watch her drink. After the fifth purchase of tarps and canned food, she found her canteen empty. Although she kicked herself then, knowing at least some of the water would come right back out of her, two stops later she’d no choice but to refill the canteen and start drinking again. The sweat pouring off her back kept her padding somewhat dry, but the hours of lifting heavy crates found a few spurts escape into her padding anyways. With dampness covering her whole body, Zeina eventually gave up the fruitless task of feeling for if she needed changing. Though she no longer had to keep a notebook, Zeina found herself still subconsciously keeping a record of all her leaks. It took until after lunchtime before she could feel a spurt escape into her Delicates and forget all about it just seconds later. Loading the trucks with crates of pistachios invited many such episodes. She had just felt a few drops escape when a bald colonel approached her sheepishly, with a sweat-covered list in his hand. The man – Atwater – saluted. “General Masri, ma’am! I’d like to offer to load the – uh – pistachios, if you would please help do my job instead!” “This better be good.” She beckoned for the crumpled checklist. Feminine hygiene at women’s apothecary. The word women’s was circled in red ink. What, they don’t let men in? “You couldn’t find anybody else?” “I’m very sorry, ma’am, but I could not!” Atwater was holding a steely-eyed salute with such intensity that his face was turning red. Whatever, makes a nice change of pace. “Start loading, colonel.” “Yes, ma’am!” Atwater turned to the crates with some relief. Aya showed the way, and there was not far to go. It was a hole in the wall with dirty glass and shelves crammed so close together that you had to turn sideways jut to navigate the myriad medicines. Just as Zeina arrived, a bearded old man left the store, clutching a little plastic bag. Atwater, you idiot. The clerk was a young women dressed in the traditional garb. She stood up in attention as soon as she saw the uniformed Zeina enter the doorway. “Good maw-ning!”, she said through a thick accent, despite the fact that noon had just passed. The rest of her conversation was to Aya only. The two unsmiling girls shot off a rapid-fire conversation while the clerk rummaged around the back room for a few big cardboard boxes, held together with a few haphazardly placed strips of masking tape. Zeina laid them before her feet one-by-one, tore off the seals, and checked their contents. She couldn’t read any of the words on the packaging, but the pictures were all to familiar to her. Flowers, soft colors, a smiling woman, and a row of shaded-in droplets. Any pretense of the packages holding the usual products for “feminine hygiene” was dashed by the almost-hidden drawing of what was unmistakably a diaper. Zeina almost snarled. “Feminine hygiene”, huh? That’s your new word for it? But she had to let a cooler head prevail – after all, she couldn’t let the new “policy” slip to the clerk of Aya. “Everything is in order”. She closed and sealed the box. The next box’s packages had replaced the tiny drawing of the diaper with a pad – but it was for same purpose, as told by the six out of ten shaded-in droplets that were colored a light yellow. The general almost chuckled. No bullshit! You’ll never see that in America. Just as she was closing the boxes back up, Zeina was struck with the reminder that she might’ve exhausted all eight droplets of her own padding. She checked her watch – it had been almost four hours since Aya got her ice cream and she’d got a clean Delicates. Almost high time to leave then. Taking care to keep an empty expression, she asked Aya for the bathroom. Strangely, the girl seemed a little worried as she pointed out the dingy wooden door. This bathroom was nothing like the one in Kroger. It stunk and was illuminated only by a skylight. The toilet was flushed with a chain – at least it flushes at all! But any complaints Zeina had about the facilities was suddenly made insignificant by the realization that she didn’t have any more Delicates in her backpack. What the hell!? She shook down the bag and reached into all the crevices that a clean pair of underwear could’ve hidden in, but came back empty-handed each time. Shoot, shoot! There wasn’t even a pad that she could use, and of course no such dispenser in a bathroom like this. “Fuck!” Zeina groaned out loud. She was on the brink of stuffing half a roll of toilet paper down her fatigues when she suddenly remembered the packages she was ready to bring back. It can do! For once in her life, she was almost giddy at the thought of putting on a diaper. In her beeline for the packages, Zeina had almost forgotten about her young interpreter. When the little girl chirped a greeting, the general’s heart almost jumped out her throat in surprise. Mercifully, her just-emptied bladder could spill no more drops of urine. “Madame General Zeina, do we go now?” “Ah – no, not yet”. A little bit of blush had made it onto her face. Suddenly, Aya dropped her voice and her glare. “Madame General, erm… do you need any… help?” Any help? Any help? “N-no, I just, uh… I lost … something in one of the packages”. “Oh! Uh… I see”. Aya said no more. “Madame General, I will… I will go outside now”. “Sure”. Thank goodness. Now she wouldn’t have to explain away the rest. And what could my excuse have been? Zeina made sure the clerk, too, was turned away as she quietly slashed open a package of diapers and slid a pair out with her fingers. Maybe I could’ve said… I’m looking for a secret message? She smiled at her quick thinking. But thank you anyways, Aya. Zeina had grown to quite like the little girl. Good of her to leave me alone. A tinge of red remained on Zeina’s face as she tossed away her Delicates and pulled on the clinically-white pull-up. Shoot, this is the best they could do? Even the cheapest of supermarket diapers was better than this heavily crinkled and strangely bulky garment. The elastic waistband almost went above the waist of her fatigues. The smallest of movements twisted the paper-like padding. The soldiers are gonna get a riot out of these. Still, Zeina Masri had never before been as relieved to put on a pair of underwear. It didn’t take long for the hot day’s worth of drinks to catch up with Zeina. Though she’d emptied her canteen before embarking on the return trip, it only took a few minutes for the twinges in her stomach to tell her that her bladder was filling much faster than she would’ve wanted. The featureless desert, itself obscured by the huge clouds of dust kicked up by the convoy, offered Zeina nothing to take her mind off the mounting pressure. Even the soldiers had stopped singing in cadence, and now only erupted in raucous laughter every few seconds when somebody cracked a crude joke that Zeina couldn’t hear. Aya had fallen asleep in her canvas jumpseat. The little girl, who’d no doubt been thrust headlong into a world of turmoil long before she’d had a chance to grow up, looked to Zeina a perfect image of tranquility. The armored car’s violent shudders and the battalion’s loud jeers did nothing to arouse Aya from her peaceful slumber. Each bump in the road shook her waiflike body despite the jumpseat’s restraints, until her head came to rest upon Zeina’s shoulder. It’s almost like she’s my daughter. It had been years since Zeina’s commanders had last sent her to handle the local children. All of them had eventually realized that she was hardly better at winning their approval than the quick-tempered and foul-mouthed soldiers she led. Maybe I’m getting older – but maybe Aya’s just different. There was something about the stoic interpreter that had deeply resonated with her. Aya’s warm head bouncing lightly on her shoulder seemed to be lulling Zeina to sleep. But years of service had made her too stout and too disciplined to ever catch a wink of rest during the day – despite the day’s labor and what should’ve been lingering jet-lag, she could not feel an ounce of fatigue in her body. She tried relaxing, focusing only on her breathing and letting her eyelids grow heavy, but that only turned her mind to the slight discomfort at her nether regions. The diaper she’d poached added nothing to her comfort. Try as she might by shifting around in her seat, Zeina could not work the scratchy padding into an unobtrusive location. Her vain hope that sleep could slake her overactive bladder was suddenly dashed when a gust of cold air from the temperamental air conditioner rode up her pant legs and grazed her thigh. Zeina’s relaxed body left the sensation to a subconscious memory of the moments before she relieved herself: it took several long seconds for the general to rouse herself from her little slumber and reign in the stream of urine that she was carelessly loosening into her diaper. The episode has sent her sitting upright in consternation, much to the displeasure of Aya, who furrowed her brow and missed a breath but thankfully remained deep in sleep. That much was the only inkling of dignity that could be salvaged by Zeina, who had just discovered that her diaper’s papery padding did little to keep the feeling of wetness away from her skin. Damnnit, they want us to wear these? Even though she knew that her return trip would not take much longer, Zeina couldn’t help but fret over the precarious situation in her fatigues. Her jubilation at having snatched the pull-ups had been totally forgotten and replaced with the prayer that the padding would last the time between now and a change into a pair of Delicates. The frustration was beginning to mount in her chest, part of it at her own carelessness in forgetting to pack an extra pair, but mostly at the brass who’d insisted that all her compatriots be equipped with – these. Isobel – fucking – Weiss! But Zeina caught herself before she could be too enraptured in anger at somebody who’d surely had little to do with the situation. With a sigh of resignation, she leaned forward in her seat and put her hands on her shaking knees, and put all her fortitude towards keeping herself as dry as possible before the trucks returned to the hangers at FOB Cherokee. For once, a careful monitoring of liquid intake and a constant vigilance for keeping her control intact had made Zeina’s bladder unusually cooperative. The effort, however, was wasted on the dismal padding swelling between her thighs. Each time a spurt of urine escaped from her, Zeina was awash with the fresh dread that she would feel a patch of wetness in her seat. When the armored car at long last parked itself at the base’s staging grounds, she was convinced that even walking with her usual gait would send the diaper leaking all over her fatigues. Aya was still asleep, and Zeina had no intent of waking her as she whispered a goodbye and shuffled off towards the base’s reinforced doors, all the while ignoring all eye contact from the soldiers disembarking behind her. Each step of the journey towards her room had Zeina’s thighs squeezing the swollen diaper at her crotch. She could almost feel the beads of urine seeping out the inexplicably paper-like padding each time it happened. Worse still, she still had a pressing need to empty herself, and the feeling of the soaked diaper was only building the stress at her sphincter. The only bit of solace she could take was in the halls being almost deserted at this hour. Almost deserted, until she rounded the final corner and was suddenly greeted by a familiar voice. “General Masri! I have-” “Not right now!” The words tumbled from Zeina’s mouth dripping with an unquenchable malice that had suddenly flared for Isobel Weiss. The anger subsided as fast as it had erupted, to be replaced with an embarrassment that painted the general’s face bright red. But whatever she had to think about Dr. Weiss was shoved aside by the pounding desperation which had seemingly compounded fivefold in five minutes. Her diaper’s perilous state forgotten, Zeina practically sprinted into towards her room. Her hand was on the bathroom’s doorknob when her the dam in her bladder finally broke. Not – here! Zeina leapt towards the toilet and tore open the clasp on her belt, while her other hand rushed to yank her fatigues down to her ankles. Had she been wearing her Delicates, her outstretched fingers would’ve pulled them off as well, but the high elastic wasitband of the diaper was just outside her reach. There was no recourse – Zeina flung herself down onto the toilet with the pull-up still at her crotch, and emptied her bladder into the already soaked padding. It took barely a second for the hot urine to pour past the diaper’s sides and into the toilet bowl below with a loud patter. Zeina was too defeated to make any effort to stop herself from emptying her bladder into the overwhelmed diaper, even after the initial wave of relief subsided the disgust at what she was doing began mounting. It seemed an eternity before she was finally empty. Zeina didn’t even look down as she dejectedly ripped apart the diaper at her waist and threw tit into the trash. She kept her glance far away from her diaper as she wiped the urine from her buttocks and flushed away the urine that had spilled from the padding. As she went to put on a pair of Delicates, she tried her utmost to force the memory from her head. Had it been any other day, perhaps the endeavor would’ve been successful – but today she had the 1600 to attend to. The 1600… about the diapers. As with most meetings Zeina had attended over the years, the 1600 contained not a single soul who wished to be there, and would no doubt conclude with everybody wanting their past hour of life back. Isobel Weiss was the first to speak, dressed in a crisp white dress uniform and speaking in jargon with an air of haughty professionalism, none of which endeared her even a bit to the increasingly incredulous audience. Next was the quartermaster, whose long presentation about the procurement and usage guidelines for the “new equipment” featured only the terminology prescribed by the army. Zeina could watch as the soldiers’ confusion turned into dismay as the true nature of their “new equipment” for “feminine hygiene” settled in. Half an eternity passed before the rotund woman finished her speech, in which time all optimism in the audience’s faces had been utterly erased. If there was any lingering doubt that the Pentagon had decided to issue diapers for the women, Zeina was there to erase it. She gave a few half-hearted lines of praise for the room’s exemplary bravery, followed by an explanation of the blow to national security that was using a piss jug in the field. When she was through with dispensing the bullshit, it was time for her coup de grace. From behind the podium, she procured the folded garment held in a ziploc bag. It was unmistakably a diaper. “I have here-” she unfolded and held up the garment for all the room to glare at “-an example of the new equipment that you will be issued”. Half the room was scowling and the other half was still in shock. It’s going great. “You will only need to wear this on missions. It’s worn as a replacement for your underwear. And – it’ll look and feel just like underwear.” It took all of Zeina’s strength to not burst into bitter laughter upon delivering those three words. The worst was yet to come. “In fact -” Zeina looked down at her pants and unclipped her belt. Not a soul moved in the room. She tugged at her fatigues and gave the grand display straight out of a bad TV commercial. “- I’m wearing one right now”. There it was, for the room to see: General Zeina Masri, with her pants at her knees, clad in a diaper worn over black compression shorts”. Kill. Me. Now. A big bonus had been paid for this very moment. Hope you enjoyed that kickback, you fucking Pentagon scum. Zeina was awash with disgust, but had to put on a stoic and cheery face as she looked towards the audience. It hadn’t prepared her for the absolute contempt with which she was affixed. She’d always hated public speaking, but this was the worst experience yet. Her brain, already pounding with the embarrassment of all this, was suddenly sent into a flurry of nervousness. The hour and half since her last bathroom visit suddenly caught up with her. Standing in front of fifty livid faces, with her pants around her ankles, showing off her diaper to a crowd, Zeina suddenly felt an enormous heaviness rise in her bladder. She was pulling her pants back up when the nervous spurt of pee escaped – into the Delicates that she was wearing underneath the compression shorts. She cracked a grimace to hide her blush. Her Delicates were more than capable of hiding the leak, but Zeina could not remember being so mortified in her life. At least the audience, who were none the wiser about their beloved general’s incontinence, shared in her chagrin. Their glares suddenly became a source of comfort to Zeina. Isobel Weiss would’ve been shot by now. By the time she stiffened herself up to deliver a few stilted closing remarks, Zeina couldn’t feel a drop of wetness at her crotch. The terrible diaper she had just demonstrated crumpled around her legs, but at least she had no use for the padding this time. Fuck, It just had to remind me! The room gave a pained round of applause at her speech’s conclusion and rose from their seats, ready to troop back to their barracks and curse out everybody who’d come up with this hare-brained plan. Even before they left the room, Zeina had already made out the refrain that she must’ve felt great, since nobody forced her to wear diapers. I need a cold shower. She was ready to troop off to her room and pretend this meeting had never occurred when the hand tapped her shoulder. “General Masri?” “… what is it, Isobel?” Zeina gritted her teeth. “I’m… I’m awfully sorry about this, but… may I ask if you can in to my office?” The fear and concern in Dr. Weiss’s voice melted Zeina a bit. “Alright”, she answered with little enthusiasm. Isobel Weiss had too many years’ experience dealing with unruly patients, but nothing could pain her more than angering the always collected and professional General Zeina Masri. She was the type that could only be made angry by an utterly unforgivable mistake. Patients as good as her were rarer than diamonds, and Isobel had no intention of shattering the diamond that was Zeina Masri. Nevertheless, today she could feel the tension in her gut. On the walk to her office, she played with the thought of calling everything off. Oh, I’m so sorry, I forgot I had another meeting! Or maybe, I just needed to check your vaccines are up to date! But she couldn’t work up the courage to pester the General now, just to call her back tomorrow. No, the question had to be broached today, right here and right now. “General Masri…it’s about the…the tracker that I gave you. I couldn’t help but notice a… lapse in the recording… would you, erm, know why that might have happened?” She heaved a sigh of relief when Zeina did not immediately fly into a fit of rage. On the contrary, her expression was as blank and patient as ever. “Oh – yeah, I took it off when I was in town”. She produced the device from her pocket. Isobel was about to cheerfully conclude the appointment when General Masri suddenly furrowed her brow. “Wait – how can you tell?” With a little too much jubilation, Isobel let the truth tumble from her mouth. “Right – it’s a little feature that I added – the tracker can be paired to a receiver, this one, right here – and still collect data. Oh, but, I had forgotten to give it to you, so I gave it to the interpreter girl, what was she called…” “Aya?” The anger with which General Masri spat the name almost made Isobel wet herself in fear. “You gave it to Aya?” “Yes! I mean – I gave it to Aya, yes, but please! General Masri, please understand, I can assure you that Aya knew nothing, I mean, I just told her to take it with her – you see, I thought she would be closest to you…” She gave it to Aya. The little girl who she’d given ice cream to, who was so young and so jaded, who had fallen asleep on her shoulder… Isobel’s words were drowned out by the memories rushing back. “Madame General, do you need any help?” Help with what? With going to the toilet? And the packages in the apothecary… “Isobel Weiss. I will only ask you this once.” The doctor gulped and took a step back. “General Masri, please…” The word had just come off Isobel Weiss’s lips when the ear-piercing siren drowned out the rest of her protest. Suddenly, the entire medical bay was engulfed in the a blinding red light coming from the strobe on the wall. Dr. Weiss’s eyes bulged even bigger and her face became as white as her coat. Take cover! Zeina Masri forgot her squabble in that moment. With the force of pure reflex, she pulled Isobel Weiss down into her arms, and threw her body back with the smaller woman in tow. She barely even felt the impact of their combined weight on the hard linoleum floor, and had not an inkling of the spurt of urine that the landing had worked from her bladder. Isobel’s indiscriminate scream was cut short by an earsplitting explosion which shook Zeina to her bone. Acting on pure adrenaline, she yanked the petrified doctor towards a bed, and pushed her bodily underneath the sparse protection provided by the mattress. Isobel was rendered almost unconscious by fear. Zeina was not so lucky. She could feel every ounce of the terror that she’d thought a figment of her past rise up in her body and spill out her mouth. Five years ago, she would’ve known to hunker down and clench her teeth, but this time she couldn’t help but scream. She’d long ago wet herself in terror, and in her prone position, her Delicates were all too easily overwhelmed by the uncontrolled stream of pee. The hot urine spilled past her soft padding and into her compression shorts, which managed to divert the stream away from the standard-issue diaper that she’d just shown off to her compatriots. Though she was wearing two articles for her incontinence, Zeina’s fatigues were soon blotted with a growing stain of her pee. The second explosion landed. Closer, more powerful, and it shattered the last bit of Zeina’s composure. For the first time in two, almost three years, she emptied her bowels in fear, into a garment that had never been designed for that sort of accident. The brown mush pushed past the useless cloth Delicates and into her compression shorts, again rendering the diaper she wore over it entirely useless. Not that Zeina noticed it, so enraptured was she in total terror. A third explosion rocked the world. She cupped her hand over her ears and screamed again. The fourth explosion was the last one. The alarms kept screaming, and men all around her were shouting, jumping into their trucks and tanks and arming their mortars for a retaliatory strike, but Zeina only noticed that peace, finally, had returned to the world. Isobel awoke with no idea where she was. The sounds of mayhem were crashing all around her, and her head was spinning. She was sideways – lying on her side, on the ground. There was a muted pain in her right shoulder. Something putrid was in the air. She felt a wetness all along the side of her pants. Oh no, I’ve wet myself! With what seemed to be the last of her strength, she moved a hand to her crotch. Dry. No, I haven’t. It suddenly dawned on her – My blood! But a sideways glance found no growing pool of crimson. Instead, it found a familiar face. “General Masri!” It all came rushing back to her. Something – something terrible had happened. Zeina Masri was there when it happened. General Masri had – General Masri had saved her, of course! “General Masri!” She said it again, her voice full of joy, through the tears that were forming at her eyes. She let herself be consoled by Zeina Masri’s stable, fearless voice. For a minute, maybe ten minutes, or a year, Isobel Weiss sobbed at the exhilaration of it all. She was being shaken – Zeina Masri was shaking her – and she finally decided to raise her head from her face. “Doctor Weiss, you’re OK, you’re OK. You’ll probably have see some patients. I – I have to go change.” Isobel propped herself up onto her hands. Her left hand sat in a puddle of something warm. Her blurred vision refocused, just in time to see Zeina Masri walk away with a stain on the back of her fatigues. The putrid smell lingered for just a few moments after the general closed the door. She looked down at her body, finding no pool of blood erupting from a great gash. Her left leg was wet and warm, but her crotch was dry. She examined the puddle – a puddle of yellow liquid. Zeina? Her mind turned away from Zeina the general, Zeina the bulwark, Zeina the sentinel, who had just saved her entire world. It turned towards Zeina the patient, the one who had come in six years ago with a dampened pad in her panties, the one who she’d first supplied with extra pads, then incontinence pads, then diapers, and had eventually went and bought the fancy absorbent panties that were being advertised on TV. Zeina Masri, Diagnosis: Incontinence.
  2. Bonus chapter. Her jet touched down, shot full of holes and bleeding its last drops of fuel, at 1100. At 0130 she had been dragged from bed with hardly a spark of life. At 0215 she had been strapped into a bombers’ jumpseat and coaxed herself to sleep. Not thirty minutes later she was awake again. Over fourteen grueling hours, each one of her attempts at falling into deep sleep was shattered by the utterly deafening mechanical screams of the lumbering plane floundering and struggling in disagreeable air. By the time that sunlight first appeared through the array of windows, she was ready to brutalize the bombers’ moronic designers through the most painful means available, and had gained a newfound appreciation for the poor saps tasked with flying the pigs. She arrived in Virginia with hardly the strength to open her eyes, let alone the will to drag herself across an endless tarmac and up the steps of a rickety bus. The next few days were a blur of tedium, through which she had not spent a moment without being tired, cramped, hungry, or thirsty, all topped with a mind-numbing boredom punctuated only by the bus’s myriad creaks and groans. By the time she had stepped off the diamond-plate steps, she was drenched in sweat from the uncontested desert heat and hadn’t brushed her teeth in days. All that had been forgotten as soon as Major Jo Simmons sat herself behind the jet’s stick and sent it soaring into the California sky. It was a stunner from any angle on the ground, but that beauty paled in comparison to what could be experienced from inside the cockpit. Never had she experienced the raw, unbridled power of the two screaming turbojets, and harnessed so delicately. Even at Mach 1.5, the gleaming white jet still felt just like an extension of her limbs, urging her to push harder against the silver Lockheeds acting as her hapless targets. Their pilots, flying the same plane Jo had left behind in a French hangar, found their flanks utterly dominated by the new Canadian jets. Her radio chatter buzzed with cries of astonishment. The Avro Arrow’s prowess was plain to see for the civilian observers on the ground. Generals in crisp dress uniform chatted with bespectacled engineers beaming with pride at their accomplishment. Inside the tents men in suits were holding hushed conversations over untouched champagne, calculating on napkins the size of the slice they would ask to cut from the Treasury. Men in greasy coveralls milled about in the distance, chewing on their tobacco and heartily laughing at each others’ crude jokes. Hearty food on wooden tables and curvy cans of Coke sat alongside metal lunch pails. The scene was complete – save for, to Dr. Cynthia Bell’s dismay, a bathroom. Oh, just why must they forget these things!? She’d been pouring sweat off her back all morning but her bladder had filled nevertheless. Now she was on a frantic run to prevent herself from making her slacks as wet as her blouse. That gangly young man had kept her tied up in a droning conversation for far too long. Just why couldn’t he knock it off!? Her bladder had almost leaked a few times before she finally fled, and was then forced to bounce around the few unoccupied men asking for the outhouse. She hoped she hadn’t been too obvious with her desperation. Just why hadn’t I asked for it earlier!? The little shack beckoned her in the shimmering distance. It was still seemingly an eternity away, while with each passing second Cynthia felt just drops away from wetting herself right then and there. Running in her long coat was difficult and the heat was overbearing, but all she could think of was clamping down on her bladder between each hurried step. She pleaded for her bladder to hold its liquids now, for just one spurt could make her have an uncontrollable accident. Little did she know that already between every couple steps a few drops of pee were leaking past her control. A pair of cotton panties would have been long soaked by now. Cynthia was not wearing a pair of cotton panties. Her hours in the lab developing FSG’s Disposable Absorbent Containment Garment had found their way into keeping her pants dry every day. The padding she had designed almost instantly wicked away the warm wetness and quickly absorbed it into a light and thin gel core. Nobody, not even herself, would have to know about her little leakage woes. Just as she’d designed, she was be none the wiser to her bladder’s drips. Against all odds, Cynthia made it to the final stretch of her desperate struggle, helped by her bladders’ slight releases of pressure. Had all her clothes not been damp and heavy from sweat she might have noticed the wetness in her padding. But as she triumphantly strode toward the outhouses, in her mind, the underwear was but completely dry. I won’t have to change! She smiled at her improving control. Maybe one day she wouldn’t have to wear the DACT. Despite everything, it was still embarrassing to go around in – in a diaper. All the happiness was wiped from her mind when the tarnished brass doorknob in her hand clicked without turning. Locked!? NO! Her mind screamed silently as her heart sank, down, down, right into her bladder which spasmed in surprise. No! Not now! She gritted her teeth in pain and frustration as a long stream of pee began to pour out of her bladder. No! With all her might, she furiously twisted the useless, horrible doorknob, all the while feeling in horror as the wetness spread along her crotch. With a sudden bang, the latch let go, swinging the door open to reveal an empty outhouse. Cynthia almost gasped in surprise and yanked down her pants, underwear and all, to her knees, while just about throwing herself onto the toilet seat. The stream of pee hit the bowl with a torrential roar. She suddenly realized she’d left the door open. Worse, she’d forgotten to bring a change. Fourteen thousand feet above, where Jo Simmons was still enraptured by her delectable jet’s ballet, the hours of hydration were also getting to her. The spiderweb of belts and harnesses pressing against every surface of her body were not helping her tear her attention away from the call of nature, growing louder by the second. It was high time that she used the folded-up protection provided in her locker. And after thousands of hours in flights just like these and with the same article of protection, Jo had no trouble relieving herself while in the air. As her plane climbed up to the heavens away from the silver jets, the Major casually emptied her bladder into the DACT’s waiting padding. It was only after peeing for a few seconds that the warm wetness began to pool at her crotch, and just a few seconds after she’d finished, the sensation was gone again. Business as usual. She pushed her stick down to begin her dive – and noticed a streak of hot piss sneak onto her inner thigh. Crap! Waited too long. Jo blushed and shot a glance down to inspect her seat, and found nothing on her flightsuit. In the hot cockpit the wetness would dry in a second. Anyways, the DACT wouldn’t see any more use for today with landing coming up fast. She brought her gaze back to her controls and purged the little leak from her mind. Satisfying the congregation of furiously writing scientists behind clipboards was never Jo’s idea of a fun time, even when the eggheads had made a machine as magnificent as the Arrow. She made little effort to hide her impatience with the brainiacs’ thousands of stupid questions, hoping to rush through the revolving door of surveys as quickly as possible before the food ran out. Meanwhile, the grumbling pilots selected to pilot the old Lockheeds were already home free on buses taking them to pork ribs and coke. Lucky bastards. She’d lost count of how many old men and women had come up to her and hurriedly left after a few rapid-fire questions. There couldn’t be many more. She began to scan around the room, checking to make sure that all the other pilots were doing their part in rushing the debriefings so that the bus could leave. And there she saw it, talking to Luciano, a woman that she somehow recognized but couldn’t place. Her voice was somehow familiar as well. Who is she? “Engine trim control was all OK?” “Yeah.” I didn’t talk to her earlier... “And how about the throttles, no sticking?” “None.” I don’t think she’s been on base… “Any sticking on the joystick?” “Joystick? Oh – none.” Control stick. That’s right, I need to change… The realization hit Jo instantly. That was the woman behind her secret shipments. She was keeping up her end of the deal with those green boxes full of the DACTs that Jo wore into combat. The same ones that she’d put on this morning… and had leaked on me. And it was far from the first time that a DACT had failed Jo. Especially in the recent few months. I’ve been fixing to talk to her for a long time. She breezed through what few questions she had left to answer without taking her eyes off the lady. Once the man was done, she practically pushed him aside, and marched right to Luciano while he rattled off his own last few answers. “Ready to go, Simmons?” “Luciano – I’ve got to fix a problem. Tell the driver I won’t be coming.” “Aw, shucks. I’ll save you a rib.” He turned and strode off, leaving Jo facing the lady. She looked up from her clipboard. “Can I help you?” Any doubts in Jo’s mind were erased when just as the lady finished her sentence, her eyes lit and she flinched heavily. She turned back towards her clipboard without saying a word, but there was an unmistakable tinge on her face. I found her. “I gotta talk. In the hangar. Follow me.” “Is… something the matter, Major?” Her voice was shaky. “Your name?” “Cynthia… Bell”. So that’s her name. “I’d almost forgotten.” Miss Bell did not respond. That was alright for Jo, who led the rest of the wordless walk back into the hangar. She entered the changing rooms and found the lights already out without any sign of life remaining. There was nobody but herself and Cynthia. It’ll do. She flicked the lights on. “Good that you kept up my deal.” “Oh… you’re, you’re very welcome….Major Simmons. Not… not a soul knows”. Jo didn’t wait for her to finish. “There’s an issue with my equipment.” “There… there what?” Miss Bell’s voice was wavering. “Cut the crap. Leaks…I have more to clean. Something’s wrong. What happened?” “I… I really… I don’t…” Jo groaned and creased her eyes in frustration. “You’re in charge! What the hell are you doing!” She yelled it right into Cynthia Bell’s face and slammed the locker behind her with a bang. It’ll rattle her.
  3. Another story from the Cold War Gone Hot with gratuitous accidents. If you liked Major Simmons you'll love this one. If you didn't I'll report you to the House Un-American Activities Committee. ____________________________________________________________ The wait was the worst part. On the ground, there was always the FAL and L9, or failing that, a knife and a spade. But here, in the dark belly of a ponderous transport, one had no defense but luck to ward off the fate of so many armed-and-ready soldiers shot from the sky. It wasn’t the death that Sheila feared, so much as the ignominy of dying without a fight. All her regiment had fallen into a stony silence, transfixed only by their watches’ irreversible march towards drop time, the moment that they would be free of the flying dungeon. It was one constant in the calm before the chaos, and a place where time meant only the wish to see tomorrow. Locked into their jumpseats, each soldier could feel the turboprops’ steadfast thunder, bringing them nearer and nearer to their fates in Red land. Moving to the limits of what her harness permitted, Sheila again made her routine insurance that all odds would be evened in her favor. Strapped across her body was a loaded rifle, stout and solid in its guarantee of lethality, reined in by a long scope mounted slightly offset from the frame. At her waist were several of its straight magazines, each carrying but a few seconds’ worth of automatic fire. Her pistol’s magazines were nearby, and further along at her side was the standard-issue bayonet, not yet made complement to the FAL. But Britain’s finest weapon was but a small vial tucked inside her fleece jacket, containing the three pills of evened odds made manifest. Compound M – an amphetamine even the Nazis could only dream about, the miracle of medicine that made soldiers into supermen. The boffins could profess otherwise, but every soldier who took the stuff knew that their lives were being stolen away. Sheila could feel the pill work into her body nearly instantly after she swallowed, and made her final check for the contingencies she prepared against its effects. Her fate was fully in her hands now. Seven minutes to drop. The trepidation was broken by a deafening bang and the screech of twisting metal. Sheila’s heart dropped, and her whole body recoiled in shock – it was unavoidable even after countless encounters with withering fire. Shouts and curses were drowned out by groans of metal as the airframe twisted and tumbled, and shuddered ominously with the screaming pitch of the engines, pushed to their limits in a desperate escape from Soviet missiles. Trapped inside a deafening cacophony, the paratroopers could only pray that the escorting fighters had fired in turn. All were fixated solely upon their watches now, watching in horror as the seconds draw longer, each heavy with the threat of death. All had swallowed their Compound M, and could feel each racing heartbeat as if it were the fading pulse of a dying man. Sheila squeezed her rifle until the metal had remarked its pattern into her palm, and with the other hand held herself in her seat against the frantic pitches and rolls of the aircraft. Bullets of sweat appeared on her neck. She could almost feel the drug race its way across every vein, lightening each limb as though it were drawing their matter into her pounding heart, the sensation of which had consumed her neck and temples. Despite the antiemetic filling her stomach with lead shot, she wanted to vomit. Thump, thump, tick., thump, tick, thump, thump. A second blast roared across the cabin. The plane pitched in a violent bounce, flinging its occupants against their seats and the hard metal walls. Sirens began to blare, accompanied by the pulse of red lights. Sheila felt the transport bank left and fall into a dive, steep enough that it could have been the death roll of a transport with a wing shot off; the seconds were microcosms of eternity now, then time was restarted by the a roll in the opposite direction and a climb that sucked her into the seat. And there it was – the first crack in the prison of pulsing red alarms. All strength resumed in her body, Sheila moved her almost-trembling hands to undo her harnesses with psychoactive efficiency, and anchored only by her grip on the strap leaned into the column of rushing air. No sensation penetrated the roar of wind as the door dropped the end of its travel, and the first of the plane’s human payload began to jump out towards their objectives. One, two, three, four green-clad soldiers disappeared out the transport’s great maw before Sheila. With a breath, she took the final step past the door, and flung herself towards the world below It was not unlike impacting a wall of air, pushing at the body’s every point in a futile attempt to resist gravity’s intractable pull. Sheila’s amazonian frame, brawny and towering inside the plane, felt nothing more than a scrap of paper twisting and tumbling in the vortex of cold night air. The dark sky imparted only flames of the jets’ exhaust, appearing not unlike the flashes of AA guns on the blacked-out ground below. She straightened her body towards the ground, and with a struggle against the air pulled her watch into view, counted down the illuminated seconds, and reached for the leather strap flaying in the wind. All her weight was effortlessly thrown back in a violent jerk, digging each segment of her harness into her body; around her legs, the loops pulled against her crotch a thin absorbent padding. It was invariable that she would feel a flash of embarrassment at the reminder that she was awkwardly straddling an undone baby’s diaper, held up only by a lady’s nylon stockings concealed underneath her fatigues. But in a moment, the pressure relented, and she could draw her concentration to her slowing descent towards the ground below, to where her comrades had already landed. It was only on the moment of impact that Sheila realized no spring rains had yet come to soften the earth below. Her heavy frame, without proper bracing, crashed into the ground with a jolt that shook her entire body, buckling her knees with ease and sending her careening towards the ground in an undignified fall. For nearly half a second she could feel a small trickle of urine squeeze from her clenched bladder and form a wetness at her crotch, before her head struck the ground and erased the sensation completely. When she opened her eyes, she found the stream stopped. Seamus was looking down at her. “Bloody hell, that was something”. “Nobody’s dead yet, I s’ppose. You alright?”. He cracked a wry smile. “Yeah. Up and at ‘em”. Sheila removed her FAL from its holster and held it steady across her chest. In the distance, flashes of orange from the anti-aircraft barrage were illuminating the night sky, firing still at the fleeing squadron. Their forces had been temporarily diverted away from her, but with having been shot at, the minutes on her respite were surely numbered. Even so, she felt good and alert, prepared for any battle that might befall the unit. The Compound M had fully dispatched any fatigue and filled her with a warmth unbefitting of late autumn’s bitter chill. But for Sheila, the warmth had taken on a second, unwanted form in her crotch. If Sheila could feel any distraction from the full focus vested by the drug, it was the twinge in her bladder that had come upon quickly after she had swallowed the pill. Such was the consequence of Compound M for Sheila, unavoidable even after a litany of attempted cures. With the drug’s diuretic effect, it was invariable that she would periodically emerge from the fray with wet fatigues. It was no uncommon predicament for the Paras, where hellish fighting lasted hours with no opportunity for relief—but for Sheila alone, any stains at her crotch were only what had leaked from her diaper. Without the padding, already dampened with the jump, she would have not once exfiltrated without her pants stained with piss, and on many occasions her mess as well. “All ready, boys! Move!” A hundred parachutes, detached from their bodies, crumpled upon the ground to be whisked away by a stiff breeze. A man with a radio set barked his orders and dispersed the idle crowd, scattering pockets of men all around the forested grassland. With a body still agitating for provocation, Sheila’s methodical pacing under the pines’ shroud felt like a yoked plod, a rhythm wholly incongruous with her rapid and pounding heartbeat. Compound M thirsted for adrenaline, for the relief of combat, and in Sheila a mounting need to relieve herself. But she could find no opportunity to do so here, with her compatriots at her side, and the stone bridge coming into view across the bends in the river. How long has it been? All memory of her march here had coalesced into not more than a second in her memory, as though the drug had picked her up and whisked her to the fray. She checked her equipment methodically, finding her grip on every weapon, and ending with a second’s thought toward her diaper – slightly warm and damp, possibly after collecting yet another leak. How much longer? Her mind drifted in consideration of nipping off for a quick change, but a quick scan of the area found nowhere to do so out of sight. With reservation, she lowered her gaze, and was suddenly pricked by a crunching of leaves and a shimmer of movement. Her eyes shot to the leafy cover at her feet. The moonlight reflected off a thousand scales, writhing along the ground in a frenzied slither. Sheila had never loved snakes, and the Compound M only sharpened the dread at finding one. Her recoil was quick and potent, sending her staggering back a pace away from the adder; she was running her bladder before her boot could crunch soundly into the leaves behind. Instinct drover her hand towards her waist, and nearly found the L9’s grip before it could reach the bayonet, pull it from the sheath, and drive it in a crouching blow towards the coiled adder. Her abdomen tensed in the maneuver, squeezing her stomach, and inadvertently forced some mess from her loosened bowels into the waiting padding. But for all the Compounds’ disservice to Sheila’s continence, it worked true in ensuring the blade struck dead center, gliding effortlessly through the adder’s soft body and into the ground below. “What was that, Sheila? Bloody hell, you alright?” “Yeah. Alright. Just a, just a snake”. The snake struggled and writhed in a widening pool of its own blood, a streak of which was smeared across Sheila’s bayonet. It wouldn’t inhibit her from using it, but she nevertheless wiped it across her fatigues until the silver gleamed untarnished in the moonlight. More difficult would be cleaning up herself – although her accident had been quick and minor, the diaper felt swollen and full beneath her, not liable to hold another full accident. She would have to change at the earliest opportunity, after the slog had been completed. How much longer? The Compound creeped in her bloodstream, ready again to hasten the mundane reality. Another tick of her mind’s clock, and she was gazing through her binoculars at the soldiers on patrol. Clad in green, with oversized, bowl-shaped helmets without brims, aiming their Kalashnikovs through fast, methodical sweeps. Krauts, as they said. A bright white glow emanated from behind a stout building and slowly swept across its silhouette, powerful enough to cast dim light upon the vegetation ahead of Sheila even when turned away from her. The end of a caterpillar track peeked from behind the concrete cottage. They’ve a tank. She turned towards the stout Scotsman, muttered her sighting in a gesticulated drawl, and offered up her binoculars to the prompt refusal of a man preoccupied with his radio. Clicks, beeps, and an unintelligible Scots drawl were lost to her as she clambered for a mask and replaced her binoculars with her rifle. Ready, ready, ready. The blast of air and high whistle erupting from before her was not wholly remarkable against the Germans’ shouts, but to the Brits in the bushes it was Gabriel’s horn. Somebody – who is it? – belted “Contact, contact, contact!” from behind, but Sheila was on the move already, rushing forth from her vegetative sanctuary with a barrel pointed towards where she saw the Krauts last. A hundred masked men, reeling from their restraint of the drug, exploded out of the woodwork imbued with a drugged fighting spirit that made them deaf to the stricken tank’s explosion. In an instant, all the world was enveloped in the relentless chatter of automatic gunfire, sending hot lead across all directions and drowning the screams of those who had already fallen, some British, mostly German, as the Paras began their sprints towards their objectives. A Stahlhelm-wearing figure hundred of yards away ceased firing and turned sharply in a backpedal; through her mask’s fogged lenses Sheila saw the soldier’s rotation suddenly stop as he turned upon her. Adrenaline shoved her into a dive, and she was in the air before the German could shoulder his rifle, her body careening into the dirt just as the gunshots erupted in a deafening ring above the battlefield. All her consciousness was reduced to furor, terror, and amphetamines, severing all perception of her throat searing in a scream, and likewise her bladder relaxing with the impact and emptying its contents into the diaper. Time slowed, stopped, and the cosmos converged upon her two arms and rifle, jerked towards its target and aimed one purely instinctual convulsion, and fired a resumption of the chaotic world. Sheila was pulled towards her knees, and then her feet, in a rise that would have killed her had she not already felled the German, whose collapse had silenced and thrown asunder his rifle. Sheila’s quick self-check revealed that his shots had all missed their mark, spilling from her body naught but her piss; she grimaced upon finding that her accident in prone had skipped the diaper’s limited padding altogether and instead wet the front of her tights. Bloody hell, the fucking drug. The undergarments were necessary for holding in place a baby’s diaper that was hopelessly too small for Sheila’s frame, but the skintight nylon also irritatingly pressed its wetness up against her skin. A guttural explosion in the distance tore away Sheila’s attention towards her accident, and wrenched it instead towards the distant rumble of a monstrous tank cresting a hill. The silhouette was unmistakable with a front illuminated by two driving lights and a mounted machine-gun spraying fire into the night, a mile too far to have any effect on the scattered Paras. But this time, there was no florid searchlight turning night into day and marking the vehicle for destruction. No way to ascertain the cannon’s direction, either. She crouched behind a rock. “That’s more than we bargained for! But it’s shooting blind, innit?” The reply came from Jerry. “The hell he is! Bastard’s got night-vision!” Cock! “Where’s the fucking artillery? Bombers?” She the answers to both and prayed her compatriots had not discarded their RPGs. “He looking here?” “Looking away, let’s go! Go!” The Germans had a chance to regroup, but their defenses were surely worn to the man already. A well-placed but unprotected machine gun sat unmanned under a tarpaulin. Only from behind a wall of sandbags were shots coming. With the bridge behind intact and no indication of any attempt to breach it, Sheila’s offence had ground to a temporary halt. There was naught to do now but wait for a mortar to dislodge the Krauts. Setting herself down in a thicket well beyond the range of any grenades, Sheila had for the first time a brief respite from combat. No tired yet … but I need a drink. She pulled a green canteen from her belt and took a long swig, giving little consideration to the effect the water would have upon her bladder. No sooner had she finished her drink that a muffled explosion sounded behind her, giving way to the arcing whistle of a shell en route to its target. Perhaps the communists screamed their last upon realizing their doom, but the Paras were deaf to such things by now, and felt in their minds only a countdown to the impact that would force them from their roosts. The shell whistle subsided, flying further and nearing the ground, three, two, one… Even hundreds of meters away from the explosion, Sheila could feel the deafening blast’s shock heave the earth and rattle her bones. Her tensed muscles’ hold over her bladder loosened for a moment, and let a gentle stream of urine fall into the still-damp padding. Sheila would fail to notice, with her senses blunted by the ring that resonated within, as she clenched her rifle and hurled herself from the leafy cover. Her heart leapt into a frenzy and coursed the drug throughout her veins, imbuing in each uncoiling muscle a superhuman vigor as she exploded into the fray. A great catharsis swept over her body, eradicating any sensation of exertion or fatigue, and unconsciously loosened another dash of urine into a diaper already dampened with the errant trickle she had lost at the explosion. But with her padding in place Sheila had noticed neither of her leaks, and remained so unaware as she charged the impacted entrenchment, baring her rifle in preparation of firing at anything that moved. Past the vacant watchtower, past the machine-gun, the subdued enemy mounted no defence. She approached the pulverized sandbags and quickly shifted her rifle to one hand, and with the other mounted the barricade, throwing her large body into the throes of her foes. A dozen soldiers lay motionless on the ground, blanketed by the earth and the darkness, concealing their blood from British eyes. Sheila slowed her run. At the corner of her bloodshot left eye, something twitched. Without hesitation, she turned and shot a one-second burst into the still-moving soldier. His body flinched and came to rest, face-down in the dirt. “How many died?” “Liam’s not in good shape-” “Damn!” “But Perkins’ll attend to him, he should be alright.” Speaking through the gas filters was quite hopeless, but while the rumble of battle still sounded in the distance, the Tommies knew better than to remove their masks. Their Russians laced their smoke grenades with nerve gas, or so went the story, and no doubt the faraway tank had prepared a special gift in its dispensers. The monstrous machine rumbled a pace towards the forest, and in brief flashes of automatic fire illuminated the cadre of soldiers running alongside. But their targets had long since dispersed and left for them mines to run over. Frances was already lying prone upon the rooftop with a readied rifle, prepared to further stir the chaos. Sheila clambered up the ladder and joined her underneath the fluttering Hammer and Compass. With binoculars in hand, she knelt down besides the sniper, and peered in the direction of Frances’ target. She shifted her weight as not to squeeze her diaper, which felt almost like a saturated sponge between her legs. Any wrong move and her urine would leak out. “Watch my flanks. I’ll bloody ‘em up”. “Don’t miss”. She swiveled on her heels toward where the wobbling river was swallowed by darkness, holding just a midge of disappointment at being denied the spectacle. The field battle had quieted, reduced to the echoes of faraway shots and the muffled mechanical clank of the doomed tank. How many seconds till contact? The absolute stillness through her lenses made her uneasy. It was the damned wait again, agonizing hours of hoping that the horizon would not impart a sea of tanks and jets. It’s the drug talking. Intelligence had predicted nothing of the sort. The battle was over, and the British had won without a hitch. Her thoughts were broken by the muffled explosion rising above the subsiding din of gunfire, and with it the very welcome commotion of shouts and screams. Sheila had almost forgotten her anticipation of the blast, and so was taken back by the numbing explosion of gunfire metres away as Frances fired her L42 on cue. A welcome shot, to be sure, but the sheer shock drove another dash of pee from Sheila’s bladder; this time, her saturated diaper’s core could not muster the speed to absorb all the leak. Sheila scowled and blushed red upon feeling a hot trickle of liquid running down the left leg of her tights. “Contact!” What a shot. Sheila lowered her binoculars and turned towards the tank, expecting to see a stream of RPG fire converge upon the immobilized target. But no explosions illuminated the tank’s dark silhouette, growing sharper with each turn of the dial. The hemispherical turret’s appendages were moving, the turret rotating along with Sheila’s fingers. She could see the protruding cannon shrink, then disappear altogether. And then the machine-gun’s pirouette ceased as well. Her eyes widened and she threw down the binoculars. “On the ground!” A blinding flash of cannon-fire beamed through the focuses lenses. Her arm was around Frances’ neck by the arrival of the cannon’s roar. Unthinking, unbridled reflex sent her tumbling over the building’s edge, Frances in tow. She was surrounded by chaos and emptiness, plunging an endless descent, a sitting duck for the impossible might of the Russian cannon. A shell cleaving through the air encountered a plywood wall, an effortless fight that shattered the wall and a trigger on the projectile’s tip. It spewed forth a jet of molten metal, found not rolled steel but air, and milliseconds later exploded in the confines of an East German cabin. Sheila was mere metres away from the earthshaking roar, suspended in her fall as the walls burst into thousands of pieces of shrapnel, and the air turned into fire. Her scream died, caught in her throat, but her urine fared no such encumbrance in emptying from her bladder. The impact came a half-second later, her body into the dirt, her head into the helmet, her brain into her skull, and the ringing flooded her mind from every orifice. The world blackened. “Sheila! SHEILA!” Her eyes opened – or were they open already? That was Frances’ scream, hoarse and ragged, Frances’ face, draped with blood. There was no pain, but all her body was sore and numb, as though trapped under a weight. Something was stinging her eyes – her face was damp. She wipe her eyes and left a streak of sanguine red on the back of her hand. My blood? The same sticky wetness was on her chest, and enveloped her crotch. Damn… Finding Frances’ flushed face sent a pang of embarrassment through her. How long… did she see…? Sheila couldn’t have known that even in her first few seconds of consciousness she was still wetting herself. Her rifle was still in its place, strapped across her chest. Frances’ was gone. With hands in the dirt, she propped herself into a sitting position, and immediately found that her rear had squished into a mess. It was over her tights, her fatigues – the padding had failed entirely to contain it. But she could smell nothing over the odor of fire and death. The sources of both were close by. “They…. they’ve gone and got… got my….” The scream was tearing up his throat, and the burning gasps of a dying man. All his effort could not muster a voice louder than a whisper. Sheila crawled to his side and saw instantly the gaping hole through his waist, and the blood pouring into the olive uniform from the irreparable gash. “It’s… it’s… please…” “Perkins! Perkins!” She tore here eyes away and prayed the medic was still alive. “Present!” Her heart leapt. “What do we have-”. “Morphine. He’s nothing left.” She turned away stiffly. Who was he? Anger and raw hatred welled inside and roused her from the impact’s slumber. The Kraut… I was watching him from… The billow of fire and black smoke ended her search. She’d missed the tank’s demise. All was quiet. “Got them all?” Frances leaned over her. “I ‘spose. Good work, lass” “See Perkins. You’re roughed up.” “Nothin’ a fag can’t fix. Buzz off and shoot any Kraut we skipped”. Frances turned, expressionless, and scampered away into the milling soldiers left standing guard. Sheila propped herself to her feet and strolled a leisurely pace into the woods behind, ignoring with each step the mess squishing between her legs. Once the Paras had disappeared behind the woodwork, she reached for her pocket holding the tin of Virginias, but produced instead a crumpled ball of padding, its surface slightly muddied with dirt. She flicked open her belt and dropped her fatigues, leaving only a set of black silk tights revealing the mass of a wet diaper and a mess. With a gentle pull, she peeled off her undergarment, scowling and blushing at the coat of mess smeared on their insides. With a hand cupped around her used diaper’s backside, Sheila used the sodden garment to clean off as much as possible, before tossing the padding into the woods and dropping the new, unfolded diaper into her gusset. She pulled her undergarments back up to her crotch, pressing the padding as close to her as possible, in hopes of making it last until the Grenadiers could arrive.
  4. Coming with a smattering of exquisite LivingInfinite (http://pixiv.me/livinginfinite) artwork is a story written by my inner Tom Clancy, in four parts. __________________________________________________ Had peace reigned, the sky’s conscience might have retained its clarity, unscarred by the weeping trails carved by screaming jets. But there was nobody now for the blue expanse to enchant, not least the pilots seeking refuge from the spiteful columns of fire that blossomed from the ground. Jo had learned to hate the clear sky as she flew into the fray, but refrained from pushing harder on the roaring turbojet, as she did back when she could still find fights in air unpolluted by thick smoke. All intercepts occurred now in the besmirched skies in front of Jo’s canopy. Her plane shot toward the dirty smear ahead. The communists were desperate, but no less pig-headed than usual. Their recent barrage of reconnaissance planes all flew high and slow, and evaded with no more skill than plump, silvery skeet. They’d made aces out of too many idiotic young cadets who then dared to cozy up to Jo and her compatriot veterans of the MiGs’ trial by fire. She almost missed those visceral battles. Racking up easy kill marks and pay was a good gig, but it was nothing on the rawness of dogfights in her wonderfully analog machines. Meanwhile, she had never pushed her sleek new jet to its limits, and if her briefing was accurate, today would not be the first time. A wispy white contrail caught Jo’s eye. She followed it to a quick flash of metal emerging from behind a smoky cloud. Throttle up, and turn to port. The bogey had straight wings and bulges underneath both. Soviet. “Knight has visual. Vectoring for the target, over.”. The Russian’s shimmering fuselage was above her, flying an angle towards her for a few seconds, before disappearing behind an ashy cloud. Jo tightened her chest and pulled her control stick left. The jet rolled into a tight turn, and she wrenched her body towards the sky, fighting the bloodshot pulses at the side of her eyes until the two contrails appeared parallel above her canopy. The Russian was much closer now, close enough for Jo to make out the red stars on his wings, beckoning her to put the big plane squat inside her sights. But now the Russian was accelerating and rolling starboard, twisting his plane down towards the ground, scavenging the last few knots out of the antiquated airframe, and in the process sealing any opportunities for agile evasion. It was a hallmark of desperate young pilots, just like the previous few that the Ruskies had sent, just another stenciled red star below Jo’s cockpit. You’re as good as dead. This time, as she gently pushed the control stick down, her gloved thumb was locked over the trigger. Twenty degrees, ten degrees, and the twin-engined fighter was in her sights again, frozen by speed in her green crosshairs. Now go down. The four cannons exploded in a rhythmic bark and spat their trails of fire, enveloping the Soviet in a curtain of American lead, each bullet cutting like a hot knife through the thin aluminum. A splash of orange flame erupted from the starboard engine, shimmering across the unpainted metal, and the engine exploded in a burst drowned out by the still-roaring cannons. And then the Russian was falling in a flat spin, down and away from Jo’s sights, leaving only a corkscrew of thick black smoke to mark her kill. “Scratch one Red. Returning to base, over.”. Jo would have preferred the sheet of flame marking a mid-air disintegration, but was content with a quick look back revealing no ejected pilots’ parachute. The dead communist hadn’t even fired in the encounter–these pilots were only good for being shot down. What the hell are they doing in these planes? Their Furloughs were clumsy, rotund beasts, a decade-old design that even the greenest of recruits could fly circles around before downing. For Jo, a clean intercept would never take more than twenty seconds. She pulled back on the throttle until the engine’s thunderous reverberations slowed to a pitch that she knew by ear. Her thumb relaxed from its curl around the trigger. A gentle turn could suffice, but a tight roll could put her on the flight path half a mile sooner. There was no question: Jo braced her chest and temples, and tugged the control stick to starboard. The aircraft was nearly perpendicular to the ground when she was pricked by a sense of sudden premonition. Something had glanced off the canopy in the turn, a quick and sinister flash that had appeared for a second while she was pivoted northeast. Her hand flew back to the throttle and her thumb to the trigger, in preparation of chasing another Furlough to a fiery death. But no sooner had she terminated the roll than the whistling wail of a supersonic projectile fill her right ear, followed nearly instantly by a shrieking alarm in her headset. Fuck! First came the light of the explosion in a blinding burst, and then the deafening blast and shockwave that stunned every fiber of Jo’s being. The missile’s storm of penetrating shrapnel perforated the jet all along its side as it violently shook in the ripples of the blast. Jo was thrown like a rag-doll against the sides of her cockpit, her unrestrained head crashing off the sides of her canopy. I lost–lost the enemy, lost the advantage, lost her safety. It was a horrifying thought which coursed through Jo’s nerves, numbing all her appendages. Her body went cold. She had forgotten this raw fear, the sort that the MiGs once struck, the sort for which she had started wearing her special undergarments. The gelled core of her padded trunks soaked with the hot urine she had released in terror, absorbing fast enough for to Jo remain unaware that she was wetting herself. The same discretion could not be afforded to her solid wastes, which pushed messily into the padding at her backside and against the elastic gathers that kept Jo’s fear a secret. That she was messing herself was known to Jo’s subconscious, but her mind was consumed by visceral fear, thinking only of wanting to run, to hide, to be somewhere, anywhere else. All her appendages stiffened, bringing her hand into a white-knuckled grip around the control stick, and her thumb back down on her trigger. The four M39s’ faithful bark rocked Jo, enough for her to become cognizant of the hollow lightness in her body, and adrenaline in her mind, even as her urine continued to pour unencumbered into the absorptive trunks. She released the trigger and the curtain of bullets stopped. Three seconds had passed. Four seconds, and Jo pulled hard starboard on her control stick, five seconds, and she pulled her plane up into a loop. She was inverted when the silver jet shot across her canopy, above her head, below her in the ashy sky. Fucker! I got you! Pure instinct pushed her hand to hard starboard, rotating the plane in an inverted roll. The black and bloody circles were converging on her vision now. Max G. The control stick was returned to rest, but the throttles pushed up, whipping the jet around into the contrails of the assailant. Jo saw a flash of a sleek delta silhouette, bearing the burst of Soviet red on its swept wings, before the plane again climbed above and over her canopy. Come back here! The moment of fear was forgotten now. She twisted her control stick up and to starboard, pointing her nose towards the heavens and the roar of the Soviet’s engines. Her jet’s alarm wails were ignored as she pushed the aircraft to a roll towards the contrails, only to find the flash of silver below her this time, shooting past her jet in the exact opposite direction. Running now? Jo’s plane rolled to the side again to complete its tight turn. The bloodshot spots in front of her eyes were flooding her vision, and her head was screaming its protest, but she gave not an inch of the control sticks’ starboard pull, flinging the jet around in a full loop toward the Russian. There you are! – on top of her canopy, the full picture of the Soviet jet, enveloped between two flickering circles of bloody vision, red stars emblazoned on the delta wing. Bursts of automatic fire were already exploding its a green nose cone, shooting their streams of fire, ready to dismember their target upon the turn’s completion. But the plane was much too slow to match Jo’s turn, pulling fast enough to bracket the Russian’s underbelly, half a second away from having the Soviet in her sights. Your turn to die! Not mine! Now it was her turn to fire as she jerked back on the control stick, ensuring that the Soviet would receive a full stream of the red-hot bullets. There was no escape for the Russian, locked in place by the effort of the maneuver, from the storm of bullets that perforated all along the big aircraft. The screaming turbojet engine was penetrated throughout its length, and consumed itself in a furious explosion, tearing apart all traces of the Soviet jet in a fireball of gas and rockets. Jo had never seen the pilot, but knew that he would have been incinerated in an instant and turned to the ash which polluted the skies. Too good a death for you, Red bastard! __________________________________________________ “Your mail, missus Bell”. “Thank you. Leave it in the tray.” “Very welcome, missus”. Cynthia was beginning to like the young clerk, with his brisk smile and chipper voice. He’d never seen a world without war and knew not to despair at it, nor bemoan the draft that would come for him in due time. Too young to know of the vacations summer once yielded, too young too know of the ration tickets he worked for, too young to know of all the turmoil unfolding across the world. Cynthia couldn’t escape any of it. She turned in her chair, and from the top of a heavy stack picked up the bound manila envelope marked Classified. Oh, of course it’s the 303. The Union’s finest, renowned for their many memorandums demanding the latest that Groom Lake had rubber-stamped, none of which the secretaries had clearance to read. This document was for her eyes only, and its contents would be made known only to Team 3A. She pinched and unwound the string, pulled out the ream inside, and her figures leafed through the cheap copy paper. The pages fell into a flurry of words, numbers, and figures—suddenly interrupted by the flash of a familiar name. Cynthia furrowed her brow and flipped back through the papers, searching; and there it was on the third page. Josephine Dolores Simmons. It was all she could do to not physically cringe at having found her. That woman, that day, that reminder of her secret. She knew immediately what would be requested from her. How, just how could I possibly forget? Waves of scorching heat shimmered above the Nevada desert and wafted from the black tarmac runways a smell of lingering bitumen. Though she had long ago moved the small metal fan as close to her as its cord would allow, Cynthia was still sweating furiously through every pore. She looked up from her work to the clock, and then to the lone window of the cabin, through which she could see the three bullet-shaped jets with blinding bursts of sunlight reflecting off their polished bodies. Hardly an hour remained before their takeoff, and in the meantime, there was much work to be done. More beads of sweat had dripped from her wrists upon her papers. My goodness, this heat! Her long white coat was almost unbearable in this weather, and even worse was her underwear, whose material was surely saturated solely with sweat by now. Well, she couldn’t do without either, but scowled at knowing the other ladies suffered only by the coat. A knock appeared at the door, and before Cynthia could go to answer it, it was accompanied by a rattling crank at the locked doorknob. “Coming!” She hurried over as fast as her low heels would allow and undid the lock, opening the door to reveal a disheveled-haired woman wearing a crumpled green jacket and fatigues. A cigarette was burning between the woman’s teeth, and she did not put it out as she strode up the cabin’s steps, drawing herself to a full height, a head taller than Cynthia. Cynthia was taken aback. “And you would be?” There was no rank insignia and no patch upon the stranger’s jacket. “Simm’ns”. She finally pulled out the smoke. Simmons, Simmons. “Oh! Major Simmons!” The decorated ace of the one-thirty-eighth, with twelve confirmed kills over Bulgaria. Wasn’t it Simmons who brought down the Russian flightsuit, that she personally had examined? Regardless, she’d only ever seen her in a crisp dress uniform, and it jarred Cynthia now to see Simmons here and in this state. “So, Major Simmons, I can help you now with your equipment, ma’am. Erm, this will go on under the suit across your stomach; I have that for you here, and then the suit should be pulled on over you. These will go on over. Here’s the manual, Major Simmons” “Jo, if you like”. “You may find it better to step behind the curtain for the next step, Major. Our guidelines are that you replace your current undergarments with these… They’re for the female anatomy, you see, for collecting waste in these here long missions, yes, all test pilots for today should wear these...” The major picked up and unfolded the white trunks towards which Cynthia gestured, and shot a glance over her shoulder. “You’re making me wear a diaper?” “Oh no, I’m sure you’ll find that these aren’t quite, yes! We’ve engineered to a very high standard – they work by airflow, and are fitted these just for your body, so that it’s very light and comfortable, yes, I’m sure you will feel no different from your…” “I’ll wear it.” Cynthia couldn’t tell if Simmons was convinced, but she obliged in pulling back the curtain and changing herself into the flightsuit. She turned her back towards the major and walked back to her desk, and only then noticed that her face was tingling with blush. A diaper! Really! The spiel about the Disposable Absorbent Containment Trunks was all true; the trunks were indeed a culmination of hours in the lab perfecting a novel polymer compound and its packaging. Cynthia had been religious in ensuring that the garment would be as non-restricting as possible, so further removing any resemblance to a baby’s diaper. And yet, well… It was an affront to more than her scientific prowess—for as she spoke, Cynthia was herself wearing the trunks – diaper– that she had designed for Major Josephine Simmons. They didn’t fit perfectly on her slighter waist, but she necessarily donned one each morning, as she had today behind the curtain in the cabin. With her position in FSG, she could procure the garments easily, and so an extra pair was tucked away in a zippered compartment of her handbag. There was but a small solace in needing not to draw from it often. Her thoughts were broken by Simmons’s voice. “Finished.” From behind the curtain emerged the Major, fully suited in her equipment. “Oh, oh, yes. I’ll need to perform some checks now.” She scanned across all the fastenings in the mess of tubes and straps. “Everything correct”. “Thank you”. Major Simmons swung the door back into its frame with a crash that rattled the cabin. I should go now, too. All the papers were complete, cross-checked twice, and neatly tucked into their manila folders. With one hand, Cynthia picked up her clipboard, and with the other, lifted her carrying case by its leather handle. To the jeep! She pushed opened the door, to be assailed immediately by the scorching sun. A cloud of fine dust, ejected from the tracks of vehicles in the distance, permeated her nostrils and throat, and elicited from her a series of sharp coughs as she disembarked the three wooden steps. And with each heave of her lungs, Cynthia leaked into her trunks a few errant spurts of urine. But so quickly did the padding whisk the moisture away, that she was none the wiser. It would be hours later before Cynthia could return to the cabin, fully exhausted from her ordeal in the scorching heat. She’d drunk cup after cup of water in the sweltering tent, and upon each visit to the bathroom found her DACT’s padding more and more dampened by another series of leaks she’d been too absorbed in work to notice. There was no opportunity throughout to retrieve a change, though in truth, she had never noticed the need for one. Lucky, too, for now was a fully unsuitable time. “Major Simmons, did you find the suit to cause any discomfort? Were there new stresses during maneuvers?” “No, and no. It’s enough for the plane. Though, I’m cooking in here”. “Ah, yes, I’m afraid that there might be an added thickness to the suit – it’s because of the extra pressure we need for the G’s. Let’s see… do you notice a decrease in mobility? Erm, here, on the ground?” “A bit, maybe. Don’t think it’s a problem”. Cynthia turned towards her clipboard, and creased her eyebrows at the dismal handwriting of her cursive upon the paper. Major Simmons had insisted on walking back posthaste, and Cynthia was in no position to refuse on grounds of wanting a desk. The consequence was the near-illegible script of writing while walking. Moreover, she needed the restroom and none were in sight. Gosh, that champagne went right through me. She made no mention of her predicament to the major, who had again produced and lit a cigarette, and answered further questions with the stick clenched between her teeth. Onward Cynthia trudged, probing and jotting and cross-referencing, all while her discomfort increased as her bladder filled. The cabin seemed miles away still, just a dot in the horizon while the heavy pressure mounted painfully upon her abdomen. Unconsciously, her pace increased. Each step was a jolt to her full bladder, approaching now its breaking point. A brief spurt of urine escaped into the padding, and this time, Cynthia was cognizant of each torturous drop. She toyed momentarily with the notion of fully emptying herself into the waiting padding, before quickly realizing that the trunks could in no way contain the saturation. There was no other option. “Erm… Major… could we pause, now, for a moment?” “What’s that?” The tall woman furrowed her brow. “What for?” “I… ah… I need to relieve myself...” Jo didn’t bat an eyebrow. “Ditch’s over there. Nobody’s around”. Cynthia could’ve hoped for nothing better than the easygoing soldier’s mannerisms, but her face was still a burning beet red as she turned toward the divot. She shot a brief glance over to Major Simmons, and saw only the pilot’s backside, framed by a few wisps of smoke rising and disappearing in the sunset. Only after walking twenty paces away from the woman did Cynthia dare to stop and squat down, loosen her belt and lower her slacks, and then grasp the legs of her skin-hugging DACT to pull them just away from her crotch. Any encumbrance her nervosity might have provided was overcome by sheer desperation as the torrent of urine flowed readily out her bladder and onto the ground, coalescing into a puddle in the sand. She shifted around in her squat to avoid stepping on her urine, but with the trunks at her thighs, could only move with an awkward waddle. When done, Cynthia realized suddenly the lack of any article to wipe with, followed quickly with the fresh realization that she could do without doing so. But the notion seemed disgusting, that she would willingly use the – diaper – at her thighs. She looked down upon her trunks’ padding, and surmised quickly from the swollen and yellowed fabric that her escapade had likely saved herself from another embarrassment. With a sigh, she brought herself to her feet. “You’re finished?” Hearing the voice felt like a shock coursing throughout her body. Cynthia’s glance shot up immediately towards the major, and to her abject horror found the woman’s bored eyes locked with hers. She almost screamed, but managed only a yelp as she rapidly doubled over herself, furiously covering her lower half from view. “Damn! Sorry!” For her part, Jo had wrenched her body back around with the first glance of the lady, and nearly inhaled her cigarette with the first sharp breath. She bit and chewed upon the filter while waiting for the crunching footsteps to draw nearer, and spoke not a word as she began her walk towards the cabin, with eyes averted from the short woman walking besides her. There was a lot for her to digest. Cynthia reciprocated the major’s refusal for acknowledgment. Her breaths were short and sharp, drawing in the acrid tobacco of the burning cigarette with each inhale. Oh god, oh god, did she see? All her work in miniaturizing the DACT could not have saved her from feeling the sodden padding between her thighs at each step, as though all the embarrassment she had ever felt at her incontinence rose from within and was stirred anew. There was a helpless anger, too, a why me? that echoed in her head until it was a relentless pound that erased time and the present. “Gonna change now”. Without realizing it, Cynthia had carried herself to the doorstep of the cabin. She wanted anything but to look at the pilot, but steeled herself to create a facade of full causality, and forced her eyes towards Josephine Simmons’s. “Y-yes, your clothes should still be on the cot”. “Okay”. There was nothing amiss in that voice, no indication that she had seen anything in that split-second encounter. It was enough to assuage Cynthia, so consumed had she been by the scorching embarrassment. I did cover myself enough. After all, how much could she have seen? She collapsed into her canvas chair, exhausted from the day and the experience. And so what if she did see? I’ll never meet her again. “Have an ashtray?” Major Simmons was back in her sloppy fatigues, and had thrown aside the curtain to face the seated scientist, with a butt between her fingers. “Oh, I don’t smoke. Can you throw it outside?” “Mm”. Jo strode two steps towards the door and opened a crack just wide enough to flick her butt out of. Just as quickly, she closed the door into its unpainted frame, and turned to face the seated woman with her hand still resting upon the brass knob. A grin cracked over her face. “Not diapers, huh?” Cynthia’s heart sank and her face washed over instantly with a pale blush. “N-no…?” There was no conviction in her voice. The pilot cocked her head and furrowed her brow. “That so?” She drew a step closer. “Just underwear, right? That’s why you’re wearing one?” No, no, why me, why me? She almost wanted to cry, but knew that doing so would only humiliate her further. Well, well, oh god, what should I do? She squeezed her eyes shut. “If you must… know…” Her voice was barely a whimper. “I’ve… a use for them… myself”. “Government property, isn’t it? Embezzlement? Hell, there’s too much of that. You know what I oughta do?” Oh god, is she serious? Cynthia opened her eyes again to reveal the pilot’s humorless face, one befitting of an ace and major in the Air Force. The perfect soldier, just as promised, and now her own abrogations would be brought to justice. No, no, will she -? But Major Simmons had no intention of waiting for Cynthia to cry a pleading protest. “Now, Miss, I’ll cut you a deal. I’m tired of seeing cockpits to clean after shooting some Russkies. Well, maybe they’ve got the same issues as you. Want to help me?” What’s this now? I… “Of course, of course!” She’d no need to finish her thought. “Hope you’re good at secrets. I’ll send you an order.” The paleness was receding from Cynthia’s face, leaving only a burning blush. “M-major, you’ll keep everything here in this room, right? May I … may I have some... leniency?” Jo rolled her shoulders. “Sure”. __________________________________________________ Fletcher Synthetics Group, PW10372D1 File of Dr. Cynthia Elizabeth Bell CLASSIFIED Absorbent Article For Use In Variable-G Environments An absorbent article contained within a flexible chassis with a thin, flexible absorbent core, body-facing liquid permeable topsheet, waterproof backsheet. Design of the chassis comprises the front and rear of the waist, and the upper portion of both legs, joined by seams to open at waist front. The objective of the design revision is to utilize the entire capacity of absorbent material. Previously, an excess of material necessitated a thick article not conforming well to the body and limiting application of air-flow system as described in PC5028. In general, the distribution of liquid along the article follows a circular pattern, causing overburden to material at the article’s sides without usage of end regions. A remedy is the introduction of rigid structure to the garment, however, the current construction of absorbent articles precludes the concentration of material in any area without rigid support. personal note D.A.C.T. leaks most commonly when in sitting position probably because of body weight on absorbent portion. elastic gathers near legs prevents some of the leaks but is uncomfortable even when not moving. +on a fitted frame would compress and be useless too Thus, there is a need for added members in construction facilitating the transfer of liquids vertically alongside the article towards outwards areas of the article. A semi-permeable prewoven film is arranged along the absorbent material behind and ahead of areas of saturation. The hydrophobic element prevents liquid permeation beyond a depth of absorbent material at regions adjacent to areas of saturation, until expansion of absorbent material increases permeability of the additional member. When article is used, the semi-permeable element precludes quick absorption in regions most immediate to the liquid and therefore transfers liquids to absorbent material along its length, making use of absorbent core in end regions. Greater absorptive efficiency therefore allows for a lesser amount of absorbent material and thinner absorbent core. The resultant garment should therefore have greater potential to conform to the body and reduce leaks resultant from the bunching of used absorbent material. D.A.C.T. made with same absorbent mat. and new film I don’t notice a change in the feeling of the underwear even sitting dry so film material is soft enough. I can feel “dry” for longer maybe by about one and one quarter hours. +more visible staining on the topsheet when changing OK and shows dispersion working. sometimes uncomfortable because of weight when not dry but can be fixed. should not be problem in use. thin absorbnt mat. new film more comfortable to wear and I still dont notice film material. lasts as long but easier to move in plus feels lighter because liquid distributed. but more “wetness” can be felt when product is used, (I notice using it more now). approved jun19 The four turboprops had yet to stop spinning when Jo approached the goliath cargo plane and locked eyes with Hugh Reeves. He watched the stone-faced woman approach the ajar cargo door and stop just short of where it would kiss the runway. Even as they were separated by just the ramp’s length, not even shouting could drown out the engine’s roaring drone. There was nothing to do but stare while the Allison engines spooled down until they finally left the propellers whirling powerless in the air. Jo made the first move and jumped onto the still-descending ramp. Hugh snapped into a quick salute upon seeing her rank. The major took three wordless steps up the metal door and stopped, and gave him a once-over without a single change in her expression. “At ease, sergeant”. Hugh lowered his arm. “What’cha need, ma’am?” “Find me a carrying box that’s got ‘Simmons’ on the label. It’ll be green and metal. You can’t miss it.” Groan. There had to be at least fifty packages just like that “But what’s ya rush?” “Important things from above. I’d have to kill you if I told you”. He wanted to laugh at the joke but bit his tongue upon realizing the major was serious. Without a word, he turned around into the cavernous belly and began to look around the packages stacked high under lashings. When he returned minutes later with file box in hand, Hugh was already expecting reprisal from a royally angry major long past the edge of her patience. But she was still standing on the ramp with the same opaque scowl, only now she had a cigarette burning at the corner of her mouth. He breathed a sigh of relief and handed over the package to no acknowledgment. “Shore is light, ain’t it?” The major turned on a heel to glare at him. She said nothing. Hugh gulped and instinctively broke into another salute. Did that set her off? She smirked and flicked the butt from her lips. “Sure is.” Jo turned again and walked away. Hugh lowered his salute and turned towards his packages. Not so bad, that major. She ain’t a bully. But hell, wasn’t she scary. The squadron was kicking back and shooting the shit in the mess hall. Nothing would disturb Jo in her hut. She nevertheless scanned the small, curtainless windows as a precaution, and found nobody around. Only then did she turn back to her file box and unlock its lid. There it was, the express from Dover, neatly packed into a cardboard box stamped with the interlocked diamonds of FSG. Fifty pairs of trunks, fitted, as Missus Bell had said, specifically for Jo’s body. Her “special undergarments” that she had first worn on flying the Ultra Sabre, and that she wore since then on each and every mission. The last box’s supply was diminishing when she written to the States, and had almost vanished by the C-127’s arrival in the evening. But arrive they did, and just in time for the mission with the big bombers at 2253. Saved again. With both hands, Jo slipped her green fatigues and white cotton panties off her legs. She reached into the file box and retrieved a folded white trunk, unfolded it quickly, and with her feet found the garment’s two legs. In one jerk she pulled the trunks up to her waist and covered them just as quickly with the green fatigues. She bent down, locked the green metal box, slipped the brass key between her mattress and metal bedframe, and slid the entire container underneath her bed and out of sight of any visitors to her hut. The fifteen jets and fourteen bombers were high over Czechslovakian sky, and the sun long ago fallen behind the horizon, when the first blip on the radar appeared. “Bogey to our one o’clock”. Jo pushed her throttle, and the Pratt & Whitney responded with an afterburner’s roar, pressing her back into the seat as the lumbering bombers receded and vanished from her sight. The Union’s jets were screaming through the air at nearly Mach two when the second blip appeared on the radar, followed by a third, fourth, and fifth. Jo’s heart was steeled and her consciousness wholly contained in her eyes and trigger finger as she screamed towards the dogfight enveloped by her engine’s thunderous roar. The green glowing dots on her canopy were moving towards the radar’s center, on a collision course with the Minutemen, ready to fight and die at the Americans’ hands. Her eyes left the display and began scanning the sky. Her arms twitched, ready to pull the control stick towards the first communist that appeared. The world had but fallen silent. “Visual! Visual at three o’clock!” Clayton’s scream was loud and distorted and irritatingly piercing but could not hope to brake Jo’s dead-set concentration. She was a machine pulling her plane in a smooth but unbelievably quick roll towards the orange flicker of jet exhaust out-shining all the stars in the sky. The target grew from a speck into a splotch on her canopy and began to move with quick, deliberate motion as it drew ever-closer. Her hands moved to the trigger. “I have radar and visual on target, three miles out, on my eleven o’clock, firing missile.” Calm, collected, monotonous, and conveying to all her squadron that the kill was but secured. Two Sparrows shot through the inky sky en route towards the doomed fighter. Jo pulled back and left on her control stick, once again sucking herself into the seat, and bringing the plane high above striking range of the communists’ guns. One second, two second, three, and ahead appeared a burst and sheet of orange flame. “Scratch one! Perfect shot!” Jo scowled, ignoring the whoops and cheers. She brought her weight down hard on the control stick, forcing the jet back down towards where the night sky was lit. The orange glow was still there, obscured by a curtain of smoke, moving in a rapid tremble. It was asynchronous with her jet’s judder. No, the bandit was not yet downed. Jo brought her jet in a quick rolling loop towards the engine glow, finger curled around the trigger. Her hand’s pressure on the stick relented as the target fell within fifty degrees of her guns, steadying the reticule on the canopy glass. She could but make out the plane’s outline now, though the screen of billowing smoke. It was falling, lurching about in an attempt to stay airborne, not at all realizing that it was falling into the crosshairs of an American fighter. Jo aimed and pulled the trigger. The Sukhoi drowned into an ocean of American lead, and was in a fraction of a second torn apart in a ball of bright flame, disintegrating so fast that the pilot could never realize his own death. The victorious Ultra Sabre pulled up sharply to rejoin its compatriots. Inside, Jo’s heartbeat relented and her focus softened. “Target destroyed.” No sooner had Jo uttered the words that her cockpit reverberated with a furious volley of deafening bangs and her jet gave a huge, tortuous lurch, and screamed into her headset with the sounds of countless alarms. The jerk slammed her helmet into the canopy with such force that she saw stars. Her whole body tightened with a terror she’d never expected. She was utterly disconnected with the jet, blind to the hail of lethal fire. Without hesitation, she began to run her bladder and soak her undergarment’s waiting padding. Three more peals of penetration from a burst of Russian machine-cannon seemed to be the final nails in her coffin. Tears dripped from the corners of her eyes and her hands’ grip slackened. Her bowels gave out too as she messed herself into her trunks. Major Jospehine Dolores Simmons’ plane flew but unguided for four agonizing, eternal seconds, even while a Sparrow’s blast reverberated behind her and struck another Sukhoi from the European sky. Then, a roar, a flash of an Ultra Sabre slicing across her canopy, then slowing in front of her and giving her full view of the turbojet’s orange exhaust. It was a beautiful sight. The alarms, once melded into the clarion of death, regained their meaning. Her squadron’s barks over the headset became audible again. Jo could feel her body returning to her. She knew at once of her accident when she felt the hot piss pooled against her crotch. Her face, already flushed with relief, now filled red with disgust as she felt the moisture slowly dissipate and dry. How much did I piss myself? She couldn’t recall being this wet before. “- smoking, Jo, you’se engine’s smoking!” That was Powers. …tell me something I didn’t know. “You gotta go! Go back!” He was right. The control was a Christmas tree of warning lights all screaming that the jet was crippled. At this rate, any landing at all would be good going. Barring that, she could bail out of the plane over Belgium and hope for the best. “Bravo three, vectoring for base, over.” The bombers would have to go on without her. She yanked on the control stick and felt the plane protest at the simple maneuver. Fuck…damned hell. “Affirmativ-” Not half a second after the radio cut, a huge black silhouette shot past Jo’s canopy in a fiery tumble. Her heart leapt, and almost burst with utter shock as the object suddenly exploded with a horrible roar punctuated with the screeching creak of twisting metal. A cacophony of shrapnel raked the underside of Jo’s jet. Her nerves were utterly shot; though she needed not feel the trepidation of possible death she was again stunned by fear. She felt every drop of her bladder’s remaining contents pour out and inundate her crotch with hot liquid, but felt no fiber of muscle that could stop the stream. Jo’s bladder was empty already by the time her composure fully returned and allowed her to grit her teeth, waiting for the flood of warmth to dry again, waiting and waiting until she finally noticed it. Her thighs and seat were wet. It all came back to her in a wave of embarrassment. There was something different about putting on the underwear, and something different about fitting the g-suit, and something different about climbing into the jet. Moving had been too easy and too free. Jo was sure of it – her trunks’ padding was thinner and lighter. No wonder the first accident had felt – that way. The humiliation gave way to anger – Missus Bell will wish she’d never been born! But until then, she could only guide her crippled jet towards Belgium while sitting in a rapidly cooling puddle of her own urine. __________________________________________________ Fletcher Synthetics Group, PW10368B3 File of Dr. Cynthia Elizabeth Bell CLASSIFIED Absorbent Article For Use In Variable-G Environments An absorbent core contained within a disposable absorbent article, contained between a liquid-permeable topsheet and liquid-impervious backsheet. The design modification from previous reduces loss in absorbent efficacy produced as a result of typical bodily motion causing distortion of the article displacement away from the user. The forces exerted upon the article may cause unintended contortion of the absorbent core into shapes not suited for the collection of liquid with minimal leakage, or in extreme cases force previously contained liquid out of the absorbent core. It is beneficial to provide an absorbent core intimate contact with the wearer as to not subject the core to twisting and bunching motion. However, the bodily motion of normal use make such a proposition difficult to accomplish with established absorbent material that may deform with the addition of weight or other stresses. Therefore, there is a need for an absorbent core constructed of novel material such that the absorbent core may be effectively held against a user’s body. p.s. running or exercising means the core ends up being all twisted out of its place and I have to change (also could mean leaks if bunched up, even tho D.A.C.T. not fully used). pilots should have some similar contortions and problem should be worsened because of the extra G’s. Accordingly, there is a need to produce an absorbent core of multiple constructions, that can both facilitate absorptive capability and enough rigidity to provide a fit allowing for greater body contact. A contoured section of liquid-permeable material is made integral to the topsheet and fitted for bodily topography more minute than what can be provided by the absorbent article’s chassis. The density of the material construction prevents contortion of the top, body-facing layer, while the more absorptive celluloid layer follows the shaping of the top layer, and is regardless not integral to the immediate absorptive action of the core. test 1 feels “wet” much quicker than last version (to be expected) from the smaller volume of the true absorbent core. not good enough for extended use. more comfortable and feels more snug, more like “regular” underwear because of a better fit. lasts just as long as prev. during exercise. A further revision to the absorbent core construction should be made to remedy the decreased volume of absorbent material. A quantity of polymer-based material is arranged at the edge regions of the absorbent core, that do not need to absorb immediate quantities of liquid upon use of the absorbent core, but should still contain liquid as liquid is distributed along the core. The polymer material is suitable for its slower rate of absorption but greater liquid retention property. It is not made integral to regions of the garment, but the dense construction of the core ensures that the material is contained in desired areas. 2 absorbs more and D.A.C.T. still feels better than before topsheet changed. much easier to exercise for longer and now I can trust the “feeling” on the D.A.C.T. because it can absorb to the full capacity. light running for thirty minutes did not leak or bunch absorbent core and underwear was still usable after. nov03 Upon seeing the first silver jet’s wheels kiss the earth with quick screeches and puffs of smoke, the army of brightly-suited figured swarm like ants over the runway. They scour the skies for the procession of Ultra Sabres in this one’s wake that are to be attended to. Just this once, the air is not pregnant with the question of who had succumbed to the hellish Polish skies. The report had arrived at the tower already – clean sweep. Only the mechanics refuse to share in the squadron's jubilation. They curse and light cigarettes, ready for another sixteen-hour shift working on the planes that will be shot up mere hours after all repairs are complete. The sleek warbirds had not escaped unscathed. Oily smoke billows from jet exhausts. Multicolored liquids drip from cowlings onto the tarmac below. Virtually every aircraft has been wracked with countless new perforations from flak and aircraft cannons. North American was never shy about their alarms. For the entire flight back home from Poland, Jo was subjected to the merciless chimes of three different systems crying foul, none of which had any bearing on her ability to land the plane at base. Their cries were so incessant that she could just but shut them out of her mind. That much could not be said for her accident in the fray. Jo wouldn’t have it any other way. She could never allow herself to have an accident and feel anything but utter disgust. But her special underwear was making that pursuit damned difficult. The DACT felt dry as as a bone after that fighter materialized to the right – even after Jo realized her bladder had become completely empty. For all Cynthia Bell’s wizardry, though, the trunks could do little to conceal the mess that Jo made when the flak grazed her plane. She’d sat in it the whole way back and wanted to puke each second of it. The alarms finally fell silent as Jo completed her taxi and killed her plane’s engine, allowing the fans to wind their way down in the humid air. More than anything, she wanted to strip out of the sweaty g-suit and soiled DACT and jump into civvies. A nice long smoke and a glass of coke wouldn’t hurt either. With her fingers dancing over the switches that completed shutdown procedure, Jo was ready to jump out of the cockpit and back to sumptuous Air Force life. The cockpit opened and she brought herself over the fuselage sill, down the ladder that had been wheeled out by the team of scrawny boys. “’Scuse me, ma’am, ‘scuse me!” There was a woman amidst them that Jo hadn’t noticed. A cook or a nurse, judging by her skinny arms. She was holding bundle of blue cloth. Trouble. “That’s Major to you.” The girl balked at Jo’s angry growl. She’d shot the messenger. “Well, erm, so… some big general-type came in from France. So, Colonel Gordon wants you in this.” She held out the bundle expectantly. Parade uniform. Ridiculous and sweltering. “Only in the fucking Chair Force, right?”. The girl just nodded, and as soon as Jo took the uniform, slunk away with her head lowered. Not a peep came from the ground crew as Jo crumpled the neatly folded cloth and stormed off to the hangar. She’d just known today’s luck wouldn’t last. Those pompous bastards wouldn’t ever let up. Liz had already filed away her logs when Jo finally found the shade of the hangar. “Hustle up, Jo, they want us to report in 10”. “What the hell, where are we gonna change?” "The hangar, for the boys.” Liz giggled and cocked a half-smile. “But I think I’ll do it in the bushes. Watch my six?” “Fat chance. These goddamned papers.” The lieutenant pouted. “Fine, then.” She leaned in over Jo’s shoulder. “By the way, Major, do you need any, ahem, parade pads?” She’d hardly finished the sentence before breaking into giggles again. “What?” “Nothing, nothing! But if you need them, they’re in my locker.” Parade pads? Jo suddenly remembered the idle chatter from when she was in training. From when the parades were long, the days were hot, and the cadets had small bladders. She’d no problem making it through the ceremonies herself, but come to think of it, no doubt some of her squirming compatriots had come around with “protection”. Old habits die hard for them, huh? But her smug smirk was wiped off her face upon realizing that she still had a soiled DACT to change. To make it worse, she’d no change of either panties or another DACT within a mile of her. A sprint back to the huts was out of the question, and so was asking somebody for a pair. Even changing into the uniform would be a struggle. It was either running the risk of a wandering pilot seeing the soiled trunks, or the disgusting outhouse. Damned hell. She emerged three minutes and seven second later clad in the blue blouse and skirt aborning each ray of the sun and passing the heat onto brass buttons that would be untouchable in half an hour. Her head baked under the jauntily tilted cap, and her broad feet chafed in the too-narrow leather flats. At least the squadron shared in her irritation at Brigadier General Medina’s visit, and implicit bequest that they bake alive under the hot summer sun. With her focus drawn to absolutely nothing in the forever wait, Jo couldn’t help but become gradually aware of the slight twinge in her bladder. Too much water on the way back. She regretted forgoing using the outhouse while she changed, in reluctance to pulling down the soiled trunks without cleaning. But now there was nothing to do but hope the ceremony would be over soon. In due time, the jeep pulled onto the tarmac, the bugles played, and the flags were flown. A doddering man with salt-and-pepper hair walked with arrogant righteousness in front of the stoic soldiers, trying his best to find a fault to turn his nose up at. Half the squadron didn’t know his name and the other half regretted to have learned it, but none broke their stonefaced gaze as the crisply uniformed man went about his impossibly slow inspection. All the while Jo was sweating bullets into the smothering fabric, but noticed most of all the thick padding of her DACT that drenched her crotch in a heavy sweat. If she could feel no moisture earlier, she could certainly feel it now. She barked orders at her subordinates without her heart in it. Each marching step made it all the more obvious that there was a mess in the back of her underwear. Each passing second put more pressure on her already swollen bladder. All the while the sun’s rays sucked the life from each pilot in the squadron. Jo pirouetted on her heel to face the neat rows of blue, searching their expressions for any indication that her predicament had been noticed. But she found only faces of sculpted stone, betraying no sign of anything amiss, no glimmer of anybody who sharing her urgent need for relief. She set her eyes on curly-haired Liz, knowing full well that the sergeant had probably made use of her “parade pad”, and realized that any number of the ladies could have taken up Liz’s offer. Jo scowled. In the skies, those girls could hold their water no better than she; it was little wonder that they would need the protection just to get through this ceremony. But Jo had made sure they all knew that hell would freeze over before Major Simmons would think of doing the same. Cut the crap and scat, you old bastard! By now, her bladder’s howl had made even the heat seem bearable. She could hear each slow, dignified step of the old man behind her but dared not turn her head and break formation. Just a few more paces back to his jeep and this whole damned charade would finish, and everybody could go back to the cool mess hall. Her jaw clenched in anticipation. The old man was at her side now, still walking that pompous walk back towards the rickety jeep. Can he be any slower? He stopped and turned, in a pirouette that rivaled the Earth’s rotation in speed. “Major Simmons! Report to the base!” Jo almost wet herself right there and then. It took all her effort and then some to reign in her bladder from the jaws of defeat, and bark a grimaced “Yes, sir!”. Behind, her subordinates let out a collective sigh of relief at their dismissal. Damned to fucking hell! So close, but her battle had still more to be fought. The son of a bitch just wouldn’t let her catch a break today. Every step she took at Medina’s pace was a round of torture, threatening to let loose every last drop of pee from her bursting belly. She had no inkling of if she could make it to the base or not. Prayer and her whole body’s effort kept her at least dry throughout the endless trek. Grabbing the doorknob and being assailed with the blast of cold indoors air stole away her mind for a tenth of a second – all that was needed for a hot trickle of pee to escape into the padding below. The searing stream dropped her stomach, and it took Jo every fiber of her being to stop before she soaked herself. When the door closed behind the general, her face was red and new beads of sweat had appeared on her forehead. I’ll blame it on the heat. The general and his lieutenant sat her down in a spartan room adorned with only a faded map and chalkboard. Jo only just managed to stay dry in the motion of sitting on the black folding chair. Her legs were clenched tightly together, and her body leaned all the way on the metal seat’s edge. The folds of her skirt fell around her lap, covering even the obvious white cotton of the DACT from anybody’s view. Not that Jo had any mind to think about that, or even notice that she had set all her weight upon the mess that was still in the trunks. Medina’s pleasantries were torture. The thought of easing half her bladder into the trunks bounced in her mind, but Jo knew she was past the point where she could stop the torrent of urine that was sure to escape if she let go. Besides, she could not gauge how much more the trunks could hold after her first accident in the air. The fabric didn’t feel too wet, but in this position, the heavy padding was pulled away from her. She thought back to when she put the trunks on, how they hugged her figure almost like a pair of panties, and she wondered how much weight she had gained to make them fit like that. That feeling was gone now. “...and for the courageous service and great discipline of your squadron, it is my honor to offer every pilot a bonus of seven hundred dollars, effective today.” “Very good, General…” Shit. She shot a glance towards the old man’s lapel. “Gordon”. Saved- Her jubilation was cut short by the realization that in the brief moment, her bladder’s tenuous hold had finally given up. Her eyes widened as she felt the long torrent of urine escape her body and into the DACT, to be collected by padding that she could not feel against her. But in that moment she could spare no concentration towards that thought. The silence was hanging heavy. “I… shall inform my men”. The words came out in a slow, labored growl. All the while the long stream of hot piss was still pouring from crotch. She bit her tongue and cheeks to avoid turning red. General Gordon furrowed his brow. “Then I shall take my leave. Once again, I congratulate you and your men for your fight for God and our great country”. The words did not resonate with Jo at all. She had finally regained her continence, only to find that she had just about emptied herself into the DACT. Not even into – onto. She leaned back in her seat, and suddenly felt the consequences of her accident. The mortifying horror of feeling the warm wetness all over her rear, along the fabric of her trunks where pee would not be absorbed. There was the padding, held against her – this time, the trunks had swollen enough to again fit tightly against her body, only now the wetness was obvious. The DACT had failed her now, in the worst of all times. Her face wanted to burn a bright red but Jo had set herself to pretending that nothing had happened. The general and lieutenant seemingly noticed nothing as they stood up. She did not dare to look down and inspect her seat, for fear of drawing the officers’ eyes towards her crotch. Something to distract, quick! It would be Lucky Strikes to save her this time. “Want a cig?” Gordon turned his nose up. “Oh, I don’t smoke. The tastes revolts me”. His lieutenant said nothing. They began their shuffle out the door. Jo’s heart dropped and stood still as they shuffled past, without a word on their lips. Their eyes crawled past her, past her seat, and into the hallway. Only then did the dare to stand up and found in the shiny meat a liquid imprint in her seat. A brush to the back of her short skirt found a spot of wetness, but a glance down revealed nothing on the front. Salvation. Just as long as she stayed behind the duo. The walk to the jeep was longer than the walk from it. All the men had deserted the tarmac in the time she had been away, but her eyes could not stop darting around in a search for anybody that might notice her accident. Jo had never felt such joy at the sun’s beating heat, in her hope that the rays would be quick to dry up her pee. Even so, she dared not turn around from behind the general until their jeep had but disappeared into the distance. Only then could she set her racing mind towards what to do now. She wanted with all her heart to dash toward her hut, strip out of everything and forget this whole day, but suddenly remembered that little puddle of pee on the seat, that she would have to wipe away before anybody could string together what she had done in that meeting. With the thought of having to beat everybody there, Jo broke into a run, flats and all, but stopped abrupt upon feeling the extra motion work a hot trickle down her leg. She blushed a deep red as all the embarrassment flowed up and emptied into her chest, and resigned herself to a careful and deliberate walk back towards the scene of her accident. Past the glass doors, pass the blast of cold air. Jo scanned the hall quickly and found no sign of activity since she left. With little relief, she dashed into the ladies’ room, scampering for some paper to clean up with. The grimy room was deserted, and seemed to have been for quite a while. Only Jo’s hurried footsteps broke the silence as she hurried herself into a stall and shut the door behind her. A wad of toilet paper would have to do for cleanup. After stuffing the bundle of one-ply into her skirt pocket, Jo found the realization that even her accident from earlier had not fully emptied her. With the leaking DACT still on her mind, she didn’t hesitate to squat over the toilet and relieve herself, only to realize that she’d still no panties to change herself into. Son of a fucking bitch. Now, she was faced with putting the still-soiled trunks back on again or going commando for the walk back to the huts. It was an all too easy choice to make, but Jo’s face was still flushed a bright red as she cleaned herself up as best she could with the toilet paper. She turned to flush the toilet with the jug of blue liquid, and immediately found that she had no place to throw away her soiled DACT. No way the liquid was strong enough to dissolve the trunks, but Jo also had no intention leaving the stall and tossing it somewhere discreet. With resignation, she balled up the sodden padding and stuffed it into the small trash receptacle on the wall, finding that the canister couldn’t even close properly with evidence of her accident disposed of. It would have to do. I wasted to much time in there. Jo bounded down the empty hallways, her unclothed crotch be damned, on her way to the room where she’d wet herself. Mercifully, the room was empty. It was unimaginable to her that she could be so happy upon finding her own puddle of urine, but there it was – the proof that her accident had not been discovered. A quick wipe with the wad of toilet paper removed the evidence, and she was out the room in the blink of an eye, ready to send the last vestige of her accident into the septic tank. The bathroom was right down the hall; she walked briskly and with purpose towards it, almost running to be free of what she’d done. She was only a few steps away when it happened – the door to the bathroom suddenly swung open. Her heart leapt and her steps screeched to a halt; had she not been to the toilet earlier, the cocktail of relief and sudden surprise might have worked a few drops of urine straight onto the linoleum floor below. “Heya, Jo? What’cha doing here?” Liz! The last person Jo wanted to see. “Just finishing some… paperwork. From… my meeting.” She was suddenly aware of the clump of wet toilet paper she was holding, thankfully hidden behind her back. The girl giggled. “Oh? Hey, hey, is it bring your kid to work day? You won’t believe what somebody put in the garbage can! I found a baby’s diaper! A lady must’a changed their kid but she just dumped it right there! Hey, do we know which lady had a baby?” Jo’s heart stopped. “Oh… erm… strange….” Liz squinted, but her mouth didn’t stop. “Did’ja see anybody creepin’ around here?” “No…” “Oh, oh, was it you? Wait, before the parade… Hey, it wasn’t you wearing that, could it be?” “Q-quit it.” Jo grimaced at the waver in her voice betraying her forced stoic expression. She prayed that Liz wouldn’t notice. The young woman seemed none the wiser. “Aw, you’re breaking my heart! You can always tell me anything! See ya!” She did an exaggerated hop and pirouette and skipped out the door. Jo was finally left alone, fully commando, clutching a wad of toilet paper soaked with her own pee, and with a face once again completely flushed with humiliation. Fucking Liz… she’d… better keep her mouth shut.
  5. I've already found the (free) file at the link in the post, which needs a (free, but requires Chinese phone number) Baidu Pan account to download.
  6. I've recently found an upload of what is claimed to be the JAV "SAND-073 Bedwetting Notebook" on Baidu Pan. The site requires an account to download files, and I don't have one. Would anybody be able to grab this file? Link: https://pan.baidu.com/s/18Ia-y9PTHzaMCjDsn4N1wA Link password: 46n3 Extraction password: 477918938
  7. methinks it's too good a setting to not write more about ・ω・
  8. This is a collaboration I did with the talented LivingInfinite. He's done the honor of creating many drawings to accompany the story, which are spoilered next to where they appear in the text. Make sure to check him out at http://pixiv.me/livinginfinite (or if you just want to see the drawings). (The story takes place in the same universe as March of the Valkyries. Consider reading it first, it's sort of a prequel to this one.) “How much longer remains for us to travel?” “The Third Corps rest twenty-three kilometers to our north. They have received your order to remain still for three days. Should misfortune not befall our journey, we will arrive at noon tomorrow.” “Then let us dawdle no longer. Where are we to go?” “Certainly, your majesty. We shall go now in this direction.” Queen Ulrika the First of Scandia, regal and resplendent in an officer’s uniform, led her servant through the long grass. The queen’s stride necessitated in Iris a hurried pace matched easily by the plodding, unburdened horses she led. Perhaps walking was indeed invigorating, as Ulrika had declared, but she wished now for a respite from her sore muscles more than any invigoration. How intractable the queen was in these times, allowing the two powerful and prized stallions to be led with naught more than clothes on their backs. Of the four, the brown Arabian was perhaps the most acquainted with the surrounding lands. He was a war-horse, an ex-regular in the Gothian army whose care was bestowed upon the Scandians after a crushing battle at Mistelfeld. The green peaks enveloping the party were where he once grazed, the rapid streams in the dense forests where he once drank. Gothia’s winds, rushing cold and fast in the deep Visigoth valleys, rustled his mane as they had since he was a colt. What an idyllic scene it must have been to the stallion, who could not have known that he, in nominal terms, had still not yet returned to his homeland. For his new master, the queen who had brought him back to his pastoral valleys, had made the lands behind her Scandian soil. Eleven years of victory and conquest under Ulrika’s reign had brought her Northern empire to the peak of its power, possessing as it did now a dominion exceeding that of Gustav IV’s and an exorbitant wealth not seen since Harald II. Her march had not stopped at the lands lost in the Twelve Years’ War, for she had taken it upon herself to exact from her adversaries the vengeance Scandia’s royalty had long promised and failed to achieve. The Livonian Federation had been dismantled and existed now only as Scandian tributaries, bestowing wheat from its fertile fields upon the soldiers who were now bringing upon the Gothian Empire a similar fate. Four years of the Second Strelizian War released the once-mighty empire’s final vassals to Ulrika, who hesitated not one second in leading her Grand Army to breach the citadel of Greater Gothia. The conqueress now trod upon the Gothian heartland’s soil. An extraordinary mythos had burgeoned around the Virago Queen, whose continued presence on the battlefield broke enemy morale and reinforced her troops’ unyielding bravery even in the face of certain death. The veneration of her subjects manifested in their insistence she be referred to as Ulrika the Great, while her foes decried the Scandian monarch as a harpy of death and subjugation. But while Ulrika’s unassailable bravery in the fray made her distinct from the tradition of Scandian nobility preferring to dictate battle from afar, her tenuous control over herself while in the throes of war remained an accursed vestige of her genteel lineage. Though she would never dare to voice her thoughts, Iris could not help but ponder if the burden of bloodshed upon heart and mind had made worse the queen’s already poor continence. At any rate, it was a notion that Ulrika’s pride in herself compelled a wholehearted rejection of. She was still reaching ever-greater glory for her country and her reign, marching as she was now closer and closer to the Gothian nobility in their capital. For all of the nation’s great populations crammed into the sooty cities of industry, the countryside offered a solace of tranquility devoid of cacophonies of modernity. But free it was not of the heavens’ bellows, crashing down upon the valley in a peal of thunder echoing all around the Baden peaks. The sudden clap would prove enough of a shock to Ulrika for her to momentarily lose herself in battle-tempered trauma, and allow into her diaper’s clean padding her hot urine and a malodorous load. Only with considerable effort did could she gather enough composure to get a hold on herself, but by which point the sodden padding between her thighs and sticky mess at her rear told Ulrika her accident had been quite considerable. But Iris and her equine companion seemed entirely unperturbed by the thunder, as revealed to the queen in a quick backwards glance. Though Iris had at least suspected, from Ulrika’s reaction and blush, her secret, to make mention of needing a change to her collected servant would be a wound to Ulrika’s pride – and so she walked onwards at a steady tempo, with a blush of secret humiliation upon her face and a soiled diaper tucked discreetly under her clean clothes. She scowled at having wet herself at something so minute, something that should have under no circumstance scared her to that degree. Had it not been for Saalfeld… Adamant she was in her own strength and ability, Ulrika could not help but feel a twinge of displeasure at retaining still her personal failings despite all which she had achieved. She had become the Virago Queen and Ulrika the Great, but could not prove herself more continent than when she had been Princess Elisabeta. A preservation of her image in war was beyond a matter of her vanity—it was a powerful instrument of propaganda serving Scandian interests in the minds of both her subjects and foes. It was to Ulrika’s great displeasure that the achievement of those ends involved at times a sacrifice of her own dignity. As with all things relating to Ulrika’s personal matters, long-suffering Iris had endured much vexation before her mistress could be convinced of a need to wear protection in the days after encountering a clash. The queen had never but begrudgingly accepted the circumstance, and continued to profess to Iris the reservations she had about wearing a diaper she could not remove to relieve herself. But in light of her queen’s tendency to wet herself at even mild impetus, the servant found that such a situation presented itself quite rarely indeed. Not an hour had passed since thunder had coursed through the clouded valley when the sun peeked furtively out of the gloomy clouds. All the valley basked in its warming rays lifting the mild morning dew off long blades of grass. Such was the duality of the Gothian sky. A mild humid heat began to wash over heavily-dressed Ulrika; with sweat beading on her brow she instructed Iris to lead them into the forested trough. Their slow descent on the rocky terrain brought the sounds of life closer with each step, a symphony of birdsong and stirring fauna. A restless doe trotted half a league away, crunching on the layer of leaves below her hooves. Unbeknownst to her, she was being tracked – watched in the sights of a Weiss hunting rifle. The rifle’s bark scattered all life unlucky enough to have their peace intruded by the shot, sending legions of rodents scampering and bringing flocks of birds to the skies. Magnified as it was by the shape and depth of the valley, the shot would register within Ulrika as a phantom of the ruthless bullets hurled towards her at Saalfeld, that great fight whose recent memory still lurked inside her soul. Indeed, the discharged rifle was of the same manufacture as the one which had downed countless Scandians in their campaign in Gothia. It impressed within Ulrika’s subconscious that she was being assassinated, but the cohesion of the thought was lost in its journey to register as a sheer reflex-inducing terror. The queen spat a curse and staggered to the side with the momentum of her weight, leaping for cover behind the muscular flanks of her horse and eliciting from the beast a startled whinny. Her arms shot up in defense of her head and heart, and brushed on it way her shotgun’s roost across her breast. Adrenaline overcame fear enough for her to bring forth the weapon to return fire. Engrossed as she had been on escaping death and now returning fire, Ulrika stood unaware that the unadulterated terror had cost her what control she had over herself. The second deadly shot never came. But of course. The sound was too distant to have been a messenger of grave danger. Only as her fear subsided did she notice the increased bulk of the sodden padding between her legs, and the sensation in her bowels indicating that she had again emptied herself into her diaper. That she had voided enough in her earlier accident to avoid spilling the full contents of her bladder into the already soiled diaper was only a small mercy. Ulrika could feel against her nether regions now the mass of heavily soaked padding; and while her clothes remained clean it was quite clear that the same would not be true if she were to be overcome by fear again. The sight of Iris cowering teary-eyed behind her horse was enough consolation for Ulrika, but she still could not help but blush deeply when she opened her mouth. “Iris…” “Oh-, Y-Your Majesty, s-shall we stop for a brief respite from travel?” The servant’s voice was still quavering from fear, but irritatingly her dress seemed to remain clean. “Certainly, you must be fatigued. Before you rest, I ask that you … aid me with my personal matters.” “Of course. Ah– if I may, I shall mention that my supply of your, ah, u-undergarments, has become rather lessened.” Iris let a pause hang, then quickly stammered, “But please trust that I may find more.” In spite of herself, it was annoyance and not embarrassment that fell into Ulrika’s voice.“I understand. But assist me now nevertheless.” Iris needed only nod in confirmation. The less words to be said the better. The servant carefully tied the horses to a nearby tree before she went to attend to Ulrika, who glanced suspiciously around the forest for prying eyes. To quell the queen’s concerns, Iris led her behind a sturdy oak growing against a steep dirt bank, a pocket of nature shielded from the sun and eyes in two directions. She begun by undoing Ulrika’s pants and undressing the queen just enough to expose the evidently used diaper at her crotch. Experience had made Iris’s touch gentle and delicate, all for Ulrika to divest her attention away from the humiliation. She did not look once at her mistress’s face as she removed the diaper and cleaned Ulrika’s skin, the weight of the used padding revealing just how much she had needed the protection. It took naught more than two minutes for Iris to finish wrapping the queen in a clean diaper and dress her again, by which time the embarrassment had too receded from her cheeks. With the hot sun now high in the sky, Ulrika chose to mount her horse and ride in the shade of the valley’s tall pines. The horses, hemmed in by the tall pines and dense underbrush, could not unleash their mighty gallop here, and so carried their riders in a lively trot past rushing creeks and fallen logs. Each passed landmark prompted Iris to consult her map and compass, and adjust just enough their course to carry onwards to nightfall’s destination. There were no roads and no trails here in the countryside; a land seemingly devoid of all human imprint where one could hide and never be found. Ulrika relaxed her still-tense mind from the thought of the hunter, and let the horse’s steady gait while the hours away against the backdrop of a peaceful alpine forest. As the afternoon unraveled and the journey grew long, the Baden Valley scenery gently rolled by and changed remarkably little. Only when the horses suddenly stopped and whinnied were the two travelers broken out of their dreamlike trance. Curiously, they could spot nothing amiss within the heavily wooded vicinity which could have brought their stallions to a halt. In an abdication of her fruitless search, Ulrika knit her eyebrows and picked up the reins, preparing to spur on the disconcerted steed, when a furious howl abruptly shattered the silence of the forest. The savage cry startled all who it struck, and Ulrika’s heart jumped in her chest and her body stiffened, allowing for a moment an errant stream of piss to escape and absorb into her waiting diaper. Her regal white mount neighed and staggered, tugging upon the reins his rider still held in hand. But a temperament bred for calm under the utmost stress would prevail, and so when the scarlet fox leapt out from behind the trees he merely snorted and pawed the ground, waiting dutifully for the leather reins’ next instruction. Ulrika, however, had understood what the horse could not – those bulging eyes and the foam at the mouth, the convulsions and the erratic dash – a mad beast, a rabid beast! With not an ounce of restraint or reason in its mind, the snarling foxed twisted and contorted, and bolted towards the first creature it could see with salivating jaws ready to sink their teeth into soft flesh. Though small the fox was, the sight of its rabid dash towards its quarry would easily make Ulrika’s blood run cold. And in an instant it had found her again – the still-festering apparitions at Saalfeld, the apparition haunting her nights – those demons of death and terror, lurking always deep within her heart. It was too soon to forget, too living a memory to suppress; she had emerged victorious from the battle of ereyesterday but her nerves had been shot. So consumed was Ulrika was by the awakened terror of human carnage that she could not find it in her to scream or draw her weapon, and with her muscles paralyzed by fear she failed also to inhibit the torrent of hot urine that rushed freely from her bladder or the load squishing out of her slackened bowels. Her extremities became less and less material and dangled weightless, useless at her sides; all the queen could feel now was her heart exploding in her chest and the hot piss pooling at her crotch before it could soak into the drenched padding. But without ally in grave peril she was not, for her white Scandian horse had too realized the scope of the danger. Retaining still a clear and sharpened mind, the great beast bucked and leapt gracefully out of harm’s way, and upon impact with the earth broke into a gallop in tandem with his Arabian brethren. The horse’s loud neigh and powerful stride would be a strange reassurance proving enough for her to regain some sense, and though her chest still pounded with a bursting heart the ferocity of battle was beginning to take hold of her temples. The fox was behind, screeching a pitiful wail of desperation and confusion, and wildly running still in a chase for something, anything, though it did not even know what it was chasing for. A long-awaited demise, albeit delivered without intention of mercy, came from the left barrel of Ulrika’s Seidel shotgun in an impeccable Parthian shot. When the fox had collapsed on the ground and the blood began to paint its matted fur a sanguine red, Ulrika turned herself back around and pulled on her horse’s reins, abruptly ceasing his free and wild gallop. Iris’ Arabian followed suit. The encounter had not taken more than a minute, but to Ulrika it had felt as though half her life was stolen away. What a calamity this was. It had merely been a fox – and even instilled with all the madness in the world could not have been any match for Ulrika. But in the circumstances of today… and though I could at least kill the fox with due competence… how hampering was the residue of warfare on her soul, slowing her, dulling her, filling her with undue fear. Her assailant indeed lay dead behind her, but left her to contend with the sensation of sitting in padding wet with her own pee and a disgusting mess that the saddle squished against her backside. More than anything, she felt quite disgusted with the spectacle. There were people afoot here, hunters or farmers perhaps, murmuring among themselves while casting glances over the strange outsider in their lands. Ulrika glanced quickly at her backside to ensure her secret remained hidden, and though it wasn’t particularly reasonable for her diaper to have leaked she still felt a bout of relief at finding her clothes dry. Still, there hung over Ulrika an undeniable embarrassment of being seen while having soiled herself. To further the queen’s disconcertion, Iris again retained great composure despite all which had just occurred. Had she seen not the fox’s raving madness? The queen had begun riding again at a slow trot, and so Iris picked up heir reins also to follow. Only after about two minutes did the queen stop her steed and cast a long, suspicious stare behind her. Iris balked slightly before realizing she was not the subject of her mistress’s misgivings. She had a mind to ask Ulrika for what she wished for, but the sight of the queen’s twisted expression and crimson blush bade her to keep silence. It had also the effect of telling her precisely what would be requested of her. “Iris!” The servant jumped a bit at the anger with which her mistress spoke. “Yes?” “Ach … were you been injured by that vile, rabid creature? You must know how dangerous it is to be bitten by mad beasts!” As she spoke, the edge of her voice dulled. “Oh… I had not even noticed! Then I am sincerely grateful for your valorous deed!” Iris needed not feign her surprise. And Ulrika’s shot was indeed fantastic. “Is that so? Well, shall we rest for a while then? Just to steady ourselves.” “Certainly, ah, well, will you need me from anything then?” She tried dearly to speak with discretion. “If you may.” The flatness of Ulrika’s response told Iris of her success in tact, though of course she could not let her relief show on her face. As before, she retrieved another one of Ulrika’s diapers from the bag slung across the Arabian’s haunches. For not one second did she let the gentle grace in her movement falter as she cleaned and changed Ulrika. When all was said and done she quickly turned heel and climbed upon her Gothian horse, and waited earnestly for sight of the queen’s stallion to lead them forwards in travel. Where the tall peaks separating Gothia from its vassals begin to fall away, there lies kissed by the sun swathes of the continent’s most fertile, most bountiful farmland. The autumn’s great harvests of wheat nourished the all lands’ children, garnished by the vineyards’ delectable wines and the breweries’ stout ales. The grazing bovine herds and fattened pigs in their pens completed the bucolic beauty. How pitiful it was for such a prosperous realm to fall so unceremoniously before frozen, lifeless Scandia! The cornucopia waited at the mouth of the valley, deceiving close, tantalizing travelers with the promise that it lay not but a few paces away. But the lands were wily, for the valley rolled gently and gradually, concealing the vast distances of travel that remained in the endless valley before Gothia’s breadbasket. The sun drew lower in the sky sending its light dancing around the tops of the highest peaks, and withdrew its beating heat from the valley floor to be cooled by emerging evening breezes. It was Ulrika who first noticed the rushing wind sifting through the valley’s dense trees and realized the waning of the day. Hours and countless kilometers had gone by since her encounter with the fox. Having not left the forest of the valley floor, she had yet to be enticed by vistas of the Gothian hinterland, and was fast tiring of the beautiful but monotonous woodlands. She pulled sharply upon her white horse’s reins and swung her body off the saddle in one graceful motion, obliging Iris to quickly follow suit and begin leading both horses on foot. The servant consulted her map and compass for the umpteenth time, and when satisfied in the slight detour Ulrika had chosen to take, looked up to follow her out of the woods. Undeniable was the Baden Valley’s beauty, but its gentle inclines did not endear the Scandian queen to the lands now in her possession. All the noble blood in the world could not teach her to cherish the world’s natural grandeur through the eyes of an aristocrat. Though Iris was enraptured by the beauty her homeland so dearly lacked, Ulrika remained markedly unimpressed by how effortless a climb on the Gothian slopes felt. The leisurely stroll was barely less monotonous than a ride through the forest, but demure Iris had broken her usual silence to insist that they stay upon the hillside. She would stop to rest several times during their walk, but Ulrika felt throughout not even the slightest hint of exhaustion or exertion. There was in her body no savory ache nor biting soreness to test her endurance, and in light of her muscles’ ambivalence Ulrika’s senses were drawn to her gradually filling bladder. She cursed herself for having put on her last diaper, for she could not remove it even to relieve herself without putting it to waste. All she could do now was squeeze her legs together and try to relieve the mounting pressure. A hot dryness had formed in the back of Ulrika’s mouth, inviting her to take a swig from her canteen to slake off the thirst. She obliged and brought the jug to her lips, pouring forth the cool, pure water she had collected earlier from a rushing stream. But gulping the refreshing drink down into her stomach proved too much for her burdened bladder, which flinched and released, allowing its full contents to flow unrestrained into the waiting padding. Ulrika recoiled instantly and jammed a hand into her crotch to try and stem the torrent of hot piss, but her efforts proved futile; her diaper slowly expanded and warmed with her own pee for what felt like an agonizing eternity. When she had finally regained control of herself, she found that the bulk of sodden padding was pressing against her. In all other circumstances, she would have asked Iris for a change – but to do so now would mean traveling the remainder of the day without any protection. And recollecting all which had happened prompted Ulrika to quickly discard the idea. There was no alternative, then; despite everything, she would have to travel onwards in the diaper she had wet. Dusk had replaced afternoon by the time Iris and Ulrika exited the Baden Valley and arrived in the fertile fields. Gothia’s breadbasket was still a rustic and backwards plain, a far cry from the great feats of industrialization achieved in Aldenburg or Mülheim. Few people occupied the vast tracts of land, and what little made it their home lived in old-fashioned accommodations reminiscent of a bygone century. Separating each family from the next were vast fields of wheat and rye, stretching as far as the eye could see. Skipped as the countryside was by the new development of railroads, the Gothian peasants lived insular lives within their little farmhouses. Though the backwater’s houses was a far cry from the great palaces of Gothia and Scandia, for the weary travelers it was the best accommodation for miles around. Even deep in the lands of a warring state, the rural poor would not refuse a few guilders to quarter an enemy officer. Armed with the wealth of the Scandian crown, Ulrika could afford to be discerning when finding a bed for a night; and though she usually refrained from being particular she had today a pressing need for diapers to scavenge. Though she was in no position to refuse whatever she found, she hoped that industrialized Gothia would see their denizens at least buying disposable diapers for their infants. In rural Gothia, however, finding a house that housed a child was proving a long and arduous task. Frustratingly, there was not a map or guide for the region, and the tall crop combined with the fading light had made navigation itself a challenging procedure. To find a house at all was a small miracle, and to find one that served Ulrika’s needs seemed nigh impossible. Light was fading quickly from the fields; and though the queen was unbothered by the darkness she wished for a place to relieve her churning bowels. The rations of salted beef had not agreed with her today. With no end to the long search in sight, she made the conscious choice to void only a bit of her mess into the diaper’s thick padding. As soon as she felt the mush escape her, she instantly regretted her infantile act. Now she could not even remove her diaper until she had something clean to change into. Endlessly they searched as the hours ticked by and the sun receded to leave the valley in the throes of dusk. They mounted their horses to hasten their progress and discovered that they had only become disoriented faster. Many times Iris would note in dismay that they had only gone in circles. And all throughout, Ulrika found that voiding herself earlier had done little to lessen the bully beef grumbling in her stomach and coagulating in her bowels. She pressed Iris into the role of sole navigator, and concentrated hard on bearing down upon her abdomen, trying with all her might to avoid another accident. But it all came to no avail when her stomach suddenly lurched as she prowled the fields and forced from Ulrika’s bowels the contents she had so desperately tried to hold in. It was the second such incident that she had the displeasure of enduring today, and the mortification of wetting herself earlier paled in comparison to the absolute disgust she felt now. Her position on the saddle had the effect of pressing the foul mush up against her as soon as it escaped her, filling her entire diaper and backside with her waste. The diaper filled and strained to keep contained all of the queen’s accident, before the mass of the expulsion overwhelmed the leg gathers and allowed some to leak past her padding and into the back of her pants. Though she was already struggling with the pounding ache in her bowels, it was impossible for Ulrika to not notice instantly her diaper’s failure. Revulsion and shock swept over her, turning her face beet-red in chagrin. She could no longer maintain a pretense in front of Iris. The servant took not much longer to discover her mistress’s lapse in continence. She made no comment upon seeing the stain on the back of Ulrika’s pants. Driven by a mixture of fear and embarrassment, and without making a ripple in the awkward atmosphere, she silently hastened her pace in looking for a place to stay the night. The queen rode wordlessly behind her, shifting her weight constantly to lessen the discomfort she was in. Her great impatience for finding a place to stay had been supplemented by a crushing fear at being seen in her soiled state. But time would prove a harsh mistress and drag on for an unbearable eternity, punctuated occasionally by the discovery of another farmhouse only to find it without young children. Ulrika rode in the shadow of Iris, trying the best she could to keep as far away from prying eyes as possible. Night had almost completed its succession of day when Iris heard suddenly, from the barely-illuminated farmhouse she was riding towards, the cry of a young child. There could be the night’s stay! She cracked the reins across the Arabian, urging it into a canter, but the queen did not follow with the same vigor. Sensing quickly her mistake, she slowed her horse down to a slow trot. But Ulrika was ahead of her, having already dismounted and continued inconspicuously on foot. Iris followed in turn, and for the remainder of the distance to the farmhouse led her horse behind her. When she had reached her destination, she tied the beast to a fence and knocked upon the heavy oak door. Though she saw through the windows shadows move behind candlelight, the ruddy-cheeked boy who greeted at her at the door still took her by surprise. “Hiya, whaddya want?” He spoke through grating and tonal voice, and had the vernacular of the country dialect. Though she had years of learning with the language, Iris could only just understand the child. “May I speak to your parents, little one?” Her Gothian was the precise and careful speech of one who learned through books. It marked her as not only an intellectual, but also a foreigner in these lands. “They went out to tha market. A’hm the only one ‘round. Watcha need, auntie? Who’re you anyway? Are you one of them bandits? You don’t look one!” All the words tumbled out of his mouth and mixed together. Coarse as he was, Iris could not help but find the jovial child endearing. “We’re only travelers from a faraway land. We’ve no place to stay tonight. If you wish, I can reward you for helping us.” She held open a hand, revealing three shimmering gold pieces. The child’s eyes went huge. “Wow! Please-please-please stay here! I’ll letcha you my mama’s room! Howd’ja get the gold? Are you a king? Are you a prince?” He stared at Iris with scrutiny. Now Iris couldn’t help but laugh. “Where I come from the gold grows on trees. But where I come from is a secret!” The boy pondered her words for a moment, and apparently satisfied, took the coins and opened the door. Ulrika had been ignored completely by the child, now showing Iris around the house, and she was relieved for it. She prayed that the odor of her accident and the stain on her pants would be go unnoticed. Luck would finally be on her side, however, as the musk of open bedpans and livestock pervaded the entire house. Her attention was torn quickly to the sounds of a young child’s unintelligible speech, and she realized then that in the room across from her was the farmhouse’s only other denizen. It was a young girl, a young girl who walked steadily upon her two feet but spoke slowly and with considerable labor. She was dressed in a simple and rough dress made of a single piece of faded grey cloth, and walked over to speak to Ulrika in the Gothian that she did not understand a word of. Before the child could become frustrated at the strange newcomer who understood nothing and spoke nothing, she was scooped up quickly by her older brother and taken into another room. Taking care to stay out of sight, Ulrika watched from behind a doorframe as the boy placed her sister upon the bed and changed her diaper. She waited until the child had left the room and scampered downstairs, and called loudly in Scandian for her servant to come quickly. Iris, understanding fully Ulrika’s predicament, hesitated not for a second in responding to the request. With a wet sponge and several rags, she gently cleaned off Ulrika and peeled from her the soiled clothing to wash. Night had fallen, and the travelers would take the initiative to pad downstairs for a cold bath the kitchen’s metal tub. With both children in the house asleep, they could relax and indulge in the house’s greatest luxury. When satisfied with the bath, both women changed themselves into their silken nightgowns. Iris slipped into a pair of simple cotton panties, and produced from a bag several baby diapers she had taken from the daughter’s bedroom. She prepared from the kitchen a corrugated washboard to wash the queen’s uniform in, only looking up from her work to see Ulrika walk upstairs with the diapers in hand. By the dim glow of candlelight, the queen entered and locked the door of her room, and when sure of her absolute privacy looked carefully over the diapers to discern how she could fit them over herself. While they were certainly preferable to the prospect of wetting herself without protection, Ulrika found baby diapers to be always tight-fitting and exceedingly uncomfortable around her hips and crotch. Much to Ulrika’s displeasure, the diaper she squeezed around her waist now would prove no different. Worse still, wearing the infantile undergarment inspired no confidence – the thin padding, meant for children, would no doubt fail at containing any of the queen’s accidents. All the pillaged diapers provided to her was a small safeguard, an interim for minor leaks before she could procure another package of her personal protection. With brief consideration of her bedwetting and how unacceptably small the child’s diaper was, Ulrika decided then to put on over the diaper she wore a second pair of the padded undergarments, and hoped for the best as she lay herself down upon the bed to sleep. Though she gazed through eyes clouded by the dense fog, Ulrika found in her heart the stirring of pride upon inspecting her Grand Army at arms and ready for their trial. Upon the field were regiment upon orderly regiment of blue-coated infantry, marching in step and unison to the beat of the battle-drums, bayonets at the ready and with hearts full of valor beating in their chests. Forwards, forwards they marched, advancing in an ever-quickening tempo, pouring from their chests the gallant Northern battle-cry. The methodical march of man was drowned out by the furious flight of cavalry, galloping without fear or question into the guns of the enemy. A thousand brandished cuirassiers’ sabers sliced through the fine mist. All the worlds’ chaos was gone, drowned out by the great roar of wind rushing past. Orange turned the sky, illuminated by the fire spat from countless muzzles and penetrating deep into the murky heavens; and the infinite fury of battle collapsed back upon itself as it fell down to the earth below, finally striking Ulrika as nothing more than a drop of light bouncing daintily off her weapon’s polished brass. The gates of Hell had opened and smeared the dewy hills with a plague of black-coated Gothian soldiers, congealing and converging in the haze into one great being before the order of battle forced them apart. They were the spawn of the perfidious rogues who a century earlier had crippled and torn apart the Scandian empire and doomed to a frozen exile all which had remained. But that had been when Scandia was weak and Gothia was strong; now Scandia was mighty and poised to bring upon the invaders’ homelands a long-promised retribution. You may fight like lions and die as free men, but you will not change the fate that awaits your lands. Nearer and nearer the Gothians drew, their curses and epithets sounding louder, their gunfire bursting brighter and the hail of bullets growing thicker. They were drawn as moths are to a flame towards the flanking light infantry, and in droves fell upon their knees to fire upon the charging Scandians. Ten thousand rounds of fire coalesced into one roar sweeping from their divisions across the grassy plains, cracking violently over each Scandian horse and rider as the first bullets began striking the earth. The loosened ground began splashing up in little fountains, glanced by the flying lead; closer and tighter the pattern drew, so Ulrika gritted her teeth and pulled with all her strength to turn herself away, further from the guns, further from the storms of death. And the bullets fell away from her, and there was for a moment a blessed peace, before the second volley started in earnest and though the reverberating roar fell farther away the merciless bullets bracketed her closer than they had before. Ulrika’s head was torn apart by a thousand impulses and her breath snared deep within her chest, and the horse was crying for want of clear instruction as she desperately whipped the beast back and forth in an effort to throw off their aim. She was in the depths of a terror and turmoil that slowly sapped the strength from her tightly-clenched body, allowing to trickle from her crotch a weak but consistent trickle of piss to be absorbed by her diaper before she could even notice. Faster, faster she charged her horse to run, only half a league onwards, fifteen, ten seconds to safety. But the third withering volley never came, its expected roar replaced by frantic screams of sudden melee and disorganized gunfire. The Scandian cuiraissiers had arrived, charging with gleaming swords into the distracted infantry regiments, slashing, cutting with impunity. Lulled away from the cover of their heavy guns by the Scandians’ charge, the black-coated mob found itself without defense from the cavalry eviscerating their ranks. The feint had been successful beyond expectations, though Ulrika was already too far away to appreciate the victory, riding still at a breakneck pace until she had crested the hill’s ridge into the Scandian infantry’s ranks. Only then did she grant herself a respite, unwinding her body slowly from the tight clench of a fight for survival. Though terrifying it was to be the defenseless lure in the order of battle, the losses on her regiment had been quite minimal; nary more than a handful Scandians would emerge bleeding from Gothian fire. There would be a brief calm to be enjoyed now, a fleeting moment for the injured to be rescued and the disarmed to be requisitioned by their comrades on foot. Ulrika felt herself for wounds, and realized suddenly that the padding between her legs had grown quite warm and damp against her crotch. Her bladder felt empty. I must have wet myself without noticing. Blind to the battlefield from the low ground they sheltered in, Ulrika’s light cavalry could not but wait for the bugle’s call for them to ride again into the fray. The horses trotted indignantly at being denied the excitement of battle; their riders mentally braced for facing the next gauntlet. One, two unbearable minutes drew by, before over the hill came the clarion signal, urging the division into another perilous struggle against their own demises. No time to think, no time to hesitate; there was but one task at hand to be faithfully executed. It was a strategy whose creation Ulrika herself had overseen, and now as she loaded the gleaming brass shells into her shotgun and spurred her horse to carry herself into the enemy lines, a strategy that she would become component of. Cheers and hurrahs from the hunkered infantry carried her into battle, their voices an ardent reminder of her duty still as the Scandian idol. The two opposing forces had taken sides around the hilly battlefield, their ground demarcated by the fire of heavy cannon denying enemy advances into their lands. Both Scandian and Gothian ranks dispersed in the face of shell bursting with enough strength to wholly eviscerate a platoon. A stalemate began to coalesce over the battlefield – a stalemate that attacking Scandia had not the ability to weather. Now, the Grand Army’s spearhead could only be sharpened again by the light cavalry. Though her horse could run without fear of enemy fire in the depression, Ulrika also found herself unable to discern when her comrades’ lines ended and her enemies’ started. Scandian cries melded into foreign barks as she pushed deeper into the enemy’s ranks, but she did dared not to strike upon them until she could hear their artillery’s thundering fire. Each shot was louder and more violent than the rest, until she could feel in her bones the earth tremble from under her horse’s flying hooves. She was upon their cannon now, and a burst of fire that could pierce the heavens thundered to her right, the sheer might of its great bellow slamming into her as something tangible and forcing from her quivering bladder the last few drops of urine that she had not already lost. And then she could hear through the deafening ringing in her ears the artillery’s violence fade further and further away; they were behind the Gothian spearhead now. Five seconds, four seconds, three, two, one. Ulrika pulled sharply upon the right reign, and with a neigh her horse obliged to bound over the gentle slope, taking her in an instant into a sea of black-coated Gothian soldiers. They were to her right, to her front, surrounding her but outmatched entirely by the Scandians descending suddenly upon their ranks. Ulrika placed in both hands her Seidel and aimed quickly at the dense crowd. There was no need to identify a single target before she pulled the heavy trigger, for the Gothians had assembled so tightly that the heavy lead shells were practically guaranteed to find a mark. Again and again the twin-barreled shotgun sent its tumbling projectiles into the Gothians, who in their haste to arm and return fire had abandoned the cannon, but were nevertheless cut down in droves before they could shoot back at their assailants. Not once did Ulrika slow her horse’s breakneck gallop, nor had she the mind to consider where in the battlefield she had plunged, so entirely fixated as she was upon the blistering rampage representing all that she could do to ward off her death. Load, aim, kill, load, aim, kill. To relent was to die. To fight so viciously upon horseback was a singular experience in its cocktail of pure adrenaline and terror. It was difficult to note even the most prominent of events, no matter how close they may have occurred. But though the world had folded and collapsed down into horse and rider, it was becoming impossible to ignore the physical exertion and pain that was beginning to surface. How long have I fought – how much longer will I fight? Fatigue was dripping its venom into Ulrika’s absolute focus, melting away its layers, averting her eyes from their duties and forcing her to witness the carnage around her. A flash of black, darker than the depths of night, and there it was, the Gothian cavalry had arrived, chasing the raiders with great swords at the ready. Now the world was being pulled apart, revealing its horrors for all to see; Ulrika twisted her body around and aimed quickly at the charging soldier upon his powerful black horse, and hesitated not a second to shoot behind her, allowing the pursuing soldier to fall into the tumbling leaden shells. She would not wait to see the spray of blood choke the cries of man and beast, for she had spurred her horse in a bid to escape, and with her heart snared by terror dared not look back upon the black-coated divisions. Faster, faster she pleaded her horse to run, and pressed herself lower and lower until her chest was touching his mane, but the ruthless shouts behind her still would not cease, pulling with greater and greater strength upon her mind to look behind, to find what would become of her. The pressure mounted upon her until it became unbearable, and finally look she did, and saw all which she had dreaded made manifest; her comrades had vanished and been replaced by a hundred, a thousand soldiers in black upon horses of the same shade, screaming in Gothian and slashing their glinting swords, pushing their horses faster and faster, drawing nearer and nearer to the sprinting white horse. All the blood in Ulrika’s body had been drawn into her pounding heart, and she could feel naught but the scream in her chest, pounding against her ribs and threatening to tear her wide open. Her continence disintegrated in absolute terror, releasing from her emptied bladder only drops of piss; the same mercy could not be afforded to her bowels, churning and emptying a volume of mess into the padding where it, pressed against the lurching saddle, was squished all across her backside. But Ulrika noticed not at all that she had just messed herself, so consumed as she was by the death encroaching steadily upon her. She tore her eyes away to desperately find an escape, but all there was ahead were the Gothians, a sea of them to both her sides, marching in unison like toy soldiers closer and closer until the path in front was closed, and then slowly, mechanically, lifting their rifles all at once to fire an infinite volley. Then at her right there was the black horse again, and she glanced over to find in horror that it was the horseman she had shot earlier, returned now in flesh and blood, lifting over his head a curved sword shimmering and dancing from a light she could not see. She squeezed her eyes shut, but could see still, in perfect clarity, the blade fall towards her, ready to cleave her apart, and in that moment she understood perfectly that she was to die. Valhalla… My blood? Something was clinging to her, something liquid. She lying upon her back, but could not recall what had put her there. Gone was the great cacophony of the battlefield. Ulrika slowly forced open her bleary eyes. A room, an unfamiliar room, but empty and peaceful nonetheless. There was no gunfire, no horseman, no sword, no Valhalla. It was Saalfeld again – that battle which stalked her still in her dreams and haunted her waking moments. It was her victory, but how utterly horrific it had been, trapping her divisions in a wild, defenseless escape before throwing her back to live it all over again. And how viciously those Gothians had fought for their fatherland, retreating not one step back, caring not even for their own lives, fighting and dying until the rivers ran red with their blood. To decimate all twenty thousand of their ranks took near all of the day, in which time their maneuvers trapped her within the butchery and forced her into struggle after bloody struggle. They had denied her all opportunity to retreat and change, and their relentless assaults did not fail to elicit from her several more accidents, each time further wearing away her fortitude to the point that she had soiled herself at the Scandian cannon-fire behind her. By the time she could accept the surrender her diaper had failed to contain all her mess, and the evidence for her fear had leaked past onto her thighs. That was quite possibly the most terrifying aspect of it all – how close she had come to losing completely her soldiers’ faith and enemies’ fear. The umbrage lingered even after she had changed, accentuated by her frustration of having helplessly messed herself at a shock so minute, as if she was again a princess who had never seen warfare. But she was not on the fields of Saalberg, and it was not her blood that clung wetly to her thighs. In a quickly cooling puddle around her, soaking into the rough sheets of the Gothian farmhouse, was her own pee, spilled in her sleep from the thin padding tightly wrapped around her crotch. With her eyes open now, she quickly found that even wearing the two diapers had helped little against her bedwetting; her face grew hot at the prospect of having to hide from the child her soaked sheets. A foul odor made its presence known to the humiliated queen as well, and she realized with defeat that the diaper had been ineffective at containing not just her urine. With a sigh of defeat, Ulrika propped herself up, taking care and caution taken to not spill out any more of her accident from the ill-fitting infant’s garment. She had no mind to take the soiled diapers off as underwear, opting instead to simply tear apart their elastic sides and throw them down into an empty chamber pot. Oh, what to do now. She could not call for Iris, nor could she possible leave her room dressed like this. But in her soiled state she had no desire to dress in anything. All there was to do was drape a towel around her, as a makeshift shawl, and tiptoe to Iris’ room while praying that the children had not awakened. Mercifully, her humiliation was seen by nobody during her brief walk down the hall. Iris, always the diligent domestic, wasted no time in helping Ulrika with the situation she had long foreseen. With quick and gentle movements, she cleaned off the queen’s soiled body and stretched over her muscled body another baby diaper. Over the infantile garment were the pants she had laundered yesterday, and the rest of her full officers’ uniform. Not until the queen’s attire was complete did Iris even take the time to don her own simple dress. Without taking even a second’s rest, she then moved over to Ulrika’s room and stripped the bed of its sheets, bringing them downstairs to launder again. She let the soiled cloth soak in sudsy water while she prepared a breakfast of bread from the house mixed with the rations brought along for the journey. Ulrika needed not lift a finger for the entire ordeal, and ate her meal in silence against the still-dark sky. The countryside’s denizens slept soundly in their beds, but within the tranquil farmlands there was prowling already a roving band of disheveled men, armed to the teeth with knives and guns taken from abandoned armories all along the war’s former front. Queen Ulrika’s wars had brought upon their world a great turbulence, and robbed them of any scrupulous means in their increasingly impoverished lands. They had not been the most conscientious of men prior to the unrest, but now, driven by pure desperation, they had become true outlaws who robbed and killed without remorse if only to survive another day. All the king’s horses and soldiers were fighting and dying at the hands of the Scandian invaders, leaving the lands’ population without recourse against the plundering rogues’ reign of terror. Fearsome as they might have been, the bandits acted at least with no semblance of stealth. Their drunken shouts and swears traveled far and wide around the tranquil farmland, revealing to all precisely where they were and where they were to go. The older brother of the farmhouse had awoken now, and could hear with perfect clarity the ringing vulgarities. He turned to Iris with fear etched upon his face. “It’s the outlaws, they’re comin’ fer us!”. It was an impassioned whisper. Iris hesitated a moment before deciding to relay the message to Ulrika. But the proud queen, oblivious to the region’s anarchic descent, chose not to heed the warning. She cut down Gothia’s soldiers like rye on the battlefield; what possibly could some “bandits” inflict upon her? A quick wave of the hand was all the dismissal Iris needed to see, and so she, against her own instincts, made up her mind to stay by her mistress’s side. Though the boy was perplexed by the travelers’ fearlessness, he too decided that he would stay, and see for himself how the strangers would defeat the rogues. The voices drew nearer, clearer, until Iris and the boy both could discern the words that melded together into one rambling, drunken slur. Iris felt a fear drip slowly into her heart, with each Gothian curse exacerbating further her apprehension at remaining so vulnerable to attack. She dearly wanted to hide now, but her unwavering faith in her queen kept her from running and hiding. Ulrika for her part could comprehend none of the foreign language, and so maintained throughout her resolute lack of fear at the prospect of facing a pack of drunkards. Their voices were at the house’s doorstep now, and yet Ulrika still did not bring out her Seidel. She placed her hand upon the table, ready to rise and confront the intruders should they try to enter the house. But though she had no expectation of courtesy from the strangers, the violence with which the door was broken open with struck her as a great shock. “Yer money or yer life! Choose wiselay’!” It was a tall, bearded man who bellowed the threat into the kitchen, but he was flanked on his sides by three burly men no less terrifying than he was. In his calloused hands was a heavy wooden pistol, and he pointed the gun towards each one of the three figures he saw in the room. His finger was fully wrapped around the trigger. When the barrel fell upon the farmer’s son his mouth curled tightly into a smile. “Ah, wa’s this?” In an instant, the small child was in his choking grasp. The gun was gone, replaced by a knife, and he held the glinting blade to the boy’s soft throat. “Ya don’t wantcha boy ta die, do ya? Do ever’ahthing I say, then!” How Ulrika had utterly misjudged the situation. Now she was completely and utterly awash with only the thought of her impending death. She had faced foes more determined to kill her, but all of them were purged completely from her memory. Her hands acted on raw instinct now, clutching the Seidel and almost bringing it against her enemy before a shard of fear cut their strength and sent the gun clattering to the floor. Her arms were trembling like leaves when she brought them up over her head in surrender. Tears of defeat and fear flowed freely from her eyes, as did a torrent of urine from her crotch. A putrid mush from her rear came tumbling next, and both could only be contained by the baby diaper for mere moments before they overflowed the thin padding and leaked past her thighs. The bandits were still screaming, still yelling wildly at her with words she could not understand, and growing more and more angered at her while she could only stand helplessly while voiding herself messily into her pants. And then there was an arm at her neck – this is the end – but no, it was the arm of a woman, followed by a flurry of rapid, panicked Gothian. Iris. She choked back a sob of gratitude; and was struck suddenly by the realization that she was still emptying herself in fear. Though her pants were thoroughly soaked and soiled already, she made still the great effort to regain what remained of her potty control. “An’ who ah’ ya?! Why’s yer friend wearin’ that?! She’s not fuckin’ army, is she?” The bearded man held his blade up against the child’s next, eliciting from the boy tears of fear in a silent plead for help. “Ans’wa me!” “Please… please… we’re Scandians, and we’ve got the money you need! Don’t hurt us, we can give you what you want! Money, land, we can make sure you live well!” Iris had wet herself in fear in well, and the soaked fabric of her dress and panties clung wetly to her as she pleaded with the bandit. “Just… just don’t hurt us… please!”. The bandits’ leader laughed at seeing the wet patch on the front of Iris’ skirt, but turned his attention quickly to Ulrika. “Scandia, Scandia! Where hav ah’ seen her befo’ah! Nah, me eyes don’t lie ta me!” He turned again to Iris. “Tha’s, tha’s yer queen!” Iris held up her hands. “No, no! You’re mistaken! She’s just an officer! She -” Her pleas were cut by the rogue roughly shoving her aside and fixating his burning stare solely upon Ulrika. The boy was thrown bodily upon the ground, and before he could escape, picked up by the collar and placed in a choke by one of the waiting associates. All the rooms’ eyes fell upon the queen now, and the uproarious leader was first to notice the stain on Ulrika’s pants. He threw his head back and laughed again, echoed this time by all his cronies as soon as they saw for themselves. “An’ I thought it was tha’ boy who made tha’ stink! But it wa’ her! Tha queen of Scandia!” His pistol had reemerged now, and he pointed it directly at Iris’ head. “Now girlie, why don’cha give yer queen a new pair of pants?” He grabbed the clothes at Ulrika’s stomach and with a herculean swipe tore them right open, and then with a shove knocked her over and splayed her flat against the ground. Iris was utterly taken aback by the request, but the gun’s cold metal against her cranium was more than enough to jolt her into immediate action. She crouched down swiftly and tearfully reiterated to Ulrika what she had been forced to do. The queen was shattered beyond resistance now and gave no words to answer, but even in the dark of early morning Iris could see her mistress’s face turn crimson red. Ulrika’s body hung limp as Iris pulled down her pants to reveal the soiled diaper, filled to its capacity with piss and a solid mess that had both overflowed the padding. Iris could not even bring herself to face the bandits’ derision as she pulled the useless diaper off Ulrika’s body and slid underneath Ulrika’s soiled rear a clean one. “Tha hell? Wha’s this? Ya call ya’self the queen of Scandia? Yer a baby, a baby who still piddles in ha’ diapers!” He was almost screaming with laughter now” A voice rang out behind him. “You’ve got it wrong, that ain’t no queen! Ain’t they say, that the queen’s a monster, killin’ all the army’s soldiers? I don’t see no monsters here!” The bearded bandit turned with anger. “I kno’ a queen when ah see one! Ya look at those clothes!” Now he pushed Iris aside, and strode forward to tower over Ulrika, lying on the ground wearing a diaper for all the world to see. “Ah you a queen?” He drew his gun again. Ulrika had understood none of the exchange, and found herself suddenly starting down the barrel of a screaming assailant's gun. All she could think was that Iris’s negotiations had failed, and now she was ripe for the grave. She had not even in her body the energy to scream in terror, nor fight a final dying battle; paralyzed by fear, she could only think of the cruel fate that followed such an ignominious death. What little remained in her bladder and bowels came unconsciously tumbling out of her and into her diaper, staining the front of the white padding yellow with her urine and forming a bulge of mess in the back, all in full view of the bandit. She could hear more voices now. Were they Scandian voices? Am I already killed? “Nah, she ain’t no queen! Someone’s comin’! Let’s get outta here!” The pistol in front of her suddenly disappeared. There was to her left Iris’s impassioned pleas, a clinking of coins, more Gothian yells, and then a brief, fleeting moment of absolute silence. Then she could hear again the Scandian shouts in the distance, and felt upon the back of her neck Iris’s arms cradling her head. Slowly, slowly she found herself again. There had been no killing blow. She lived still in the realm of mortals, in the farmhouse in the heart of Gothia, in the kitchen where besides her sat Iris and a distraught young boy. How resilient children were – though his red face was streaked with tears he had swallowed his sobs and sat stoically by, absorbing in silence what had just happened. Ulrika wiped her eyes with her own sleeves and let out a long, quaking breath, and realized for the first time that her diaper was soiled with her cowardice. Her face turned hot upon seeing the dazed boy’s confused stare, and she averted her eyes when finding the child’s clothing unsullied despite all he had seen. She propped herself up with her hands, into a sitting position, and wiped the tears from her eyes, to see Iris’s face fill with elation and relief. The servant grabbed her mistress’s hands, and without even pulling up her pants to cover her soiled diaper, led Ulrika upstairs into her room, where she could hide from the foraging men and women of the Scandian Grand Army’s Third Corps.
  9. My second story that took far too long to spitball ideas for. I created a 1800s-ish alternate universe and tried to keep it somewhat period-correct, but they're probably a ton of chronological errors (besides the diapers) that I'm too uninformed to notice. History majors beware. Without further adieu, your 11.5k word story “Pour me another!” A rich and golden brandy flowed from the old oak pitcher into the waiting pewter mug. Frothy foam rose up the interior and trickled down the old vessel’s sides and into the sides of the woman’s rough and calloused hands. Fifth drink of the night. But years of these excursions had made the liquor like water to her. She raised the grimy mug to her lips and took a long gulp, and sighed as she felt the alcohol envelop her body in a warm embrace. “Another, another.” The boom of Saga’s voice. When the spirits entered her crystal glass, its image bathed in soft candlelight danced across the battered oak table. Such sights were rare in the North, where the days were short and the winters cold, where men toiled to live without understanding or experiences of beauty. The ornate crystal cup, as with all beautiful things, was brought here in conquest. “For the virago queen!” Always dramatic, the tall, brash enchantress. “For queen and country!” Cheers erupted from across the room, voices of all walks booming in unison at the toast. The ruthless scourge of the continent’s battlefields, singing in a chorus content with alcohol. “Stingy as always, Freja? Can you afford nothing better than that slop?” The brandy-drinking woman suddenly felt Saga’s slender elbow dig into her shoulder. Freja was not amused. “Some of us don’t like to piss the beds of inns afterwards”. Saga’s face flushed with anger and embarrassment, much to Freja’s delight. “I’ve never! And you can’t speak much yourself! Do you think I’ve forgotten-” She was interrupted by the chilled draft suddenly entering the tavern, extinguishing the candles resting upon counter nearest to the door. All heads fell upon the small, wiry man standing in the door frame. The honors would have been delegated elsewhere to the newfangled telegraph—only in the North was this task bestowed upon an unfortunate messenger. He stammered to get the words out. “The q-q-queen has c-c-called f-for mobilization!” The effort left him gasping for air. From a leather satchel he fetched a letter on the finest parchment, and threw it upon the rough oak counter. Silence fell heavy over the bar. An indiscriminate cheer, a deep and throaty male voice, broke the spell. Reserved but drunken Freja was second to join him. Droplets of liquor splashed into the air and fell like rain, sacrifices of the umpteenth toast. The bartender rushed into the bag to fetch another keg, and bottles of the finest vodka. Untouched was the diplomacy of the parchment upon the counter. All that was important was the glory and wealth that war would bring to the down-on-its-luck town. All across the nation, a new tempo gripped the population. The beat and rhythm of an impeding war. “My liege, the finest of the Trondesburg armory”. In the young maiden’s arms laid a musket polished to a shimmer, enveloped in a shroud of ceremonial silk. She placed the firearm delicately upon the marble steps leading to the throne before retreating into a deep curtsy. Ulrika raised an eyebrow, unimpressed as always. A resolute spirit and absolute coldness to subject and foe alike had surrounded her reign since her ascension at only 23. Treachery and blood gave her the throne from the hands of her incompetent father – and she would employ those same methods to shake the nation from its hundred-year slumber. Gone to be were the days were young damsels with a smile and flourish could hawk subpar wares to the crown. Young Nora would have the Amazon queen to contend with. Ulrika arose from her throne in the ungainly fashion of a drunkard, and paced with enough deliberation to send her long silver hair flying messily behind her. Nora gulped at the woman’s intimidating figure towering over her. The queen’s scowling glare sent a hot trickle of fear into her cotton panties. Geriatric kings of the bygone era handled presentation weapons as treasured heirlooms; Ulrika in turn reviewed the musket in the rough nature of a common soldier. The gun in its mahogany-and-gold splendor was a bare-faced lie. Ulrika knew as well as her infantry that by the time such a prototype ever reached production it would have been turned into a cobbled-together tragedy of pine and rusty iron, without either the power or dependability of any adversary’s armaments. Worse still, the gun presented to her wasn’t even good. The design was outdated, the features barren, the machining imperfect, and the ergonomics unwieldy. An embarrassment to the nation. “Absolutely. Disgusting.” Nora had not expected a showering of praise from the stone-faced queen, but her disgust registered as a shock to someone accustomed with the cordial royal tradition. “I-I’m sorry?” It was more of an apology than a statement of disbelief. “It is you people who have resigned Scandia to this coffin of stagnation.” Venom poured forth from her lips. “Have you remained ignorant of the arms our enemies are brandishing against us? Our tributaries in the Southwest, those barbarians content with their stupidity, have presented to me a weapon far superior to the drivel you produce. Your incompetence shall doom us all to servitude and ignominy! Should you not present me something worthwhile before the summer, I shall have you all upon the gallows. At a wave of my hand!” The queen, Nora knew, would very well make good on her promise. She had run her bladder in fear as soon as the tirade started, made embarrassingly obvious by growing stain appeared on the pure white fabric of her dress. The clattering of the musket thrown onto the floor proved too much for the terrified brunette to handle. She collapsed upon her knees in teary-eyed terror, falling into a puddle of her own piss on the marble floor. A foul smell hung over the air as her bowels slackened, filling her panties and staining the rear of her starched dress. Ulrika recoiled in disgust at the spectacle before her. How weak and timid her subjects had become, withdrawn too long from the battles which granted them their idle lives. But there was no sense in wanton violence against one’s own subjects. “Take her outside the palace and let her go”. Nora sobbed at the queen’s mercy, having expected imminent execution for her sullying of the palace. She scampered away from the throne on all fours before breaking into a run, her face swollen and streaked with tears and her dress stained by her cowardice. “Affix your bayonets!” Mobilization in such a primitive land occurred at a snail’s pace, helped not by the layers of snow that blanketed what few railroads the nation had. In the interlude, derelict barracks would house the idle army and their time occupied by rote training. Freja grimaced at her roughly-hewn uniform that chafed and failed to keep out the cold. But whatever her grievances were, she would never have voiced them; Saga, however, had no such reservations. “How do they expect us to win a war, when they cannot afford even to clothe us! Should we fight next with our broomsticks?” “Brigadier! How dare you say such things about our great empire!” Saga glanced at her accuser to decide whether to bristle or to bay. It was Svea, the young recruit from the capital without a scar or callous; drunk on the high brass’s windy speeches while not knowing an iota about fighting in war. Saga’s annoyance at the woman’s mannerisms had been rising for days now, and now Freja could see it boiling over. “How I talk is not worth a damn! What matters is how I fight! You think yourself so grand, recruit. Then, spar with me!” Saga tossed to Svea a wooden staff from the pile of training equipment. The recruit did not back down. What a fool you are! Saga held her own staff at the ready, taunting Svea to strike first. She took the bait and swung clumsily. Without even blinking, Saga parried the blow with enough force sending Saga stumbling sideways. With her physical strength and years of experience, she utterly outclassed the young recruit. “Try again!” Svea obliged with indignation, only for her attempt to be struck down again. Again and again she approached Saga, failing with each attempt until she had exhausted herself from the effort. Saga’s mouth curled into a grin. “My turn.” Svea could not hope to block Saga’s swing with her fatigue, and only numbly lifted her arms to protect her face from the amazon’s wrath. But Saga had aimed for her stomach, and there the blow landed, eliciting from the recruit a yelp of pain. The staff carried with it only a fraction of Saga’s strength, for fear of hurting the girl, but it was more than enough to work from Svea her dignity. The recruit emptied herself into her clothing, giving Saga a full view of her pee drenching the front of her pants and the shit escaping noisily into her panties, before the small garment was filled allowing her mess to leak down her legs. Freja had to intervene now, and she rushed to the side of the teary-eyed recruit. “Go get yourself cleaned up. Don’t worry, these things happen to even the best when luck gets the better of us.” She then turned to Saga, as Svea hurried away in embarrassment. “How could you! I’ll personally ensure your punishment for this!” Saga was indignant. “When did you become so subservient to those old men’s orders? She was a private, she had no right to talk to me so!” Freja sighed. “You have no discipline. None at all!” She turned away and picked up her own falling-block Mossberg hunting rifle, bought with her own money and brought from home. A hunting weapon, for shooting elk and reindeer; better made and better designed than anything given to the soldiers. The quality of the gun was a spot of envy for Saga, who seemingly could never save up enough to buy even a bottle of akvavit. A habitual cursory inspection revealed nothing amiss with the weapon. Time to go. With the rifle over her shoulder, Freja strode into the cold. No sooner as the rays of the sun begun to peak over the snow-capped peaks, the order rang out across the regiments huddled in the valley. “Load the wagons! Our march will begin today!” Cheers erupted. The lethargy had ended. The last war had been disastrous for Scandia, but this time, Queen Ulrika had promised, only victory should befall the soldiers. Her Grand Army marched as one across the muddy fields of spring, through the frigid south of Scandia and into the impoverished lands of their tributaries. Where the citizens in their villages had previously cheered and hollered as the marching regiments passed, the disgruntled farmers here would only jeer and throw rotten fruit. And once they had crossed into the territory of the Livonians, the restless and disgruntled army faced the hurling of rocks and curses; in response they took from the villagers what the supply wagons did not hold. Queen Ulrika had commanded them to march eight hours each day; and trudge on they did, cutting through the Livonian countryside to meet their adversary at their weakest state. On their second week, the generals were granted their wish. The defensive lines of the Livonians were strong, Freja had been told told, but the speed of their arduous march had ensured that the enemy could not respond with their fullest strength. Scandia’s spies had reported of a dispersed detachment, spreading the defenders thin across the hills separating the army from the Livonian interior. The previous night had seen naive recruits glumly drinking down stiff akvavit, preparing their naive minds for the battle up ahead. But now morning had broken, and the final marches begun, each delivering a small component of the Grand Army toward their objectives and the guns of the enemy. As a red flare exploded at hung high above the fortress, gunfire erupted across the land. What could not be pillaged for the journey beyond this fight burned behind. The cavalry’s majestic steeds shot across the countryside, towards the stone of the defensive lines hastily constructed to slow the advance. Such a small fort could be no match for the heavy Scandian cannons, but the ponderous and heavy machines had yet to be brought to bear. Freja’s lungs burned and her heart pounded against her chest as she sprinted in the forest with her saboteurs. Each step took her further and further away from the safety provided by the rear guard. “Towards the left wall!” The contingent slung their rifles behind them and rushed towards their designated target. Screams were erupting; blood was already being shed in the fight. Smoke concealed the movements of the enemy behind the wall, and deafening explosions concealed their communication. Forty yards … thirty yards. Freja pawed her side for her hand-grenades. A cannon-shot from behind the fort, contained by the cacophony of the firefight, barely registered in her consciousness. It was followed by a deafening explosion and a shock that nearly threw her to her feet. She half-stumbled and half-ran into a ditch in the rolling ground as fine earth rained all around her. Her boot hit a rock and her boot punctured the ice she had not noticed. Frigid water at her feet sent her senses rushing back to her. With a twist of her body, she threw herself back-first into the gentle bank, hiding her body from the gunfire from the fort. While she scrambled for the rifle lying across her waist, her hand brushed the damp wetness of her pants. Only when she looked down at the growing stain at her crotch did she become aware that she was still wetting herself. She clenched her bladder with a curse and a prayer that her compatriots would not notice. The rest of the company had not fared much better in the onslaught. Saga had been closest to the detonation, which handily threw her tall and muscular frame to the ground as if she were a rag doll. Shards of the casing mixed with fine earth sprayed into the air and came down like rain, coating Saga’s body splayed out on the ground. All of her senses had been stunned by the explosion, in an instant, the cacophony of combat was drowned out by a ringing emanating from within her eardrums, and her sight stunted by flashes of blue, violet, and green. The explosion had disintegrated Saga’s usual remarkable hold over herself – her bladder had released soaking herself before she had even hit the ground, and her bowels had followed quickly filling the rear of her slacks with a solid mess. A second, more distant explosion abruptly shook her from the shock and allowed her to find her squad nestled in the relatively safety of a sunken creek. Saga threw her body sideways in a fast roll into the refuge, inadvertently squishing the mess contained in her bulging pants up against her. She purposefully fell directly into the thin layer of ice covering the creek and plunged into the freezing water, shivering as she allowed the rushing stream wash away as much of her accident as it could. “Behind the ramparts! Shoot back!” Freja grabbed her rifle and twisted into a prostate shooting position, in the process taping the soaked fabric of her slacks to her inner thighs. Her sheer mental focus did much to suppress the sensation as she peeked out over the small bank, finger on the trigger and eye locked into the sights. There lay the enemy – the lookout for the cannon peering over the ramparts of the fort, scanning the area for the invaders. He was a small, swarthy man who looked at the war-torn world from behind the sights of a rifle. His eyes locked on to Freja’s head; his quarry noticed his slow scan cease. Oh, you weren’t fast enough. The Scandian’s bullet was already slicing through the air in a fatally true trajectory. Center mass. Before the soldier even had a chance to fall to his knees, Freja was already on the move. Immediately behind her, Saga’s powerful strides mustered an imagine of dignity, despite being half-soaked in freezing water and with a mess squishing in her pants. The Amazons gripped their rifles tightly and threw themselves at the first wall of the first wall of the fort, a packed earth mound with spiked logs preventing the traverse of cavalry. Ten yards. The group dispersed. Freja peeled right with entire body pounded in the rhythm of battle. She barely stopped herself at the base of the wall, slicing her arm at a sharpened wooden point. The gunfire was slowing dying down and the screams were subsiding; the enemy was being overwhelmed. Time to go! She affixed the bayonet to her musket, and with a great leap hurled herself over the fortification and into the fray. Swirling smoke hung over the bloody ground, pouring from the tongues of flame that leapt across the fortification. The grenadiers had done their work. All around, blue-coated Scandian infantry were pushing themselves up over the fortifications and into the enemies’ arms. With a pulsating determination, Freja ran towards the small fort with her bayonet at the ready. Trenches lay in her way, the lifeless trenches where Scandian and Livonian blood laid the beds of corpses. While the recruits balked at the prospect at trampling over the fallen soldiers, Freja’s hardened mind from her previous campaigns gave no such reservation. Into the bloody trenches she went. She ran through the fallen defensive lines without meeting resistance, towards the screams and explosions of brutal melee ahead of her. Her heels dug into the earthen mound that compromised the final defensive layer. She fell forward to climb the rampart, and dug her bayonet into the ground to give some leverage. A flash of navy blue, an Livonian body falling over the wall to her left. A bloodcurdling scream – the shrill and desperate cry of a soldier – not a cadaver, a deserter! His arms still held a rifle, that instrument of death, and Freja realized that her own rifle stuck in the earth could provide no defense now. An absolute terror at the face of death washed over her and shot her arms in from of her face. Her bladder had all but emptied from her earlier accident, spilling only trickles of hot piss into her panties, but her previous bowel continence shattered helplessly in fear. The flailing, panicked enemy could not shoot, and drove his rifle into her stomach – Freja’s life was spared – but the impact only forced the mess into her panties. The stench of death covered the smell, not that Freja had even noticed soiling herself, preoccupied as her brain was with that simple thought. I am going to die. The man screamed in an unintelligible language and threw his rifle aside. What are you doing? He gesticulated wildly at Freja, movements exaggerated and twisted by the sheen of tears running from her eyes. His voice rose in panic. Screaming now, he grabbed Freja’s head and threw his elbow around her neck, and began to drag her through the mud in a choke hold. It dawned upon her. He wants to take me prisoner – he wants to spare his life. No sense in anything but complying. As the young deserter dragged her, she gave him little resistance, shifting her weight to lessen the pain of the constrictive arm around her neck. The infantry was moving forward, into the fort, crushing the resistance of the steadfast Livonians who refused to surrender in the face of rumors detailing the barbaric Scandians who gouged out the eyeballs of prisoners before shooting them in the knees. Freja and her captor crawled below the melee in the fort, out of view and out of attention of the soldiers concluding their scuffle. He suddenly stopped, and Freja felt the grip on her neck release. Seizing the opportunity, she bolted up from her lying position, facing the young Livonian’s back. He was on his knees, his arms raised in surrender. And then Freja saw, beyond the soldier’s outstretched arms, the jubilee of victory in the short battle – the Scandian cavalry, spurning their horses at full gallop towards the fortification’s flanks. So you have won your own battle – but there shall be nothing for you to do here. Will you accept this soldier’s mercy? Freja propped herself up on her elbows. Leading the cavalry was a figure clad in majestic blue and gold on the back of a beautiful white steed. An officer’s horse. No, it was too beautiful to be an officer’s horse. A royal horse! From under the figure’s tricot hat there flew a plume of silver hair – the same falling silver hair as was in the town’s treasured painting framed in the town hall. Queen Ulrika! This was the same woman who, clad in the opulent dresses of the monarch, gazed with a gentle smile from within the cheap bronze frame. But here she was the image of the Vikings of yore, the terror of weaklings, marshaling a nation behind her back with the long-forgotten Northern fighter’s vigor. With a crack of the reins, her beautiful white horse bolted ahead of the pack, and in one fluid motion adopted a shooting position and raised her rifle. Freja could hear the Livonian’s pleas for clemency turn into prayer. But the outcome was obvious. You’ll die in ignominy. The bullet tore through his uniform. His body slumped over in front of Freja, granting her a full view of Ulrika and the cavalry she led. The regiment, and indeed Ulrika herself, bore the marks of the battlefield’s ravages – wounded horses, battered clothing, and all covered in a layer of smoke and dust. Freja’s eyes locked with those of her Queen for a second before a realization of the state she was in forced her to look away. But Ulrika had greater concerns than a lone soldier. She pulled from her coat another bullet that she fed into her rifle, a bolt action representing the most advanced and expensive the nation had to offer. Freja watched in awe as Ulrika shot at unfathomable speed. At this range, she cannot miss. Each shot was followed by a fast swivel to another point above her. The battle continued to ring chaos all around, but Freja was completely mesmerized by the absolute power radiating from Ulrika. With her as our guide, soon all of the continent will be ours! “Iris – please carry up for me my personal belongings.” “Of course, madam”. The young raven-haired woman lifted two bound leather bags from the back of the wagon. She trailed her mistress, the fashionably dressed lady with hair tucked under a scarlet bonnet. Iris’s attire was quite plain in comparison, compromising only a simple black dress and white apron. An officer’s wife and servant. They entered the small inn together. The light oak floor creaked under their combined footsteps. Flickers of evening light shone through dusty windows and basked the lobby in luxurious warmth. A piano, long past its heyday, sat lonely and unused in a corner. Behind the counter there hung a trophy of an elk’s head, attached to a wooden plaque. Tallow candles for staving off the long winter nights burned in their brass holders hanging off the walls. A perfectly mundane inn by any other means – but this one was completely devoid of inhabitants. Iris and her mistress walked in an empty lobby. The servant-girl leaned hastened her step to walk with the taller lady, and leaned close to the woman’s ear. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Everything has been prepared, Your Majesty. Only we shall occupy the story”. “Good.” A distinctively unladylike voice, rough and harsh in tone. Both women climbed the narrow staircase to the guest residences. From her dress pocket, Iris produced a key and unlocked the first room on the right. She allowed the lady to enter before her. After placing the bags down on the hardwood ground, Iris curtly turned and locked the door behind her. “Oh, better than the camp”. Ulrika sighed as she removed her hat, letting her now matted silver hair fall down around her. “But I do abhor these ridiculous dresses”. She let the heavy crinoline fall off her shoulders and onto the white sheets of the bed. “Yes, Your Majesty. But of course, we cannot afford to be seen. You are far too important … “ “Of course! Do you take me as a fool?” Iris knew better than cower at the violent retort. “I understand. Do you wish I assist you with your attire?” “Fetch my undergarments and my gown please.” Iris looked away.“Erm … Will you require - “ Ulrika grimaced. “After such a battle … perhaps it would be unwise to refuse”. A tinge of red had appeared on her chiseled cheeks. “Shall we cleanse first, then, Your Majesty? The washroom is on the floor below us”. “Of course.” Iris walked to the leather bags on the ground. A brass clasp held the contents safe from prying eyes. From it, she produced fine silken dressing-gown and a towel of fine cotton. Tucked underneath layers of clothing was a large sack, drawn closed with string. With two fingers she reached inside and clasped soft plastic, producing from the compartment Ulrika’s personal secret. A diaper. She discreetly tucked the garment under her apron. “Right this way, your majesty.” Ulrika stood at the side of the metal washtub while Iris fetched bucket after bucket of water from the well. She removed the gown from her body and placed it at the chair beside her, leaving her wearing only the large tabbed diaper on her waist. Ulrika held her head up high, refusing to look down upon the infantile article, made more humiliating by the previous whiteness soaked and swollen yellow with urine. The back too was heavily stained by queen’s incontinence; the snug fit of the diaper coupled with the charge on horseback had the effect of pressing Ulrika’s mess up against her behind. The sodden bulk between her legs had been a source of irritation for hours now, and she was all to glad to have it removed. At least it has not leaked. The prospect had greatly disturbed her when she had wet the diaper for the second time on the ride through the countryside. She gritted her teeth with a burning shame and tried to avert the memory; but could not help but recall the absolute mortification when, as she sat desperate in the carriage, her completely filled bladder had failed her and she helplessly wet herself wrapped in the already soaked padding of the diaper. Those few seconds that she spent wondering whether the diaper would fail her too were absolute torture. But thankfully it seemed that she had been saved from the embarrassment of wetting the heavy crinoline dress. Iris had returned with a sponge in hand. She kept her head low and averted Ulrika’s eyes, trying her hardest to avoid leering at the queen. When Ulrika moved her hands to crossed in front of her chest, Iris reached behind her and grabbed at the diaper’s tabs, pulling off the four of them one by one. She cradled the bottom of the diaper by its plastic shell and lowered it between the queen’s muscled thighs. It seemed heavier than usual, and the padding seemed to be still a bit warm despite the battle having ended hours ago – perplexing Iris until she recalled Ulrika’s fidgeting in the carriage, and her constant refusals to visit the bathroom where she could not remove the diaper. With the diaper now off, a foul odor quickly rose from Ulrika’s mess, requiring Iris to quickly ball up the soiled garment and sponge off the shit spread over the queen’s behind. Moving forward, she cleaned off the urine at Ulrika’s crotch, and with a second sponge slowly scrubbed off the dirt that covered her powerfully built body. When all was done, Iris helped her mistress dry herself off with a towel. She had no mind to speak, but Ulrika still growled “I can do it myself” in a low voice. Iris obliged, looking away as Ulrika placed the heavy tabbed diaper on the chair and sat herself on top of it, and clumsily wrapped the absorbent garment around her crotch and behind. Although she occasionally grew slightly impatient at the queen’s propensity for pride, Iris far preferred this arrangement to the tirades that she used to endure whenever she had suggested to Ulrika that she wear diapers for the night. It had taken years and many soiled sheets to convince the prideful queen of her bedwetting problem that always emerged after she fought her battles. With her nighttime protection securely taped on, Ulrika commanded Iris to dress her in a silken nightgown and extinguish the candles in her room. Iris retreated to her own room for the night. Wagons stalled and horses bucked in the quagmire of mud and puddles making up the earth for as far as the eye could see. The cursed Bohemia, always lashed by the infernal rain. They had marched like this for days now, placing the entire expeditionary force in low spirits. But now, in the face of battle, there was not one in the throng who would think about anything other than the task before them. Hooves and footsteps clattered upon the stone bridge at the throat of the valley, spilling the Grand Army’s might towards the hills in the distance. Men and women prepared their arms and prepared their souls for the fight ahead. A muted roar in the distance drew closer with every footstep. There they were, the Livonians, calling their mighty cavalry and impeccable sharpshooters to arms. All knew that the fight today would be bloody, but none considered their own deaths. Blue Scandian banners flew high over the regiments and the battle-drums sounded. The army had passed the choke. Surely the Livonians could see the Army now from their hilltop regiments. Ulrika’s hussars cantered behind her white steed; the young and fearless warriors who the Virago Queen had once handpicked to replace the incompetent and deteriorating old guard. Scandia’s dragoons and cuirassiers, both of a similar crop, trailed the faster light cavalry. Assembled here was the cream of the Northern crop. Only one more hill to cross before they would be in the throes of Livonian fire. Ulrika stopped her horse and turned to her troops. Whatever her misgivings were about her subjects’ domestic affairs, on the battlefield she retained an absolute faith in the children of her homeland. “Soldiers! The cheers of a people smile upon you. Never have these lands seen an army of our caliber, of our spirit! We shall drive the invaders from our stolen lands. They will receive today their overdue fate. Do not fear death for our homeland! Upon those who conqueror, there shall be bestowed the praises of our nation, but for those who fall, they shall be granted their immortality in Valhalla! Soldiers, advance!” Cheers erupted in the crowd. “For the Queen! Glory to Scandia!” Virago Queen indeed! With the consort’s words embedded into the fabric of their souls, the Scandian cavalry launched themselves into the enemy’s fire. Mighty were they, under the auspices of their fearless Queen Ulrika, the specter that struck fears into the hearts of complacent kings and queens all over the continent. So much was known to Ulrika herself. She knew herself as face of her nation’s renaissance, a symbol of a beast awoken from a centuries-long slumber. And Ulrika’s own duty was to continue the place she had reserved in the heart of every Scandian. Here she was, then, leading the army of ten thousand into battle against the might of Livonia’s bulwark – wrapped in a thick diaper tucked underneath her fine blue tunic. Shamefully, despite years of training and combat, the queen had still found herself no less likely to piss and soil herself in the heat of battle than the cowardly princesses of years past. As bloodthirsty and feared as her reputation was, Ulrika was not without her weaknesses. Scandia’s lancers, on their fast, small horses, shot ahead of her with bayonets at bay. The roar of a charging army enveloped her and reached the heavens above. Above the killing grounds, Ulrika’s engineers had towed Trondesburg’s heavy cannons to their hilltop positions and brought them to bear against the fortified Livonian positions. Deafening roars shook the earth and sky, horses whinnied in protest and each soldier felt the teeth rattle in their skulls. Harbingers of death to only the Livonians, of course, but her entire body shook at the tremor and her bladder flinched in fear. She scowled as a jet of piss escaped her control and hot piss encompassed her crotch, before being soaked up by the thick padding. The lancers had moved into range of the sharpshooters. Shots began to ring out and cries of death began to punctuate the charge. The main wave of the Livonian reinforcements had arrived, and their infantry gathered on the hill fired and reloaded in their squares. Scandia’s muskets were poor but nevertheless lethal to the Livonian musketeers, who fell and died in their ranks. The mud on the ground was running red with the lancers’ and grenadiers’ blood. On the other side of the field, the infantry had regrouped time and time and again but failed to blunt the spearhead. The field widened before it met the Livonians’ fortified hill and the cavalry dispersed in turn. The hussars drew their falling-block rifles and Freja drew her bayoneted bolt-action, and spurred her horse to charge faster at the regrouping Livonians. In light of the ever-widening muddy field, Jan fell away from her left flank and Leif from her right, each to go and engage their own targets. Ulrika’s attention fell upon a collapsed Livonian infantry square, reeling from bombardment. She pulled back on her reins and raised her rifle, placing a reloading Livonian squarely in her sights. His shako, that tall, foolish adornment of officers, marked him for execution. You’ll die! Fire exploded out of the rifle. Ulrika heard the scream echo in her head. Time stood still for both murderer and victim as the Livonian reeled and toppled back. Then the blood, sanguine and bright despite the overcast sun, erupted from his chest and drenched his white uniform. More screams now, his comrades, lost in their panic, immobilized and easy targets. Pull the bolt back, chamber the round. She adjusted her sights to aim at a cowering woman attending to the fallen officer, and shot again; the bullet curved through the air, entered the small frame, and exited, and blood again ran down the hills. Yet the woman had not fallen, no, she was reaching down for a fallen rifle now. Have I missed? Another round, another shot, the spilled blood shot high and coated the navy blue-clad regiment. The woman was aiming her rifle now. No! Impossible! Adrenaline was shooting through her entire body now, pumped by hear heart pounding with the realization that she had utterly lost control of the situation. The queen usually did not notice her accidents, but this time Ulrika suddenly found that she was fully cognizant of her bladder emptying in white-knuckled terror, and she clenched down with all her might, but try as she might she found herself completely unable to stem the torrent of hot urine drenching the padding warming between her thighs. The crack of a rifle grabbed her focus away from herself, and she pulled the reins sharply on her horse; the steed whinnied and bucked, pulling her sharply down and to the right, away from the Livonian guns, away, away. An animal screamed a dying scream, full of agony and sorrow. Ulrika was still falling, falling down and to the right, and she suddenly noticed that her hands were coated in blood. My blood? The impact into the ground was softened by the mud, that forgiving earth watered with the lives of thousand of brave soldiers. Her horse was dead, the majestic white mane dyed red by an Livonian bullet. Ulrika tore open her eyes. I have to move! But her body lay still and silent, trapped in the bloodied mud, the mud that wrapped around her legs and stomach. My rifle! She forcibly lifted her head with her arms and gazed around, at the wide and infinite field; Jan and Leif were swallowed by the horizon. Her strength was gone now, sapped by the earth, and a wave of dread crashed over her soul; she looked up and saw her own self mirrored in an Livonian’s bayonet. White-hot fear and pain melded into one unbearable burning that tore her chest apart from the inside. Mere drops of urine fell from her emptied bladder into the soaked padding, but her bowels completely relaxed in terror, voiding a warm mush into the seat of her diaper. The mess pressed against her butt, and felt warm against her thighs as it escaped the diaper’s plastic cuffs - but Ulrika’s failed to notice, her senses cast fully upon the bayonet impaled in her breast. The soldier was falling back now, as if he were melting away, that face of unadulterated rage melting and melting until Ulrika could no longer see the whites of his eyes, recessed as they were into his skull. The hill was close and gigantic, the officer’s regiment was close and gigantic, and they stretched their arms out to her, arms growing longer and longer as if those of wraiths. The closer they drew, the more the humanity was melting away; their eyes disappeared and from their backs sprouted blackened and tarred wings. Their uniforms had been absorbed into their sallow bodies, and the fingers elongated and sharpened until they became images of the bayonet lodged deep in Ulrika’s heart. She could not now question her humanity or her mortality, for all that her mind could command her to do was throw her head back and scream from the darkest crevices of her soul, emerging from her mouth as a relinquishment of the last shreds of her being. The queen’s guttural cry of death spilled, like a black tar, over the fields of blood in the apocalyptic world, and the demons were drawn like moths to a flame to feed on her lifeless body. Ulrika’s eyes snapped open in the wave of consciousness crashing over her. She was drawing breath in great gasps, compelled by her burning lungs. Her hand scrambled to make sense of the situation. A cold sweat had leached into her nightgown and the white sheets. The battlefield was gone, replaced by an unfamiliar but calming room, and her chest bore no grievous wound. It had all been a nightmare. Her gasps had stopped now, and she let out a long sigh, imaging to herself that the dream was expunged from her body with the breath. But her exuberation was cut short when her roaming hand reached the front of her diaper and felt the warm squish of sodden padding. It happened often, but the proud queen could not help but be humiliated at having wet herself during the night. Sitting up into her own mess confirmed what she dearly wanted to deny but all but already knew. Forcing herself off the bed revealed to Ulrika her soiled diaper’s mass, the image of which she covered quickly with her nightgown. Trying her best to contort her face into something of grace and poise, she opened her door and walked into Iris’ room. “I ask of you to assist with … cleansing myself for the morning”. Her growl dripped with indignation. “Of course, Your Majesty”. Iris had known this would happen. Onwards the Scandians marched, trouncing the scattered defense of the Livonians and routing the under equipped and unprepared Gothian army. Their disputed territorial boundary now firmly restored, Ulrika led the expedition on a campaign of revenge against the coalition forces that had shattered the pride and absorbed the vassals of the empire a hundred years ago. Behind the Scandians trailed a path of conquest, of newly reformed duchies with ousted local dukes replaced by governors friendly to Scandia’s southern interests. So abundant were their spoils that the many blue-clad regiments had swapped their standard-issue arms for the superior Teutonic designs, out of practicality if nothing when the depots overflowed with more Gothian-made rounds than they had Scandian ammunition. The Grand Army ate and drank like Scandian nobility and dreaded the day they would finally have to give up beef and beer for their homeland’s staple of salted fish. News of the military’s successes had reached Scandia and sent the entire kingdom into a fervor, and every day men and women sang the praises of their great Queen Ulrika. But they could not act with impunity forever without facing opposition. Across the continent governments had marshaled their troops in preparation for a decisive battle against the Northern scourge. The Teutonic coalition’s victory over the Rûm Sultanate granted them the coveted Eastern trade routes and allowed their much-maligned army to requisition and reform into a threat eclipsing anything they had previously fielded. Meanwhile, Ulrika had saw the Scandian supply lines become more and more stretched and the relative strength of the expedition fall in turn. Her own safety too could not be fully secured, for the fame she had garnered in battle would surely draw assassins; in response she had begun keeping her location a closely guarded secret at all times. And winter was soon approaching. It could very well be time to withdraw. Intermittent snow had slowed the steady march of the heavy Scandian units, scattering the army across the foothills of the imposing snow-capped Visigoth peaks. Where their campaign had earlier took them to lush and green hills that rolled gently in the wind, these hills were sparse and rocky, as inhospitable as the peaks towering above them. As the year waned, the nights were growing longer and colder. Small fires burned all around the camp to provide the sleeping troops some iota of respite, troops which Freja regarded with a burning envy as she paced around the camp staving off the creeping fatigue. The fires had another purpose – in the pitch blackness of the starless night, they were the only way the night guard could navigate. Freja’s eyelid grew heavy and she pressed the back her hand into the cold steel of her rifle to jostle herself awake. For all the looting her compatriots had done, she held no weapon in higher regard than her reliable hunting rifle. What a shame that I have not used it for an eternity. Every night, they waited for an enemy that was too afraid to come, to weak to fight, and too stupid to find them. The flap of a birds’ wing startled Freja away from her musings. A thin layer of powdery snow fell from the top of a pine tree and met the slush on the ground. She sighed and unrolled her finger from the rifle’s trigger. Perhaps she had grown complacent in the time she had not seen combat. It was hunting season back in Scandia – the perfect time to perfect one’s aim and reflex, and yet here she was, wasting the time reveling in the excesses of a land where she was an unwelcome guest. Svea burst out of the brush. “Brigadier. I saw a massed movement to our southeast. May I suggest that we investigate?” “They should likely be bandits. We are more than capable of addressing them”. Years of widespread decline under imperial subordination and a widely incompetent provincial government had made these lands almost anarchic. Bands of rogues roamed the mountains at night and struck their occasional raids against civilians and the Gothian military alike, and now their most valuable target would be the encamped Grand Army. But though they were fearless in combat, the roaming bands were usually driven back by the Scandians’ superior training and equipment. The more you fight us, the more we bring justice to this lawless land. “Then, I shall call upon the rest of the guard for action.” “It could be useful, yes.” Freja untied a brown paint horse from its post. She had never been trained as cavalry, but her seniority required that she be mounted to lead the night guard. And while she was more in her element on foot, she was more than capable of shooting and grappling on horseback. As Svea went around the camp collecting the rest of the guards, Freja affixed a bayonet to her rifle. “Ready.” “Affix your bayonets. March!” Svea trailed closely behind Freja, bayoneted Livonian rifle in hand. Out of all the recruits from southern Scandia’s barracks, she had turned out the best of all. Her small stature and youth belied a fighting spirit easily comparable to that of the old guard, and her reflex and survival sense were second to none. Having fought alongside her for the entire campaign, Freja had developed a close-knit soldiers’ camaraderie with the unorthodox soldier. Even haughty Saga had learned to respect her. Under the light of a kerosene lantern, the group pushed into the ridges of the rocky hills. Each soldier held their rifle close with the expectation of combat, but no real fear of measurable retaliation. They crested the ridge that Svea had marked and assumed, as per their training, a hollow square. Fingers curled around brass triggers, waiting for the movement that would signal their volley. Movement sounded in a bush. Two hastier guards discharged their muskets, while Freja held her fire with the expectation that the sound was from a beast and not a bandit. Groans and curses sounding from the bush, however, confirmed that the shots had found a human mark, and Freja aimed at the movement and prepared to fire. Her convictions were suddenly interrupted by the foreign shout that sounded from her left, a voice that was not the crude drawl of an outlaw. Clear and commanding, full of presentation and order – an officer! Svea reiterated Freja’s conclusion. “The Gothian army! Ambush!” Upon Svea’s shout, from seemingly behind every rock emerged a rifle-wielding soldier. The Scandians’ hollow square collapsed instantly as they ran for cover. Carl, carrying the gas-lantern, was all too easy a target for the hidden gunmen and was struck in the chest by several bullets; the lantern dropped and rolled down the side of the gravelly hill. Tenacious as she was, Svea was still young and inexperienced soldier; and faced with the claustrophobia of being surrounded by the vengeful Gothians her bladder and bowels released in wide-eyed terror. Freja, beating a fighting retreat on her horseback, could see the torrent of pee soak through Svea’s panties and pants streaming from the crux of her thighs, and as Svea ran past her a drifting odor made obvious the mess that she had spilled into her undergarments. At the display, the mounted Freja could not help but notice a slight twinge in her own bladder, filled from the copious coffee that she had drank in the night. She cursed herself for not having relieved herself sooner. With all pretense of secrecy in their assault lost, the pursuing Gothians scrambled and yelled, rallying each other to pursue the retreating Scandian contingent. But the dark had disoriented them, compounded by the difficult terrain alien to them as it was to Freja’s guards, and they rushed around wildly in attempts to regroup. In the time that the discombobulated ambush stumbled and bumped into each other in the dark, the Scandians retreated further and assumed defensive positions. The camp was stirring now, the soldiers awakening and preparing for battle, readying their positions to create an impregnable citadel of infantry supported by a handful cuirassiers. A flare shot high into the dark night sky and exploded against the pure black backdrop. Lookouts from all across the foothills scrambled to ready Scandian cavalry. The Gothians bore down upon the flare like moths to a flame, their ranks and discipline restored quickly by the signal of their target. Over the hill the regiment went, running with bayonets out and behind them the sharpshooters in ordered positions shooting at anything that moved. The Scanians were dug in well, and their shots rang true in striking down anybody who dared rush down the cleared path to the camp. Yet for each enemy struck down by a bullet, there seemed to rise from behind ten more to take his place; and as the minutes drug on the Scanians could hear the enemy’s yells in the night grow louder and more numerous. This was not a mere scouting party, Freja knew. This was a premeditated assault. There were more and more of them, more and more bayonets and rifles and hand-grenades and sabers, and soon they would be too much for even the Scandians to handle. She crouched behind a large boulder, and counted the rounds she still held. They could not win this war of attrition. Please let the cavalry come relieve us, and please let their arrival be swift! An eruption of gunfire and muted shouts in the distance startled the sleeping queen awake. No dreams had haunted her sleep, and nothing had confused her from finding herself exactly where she expected to awake. The tent was pitch-black in the depth of the night. Ulrika propped herself up on the small mattress by her hands and her thick diaper crinkled with the motion. She put one hand to the front of the padding – it seemed dry. Footsteps sounded outside prompting her to quickly drew her hand away and cover the humiliating diaper with her nightgown. The figure burst into the tent with a calm grace. It was Iris. She leaned down close to Ulrika’s ear, and spoke in a hushed whisper. “Your Majesty, we are under attack by the Gothians. Our cavalry shall arrive in due time. The soldiers of our regiments are holding strong against their attacks. There is nothing to worry about. You may return to sleep if you so wish”. She knew that she could not convince Ulrika. “I shall fight alongside them.” The servant gritted her teeth. “Your Majesty, I beg of you please regard your position. You have not your horse, and you must not incite them unnecessarily to strike against our soldiers. We cannot be sure of their strength yet. I implore, let them not rally around collecting the ultimate Scandian trophy.” Ulrika hated the pleading but could oppose the sense. “No alternative, then. You shall help me with my attire.” Iris moved over to Ulrika’s leather bags. There lay inside a gently folded lilac pelisse and matching bonnet, in the fashion of the Gothian vassals caught between the Gallic and Germanic styles. The servant unfolded the dress and let the long skirt fall down to her knees, and drew from the bag the queen’s plain chemise undergarment. Ulrika removed her nightgown and was left wearing only her thick diaper, as dry and clean as when she had put it on herself. Iris quickly draped the white silk shift over Ulrika’s broad frame before the queen’s revealing state would boil into anger. Next came the starched pelisse, long enough to fall to the queen’s knees, followed by tying up the queen’s long silvery hair into a fashionable bun underneath her bonnet. An application of rogue and whitening powder had completed the transformation. Queen Ulrika the First of Scania had never entered this camp – only Alisa, Duchess of Selonia, envoy of the Kingdom of Courland. She could not been seen with her rifle, of course, but hidden in the shawls of her dress was an ivory-handled revolver, dispensing rounds that could incapacitate ten men and a horse. “Shall we bid a retreat, then, Your Majesty?” Ulrika’s mouth curled into a smile. “No. I wish to see the spectacle.” That order was final. Iris frowned imperceptibly. “Very well then.” The creeping dread of having to stand in battle made her bladder seem suddenly quite full, but excusing herself to the call of nature in the face of diapered Queen Ulrika was out of the question. She prayed that the fight would end soon. Freja propped the barrel of her rifle against the hard granite and lifted her head above its sights, scanning the world for the tiniest hint of movement. She slowed her breathing. When the cover night made movement deadly, staying concealed was the only thing which could grant her life. From over a hill a flash of navy blue was accompanied by the dislodging of stones. What a fool the Gothian was. She pivoted her rifle on its stand, took quick aim, and pulled the trigger with the shadowy figure in her sights. The enemy was too slow to react and too slow to aim, and without a shot erupting from his musket fell back into the night. Freja’s retreat took the form of a ground-hugging roll away from the retaliatory fire; although bullets dug into the ground all around her she was safe in a pocket of cover. Her next roost was within a cratered hole in the ground, next to a small patch of brush. Scandian gunfire and Gothian screams were sounding all around them; and the Gothians’ continuous withering volleys and lobbed grenades were taking their toll on the Scandian troops. Nearer and nearer the Gothians drew before they were invariably cut down by musket-balls and bullets. Now there came pair of grenadiers, charging and firing indiscriminately into the night, lobbing their hand-grenades and screaming like furies as they approached the defenders’ positions. There was no need to move now, for the chaos and dark had eliminated precision from the Gothian doctrine. They were all too easy to cut down at this range. But Freja’s ammunition was depleting fast against the fast-encroaching waves of the enemy. Seven shots, six … five … I’ll use them well! Shouts drew near, most prominent of all the staccato barks reverberating with authority. That’s the officer. Freja’s mind fell into a state of absolute intensity, melting away the rest of the world around her. Her ears listened only for her quarry’s voice, and her eyes saw only down the barrel of her rifle, waiting for the Prussian shako that would mark a man for death. Shots rang from behind the peak and explosions in front of her, removing not an ounce of her concentration. Three seconds. Soldiers crested the kill and fell to her Scandian bullets. Freja held her fire. Two seconds. Markus screamed in agony. One second. The officer’s hat appeared over the crest. At his flanks were two Gothian grenadiers. They charged with weapons brandished and rallying cries. Freja aimed her shot. The hammer fell, and the powder lit. Recoil shot the rifle into her shoulder. The bullet was still spiraling in the barrel when the Gothian grenade detonated to her left. Fixated as she was upon her shot, the explosion of the charge consumed her consciousness and struck deep into her soul. She staggered back into a collapse; and continued her flight on all fours with her eyes squeezed shut. Her full bladder came spilling out in an instant, drenching the front of her pants with flood of pale yellow urine. With seemingly all the focus she could muster in her incapacitated state, Freja turned herself upon her elbows and knees, and began crawling towards the camp with her pee still pouring through her clothes and onto the ground in a shameful stream. The sounds of the advancing Gothians behinds her hastened her pace but kept her pinned to the ground; standing up into the firefight would be suicide. Her rifle was gone, her bullets depleted. She felt no pain, but when she brought her hand to her side it came back coated with blood. Freja could fight no longer. When her hands and elbows had been bruised and cut by the sharp gravel, Freja forced hope her eyes and allowed her composure to slowly return. She found herself on the slope of the small hill, below the clashing soldiers. Her side was radiating with pain, enough to make her wince. And she had pissed her pants. A quick glance showed her a torn uniform and dripping blood from her abdomen, seeping slowly from where her flesh had been punctured by the explosion. An approaching roar drew her attention away, and she raised her head; her eyes were greeted by the image of hundreds of charging cavalry with weapons drawn and the Scandian flag flying steadily in their wake. Salvation had arrived. Above her, in the battle on the ridge, the shouts intensified. The dark of the night was broken by the fire spat from the barrels of the mounted riflemen. Screams of agony began to echo all around the foothills, and closer and closer the horsemen of Gothian demise rode. Now fire was raining down into the cavalry’s ranks. A saber-brandishing dragoon uttered a shout of pain and was thrown off the back of his horse, and his neck snapped loudly as it hit the ground. His horse, devoid of rider, continued its charge before encountering the growing chaos of the battlefield, and it peeled away from the fray cantering towards where Freja lay. It was all the signal she needed to stride up and pull at its reins, placating it enough for her to mount its muscular back and force it back towards her comrades, stopping only along the way to retrieve the killed dragoons’ dropped saber and pistol still strapped to his waist. Her pain had disappeared. She would fight on. Ulrika had watched the engagement from afar, alone in the camp deserted by its soldiers gone to defend their materiel. Iris stood by her side but did not make her presence known, afraid of disturbing the queen enraptured in the heat of battle. As with her soldiers, she had been surprised at the length of the engagement, but held an unwavering trust in the resilience of her small contingent as it fought off man after man of the larger Gothian force. It was a shame, really, to be sat in the back as an observer instead of throwing herself in the fray, but it was certainly better than escaping at the first sign of violence. At any rate, all the horses in the camp were already occupied in the fight. The queen had been first to see her cavalry divisions advance into the enemy flank. At that point, the assaulting divisions’ defeat was nothing short of certain. Her dragoons and cuirassiers gained an immediate upper hand over their scattered enemy and cut down resistance like barley in the harvest. In the fire-illuminated battlefield, Ulrika could witness the rear guard of the invaders fleeing from their duty, leaving their encircled comrades to die at the hands of vastly superior Scandian troops. How repulsive the enemy was. But the reformed coalition forces was not to be defeated so easily. The surrounded troops had seemingly assumed the courage their contemporaries had callously left behind. Coldness had crept into their cries, coalescing into furious oaths; together they mounted a desperate breakout over the entrenched Scandian infantry guarding the route to the camp. Ulrika watched with an impeding dread as soldiers armed with the resolve of glorious sacrifice shot and hacked their way deeper and deeper into the defensive lines, fighting with their knives after their bullets ran dry, and fighting with their fists when their knives broke. They tramped over corpses of their own in their wild fight and flight away from the approaching cavalry. A bullet missed its target and flew into the camp behind, striking a lit lantern which burst with a loud shattering of glass. Ulrika recoiled at the violent explosion, and a stream of urine soaked into the diaper’s thick padding before she could bring her quivering bladder under control. Young, naive Iris had been much worse for wear – the shock extracted from her a scream of raw terror and overwhelmed her potty training. The pee she had been so desperately holding back gushed out into her cotton panties and into the folds of her pleated skirt. Iris’ s humiliation was furthered by her bowels voiding noisily into her panties, filling the small garment and leaving the sobbing servant thoroughly wishing she had on one of her mistress’s diapers. Ulrika grabbed the petrified servant by her neck, taking some care to avoid contact with her heavily soiled skirt, and pulled them both into a ditch at the side of the tent. Iris was crying profusely, and she pulled the young woman’s face into her chest to silence the her. Gothian shouts were coming terrifying close now. In her trapped and defenseless position, Ulrika felt almost as terrified as Iris did. Each ringing gunshot and each resounding explosion brought into her padding another fearful trickle of urine, despite the hand Ulrika had jammed tightly into her crotch in a futile attempt to stem her bladder. They had grown more and more desperate, fighting for longer and more furiously through their dying breaths, breaking in closer and closer to the camp. Please, how much longer, how many more? She looked up. A soldier, clad in the Gothian grey, twisted his pockmarked face and found Ulrika’s eyes in the ditch. A final kill before his own death. The soldier charged at his target. His cry echoed in the heavens and drowned out all of the queen’s consciousness. All that she could make out of him in the dark was the glint of a bayonet. Those eyes – that cry – he was the one who would killed her, who had killed her. It was the sum of all her fears, the rawest of all terrors that she could experience. What was left of her quivering bladder poured into her already soaked padding. Her lying position allowed a trickle of urine to escape the sodden padding and leak onto her thighs, dampening the fabric of her skirt. The rear of the diaper strained and bulged as Ulrika also messed herself, soiling the back of her ass with her own shit. So consumed was she in her own terror than she could not even feel her own infantile act; all the fallen queen could do now was squeeze her eyes shut and wait for her life to end. Hooves clattered near. A gunshot. The Gothian oaths fell silent. Ulrika forced her eyes open and looked up. A still black horse, darker than the night, towered serenly over her. A soldier mounted atop held a smoking pistol in her hand. The queen scrambled to her palms. A stern blonde, wearing a blue uniform. Scandian. Tears of rapture and relief flowed from her eyes and a quaking sob, so uncharacteristic of the Virago Queen, escaped her chest. She buried her face in her palms. Who is this noblewoman, and why has she found herself within our battle? Ulrika dismounted her horse and extended a hand to the distraught lady on the ground. “Brigadier Freja Lindgren, of the Scandian Grand Army. Do not distress, madam, for we have completed their defeat of the enemy. There shall be no more battle tonight. May I ask who you are?” I must not allow myself to be known. Ulrika opened her mouth to speak in the pruned and gentile voice her family tried to beat into her, that voice she had despised since she was a princess. It emerged from her choked in sobs and tears. “I- I am Duchess Selonia of Courland … envoy to the Scandian c- crown. I had been camped with you for the night …”. That was enough for Freja. “Worry not, madam, please trust in the Scandian army to defend your continued safety.” Ulrika accepted Freja’s extended hand, only for her left leg to be wracked by a shot of pain. It was not her most grievous wound, but assuming the manner of Selonia meant feigning a collapse down to her knees. Freja scrambled down on her knees. The noblewoman’s fine pelisse was covered in blood. And Freja noticed for the first time, lying in the ditch with the noblewoman, her fainted servant. “Madam, you have been hurt! I can attend to you… Svea! Please look after this lady’s servant, upon the ground!” This was bad. “Oh … I do not believe it to be serious …”. But how could she refuse in this costume? Freja would not budge. “Please, it is of no trouble to me. Lend me your arm, I can help you to a bed.” Ulrika was trapped. “I … I wish only to be attended to by a physician.” “Madam, there are no physicians here. I am the only one who may be of help to you. Let me prove to you the great skils Her Majesty Queen Ulrika has bestowed upon us.” Oh, what could be done? Freja had already draped Ulrika across her shoulder, leading her into an unfamiliar tent. With the gentle deliberation to inflicting further pain, she set Courland’s envoy upon the bed. Her satchel revealed a bottle of rationed akvavit – the standard-issue drink of soldiers drowning their hesitation before entering battle. She had no desire for the poor northern liquor in the land of bountiful schnapps and vodka. But the biting spirit could be of some use here. “Madam, some alcohol for your pain, perhaps?” Freja held up the bottle of akvavit. Ulrika hated akvavit as much as Freja did. But her disguise could not permit a refusal. “Oh, it shall do nicely for me”. Freja fed the duchess her anesthetic in a silver spoon. With the light of a lantern shining down upon Selonia, she could better examine the wounds her patient had received. Her fine lilac dress was stained with blood close at her thigh. To bandage Selonia’s would, she would have to remove her layers of dress. Freja blushed at the prospect. “Madam, I, ah … I may not be able to treat you with your full dress.” Ulrika bit her tongue. “It is fine, so long as you may attend to me better.” The fine Courish coat came apart at the front, and a laced and tassled skirt underneath removed clumsily at the shoulders. The duchess’s fine white chemise revealed a sanguine stain and tear where her flesh had ostensibly been cut. Freja gulped. In her best effort to preserve the envoy’s modesty, she opted to pull the chemise up from the hem instead of removing it from Selonia’s shoulders. Her left leg was streaked with fresh blood, as she had expected. With a small towel, Freja wiped away the sanguine stains on the envoy’s thigh. Much to her relief, no new blood spilled forth; the wound would not be of great concern to the envoy’s life and immediate health. Freja tore a bandage for her patient. She lifted the dress further to better address the wound – and saw the duchess’s undergarment that she wore at her crotch. What was this strange piece of Courish dress? She looked closer at the curious white underwear, and noticed the yellow stain that covered the front. A stain – from the duchess’s own urine. It was a diaper, that which infants wore. Freja tore her eyes away and suddenly found herself awash with mortification. Ulrika could not bear the humiliation. Her face, flushed completely red, turned as far away from her soldier’s gaze as possible. The brigadier applied the bandage gently and firmly to her wound without a word, and when done, returned the chemise over her diaper as if she had seen nothing. The silence continued to hang as Freja retrieved the fine dresses and placed them at Ulrika’s bedside. She turned curtly to leave, but froze and let her voice break the silence. “I’m sorry – ach, well I, if I may speak to you frankly …” The brigadier retried the bedside lantern and held it at her waist. “Please do not think too badly of me … but do not consider yourself alone in your … accident …” Ulrika could only just bear to look up. The light revealed the wet stain at the crotch of Freja’s pants. The soldier who had saved her life had wet herself in the fight. Had she been Ulrika, she would have chided Freja for her cowardice – she had no qualms with disciplining soldiers even as her own dry clothes belied a very soiled diaper. But she had obviously come across as much worse than her grenadier tonight; and surely Freja could see that the hot embarrassment had still not faded from her face. She sighed. “Ah… then, Brigadier, we shall be the keepers of each others’ secrets.”
  10. Long time lurker and first time poster. Here's a story that I originally wanted in a fantasy universe but ended up in some sort of sci-fi one instead :P. Maybe there will be a part 2? ____________________________________________________________________________________________ The cold winds of winter glided gently across the streets. By tomorrow’s morning, the dilapidated roads would be filled with pedestrians, but now, deep in the night, one only had flickering streetlights and roaches for company. From the sides of the litter-lined streets, there rose several monoliths of apartment buildings and industrial facilities. Structures evidently designed solely for efficiency in a state with an insatiable thirst for inaccessible raw resources. The night sky was made starless by the brightly lit oasis of life beyond the hills that pulsated as a distant rainbow. Not that it mattered to the the drab concrete and corrugated aluminum of the slums, perpetually engulfed in turmoil. The glory and grandeur of the inner city meant nothing to those here who could never hope to experience it; nothing save for a world of vast riches to exploit for the cunning few. It was in this small population of connivers which Nova had found herself. She fit the role of a bandit, or a bounty hunter. Her consistent success rested on the nature of what she stole - not lives, but information. It paid well, it made sure your targets would say nothing, and you could always come back for more. Tonight, in a small and spartan apartment room in a long-abandoned building, she was again ready to strike into the heart of the City, an attack on the pinnacle of their society. Unlike her male comrades, her attacks were executed with surgical precision. This one would be no different. Opening a battered case on the hard ground, she retrieved two small combat knives, sharpened to a razor edge. As she rose up she grabbed a folding submachine gun from its place on the wall. A hard childhood on the streets gave her aptitude in combat, and her clothes concealed a muscled yet lithe and agile build. She could out-duel almost anyone in close quarters even without needing the superior weapons she now fielded. In the legends which sporadically circulated the outlaws of the slums, she was a fearless warrior, a shadow perpetually taunting the giant which was the City. Cradling the SMG, Nova walked over to her bed, the only piece of furniture in a cube of cold and cracking concrete. Despite the lack of doors and windows in the room, the building’s size and complexity as well as the cover of the night allowed for a modicum of privacy. From under the bed she retrieved her light body armor, stolen from the City arsenals. Silently she stripped herself of her civilian clothes; in the process, she slipped her panties down her ankles and reached again under her bed, in a nook between the mattress and the frame hidden from plain sight. A slight red tinge appeared on Nova’s chiseled cheeks as she retrieved a plain white diaper from the bed and slowly hiked the ruffled elastic up her chiseled thighs. As much as she hated wearing them, it was an invaluable asset for maintaining composure in combat and intimidating her targets. As Nova reached for a spare, she noticed with a frown that the bag was almost empty. Stuffing the one remaining diaper into her bag, she noted to herself to buy more upon return. The brunette walked by herself down a path she knew well, through trash-filled back alleys and crumbling, cracked asphalt as the concrete behemoths of the urban jungle made its way into the shoddier makeshift shelters of the slums. Here, there was none of the tenuous order found in the ghettos, and all around there was the cacophony of muffled intoxicated yelling. Many in her line of work had hailed from regions like this or worse, but to Nova the entire area felt uncomfortable and hostile, a mental remnant conditioned into her by her earlier life. As she walked past a row of sheet metal homes, she momentarily caught sight of a glint off of a knife reflecting off a fire streaming from a barrel - before her brain could process the flash of light, Nova’s tensed body was rocked by a bloodcurdling scream and a howl of pain which pierced the heavens. Balking in fear, Nova stumbled a step, and a brief trickle of hot urine escaped her quivering bladder. As she regained her composure, she scowled as she felt the warm moistness of the absorbed urine on the soft surface of the pull-up. Adding to her apprehension was the few women scattered around the village who were seemingly unperturbed by the assault, with their response being limited to brief glances and quiet mutters of “poor bastard”. She took some solace in the fact that the darkness hid her shame. Eventually, Nova’s trek led her into the forest, ending in a fenced compound primarily of corrugated metal and rust, hidden from air by the vegetation reclaiming the land. Inside a chain-link enclosure rested a small cargo vessel, long retired from its service. The airship’s interior had been gutted to make room for several seats, but the battered craft’s greatest enhancement was in its masking projectors. Hidden in a maze of exposed components on the left lay a device which allowed the ship to modify its appearance at will. It was nearly instrumental in the raids that Nova sustained herself on, and now the airship once again would be heading out to the outer arms of the City. In the pitch-blackness of the ship, Nova stumbled her way around the metal belly to enter the cockpit, only separated from the hold by a thin metal wall with a door permanently jammed into an open position. As she lowered herself into the jumpseat, she reached behind her for a small button haphazardly taped to the wall, which on her press activated a small flickering light next to her instrument panel. In an effort to save precious energy required to feed the cloaking device, the lighting built into the panel had been gutted, and the only thing illuminating the panel now was a small lamp, flickering in its faded glass sphere. “I’ll probably have enough to dump this piece of shit in a year”. She flicked the ignition and pulled the heavy levers sending the engines sputtering to life behind her. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________ It would be hours until the ship, plodding at its lethargic pace, would reach the outer rim of the City in which the target was currently located. Although she hated the long and tedious journey, in which the clunker needed to be put back on course after drifting in a random direction every fifteen minutes, Nova knew that her destination represented a rare opportunity to get one of the largest bounties in her life. The aristocrats was easy to manipulate; if one was to take hold of information compromising their image all of them would unhesitatingly distribute incredible bribes for silence. It was a system was nearly begging for someone to take advantage of. After years of experience, her raids and attacks were easy to her. With knowledge of the City’s arsenal, it was child's play to bypass the often inept security of high-ranking officials, and then it was a case of engaging in combat and recording the inevitable accident. And then the recording could be sold back to her target for extraordinary prices. Nova usually chose targets with less important positions which would also afford her less security to bypass . However, this time would be very different. She would be executing her attack on the Major General Challant, who would be in the outer rim district to oversee the training of an expeditionary force. As was the case with many non-critical government officials, she would be doing so with very little security. Besides, she was always more of a tactician than a battle-hardened warrior. This would be even easier than taking on an oligarch. About three hours into the journey slowly but surely the amount of traffic around Nova began to increase, and slowly but surely the mile-high skyscrapers rose out of the planet's curvature. Only now did Nova begin to make the final preparations for her mission - from a metal box on the side of her seat she took a recording device, and a large datapad on a worn and scratched leather wristband. It was a portable casting device, a favorite of connivers everywhere, which allowed the wearer to take the appearance of nearly anybody albeit with a small delay and wrist-scalding heat. Perhaps the most powerful weapon in Nova’s arsenal, even this heavily used unit had cost fifteen jobs' worth of currency on the black market. Mere possession of one such caster was grounds for arrest in the City. With the ship about to descend into the metropolis, Nova turned on the magical generator, giving the freighter the appearance of a small charter vessel. She disguised herself too with her own bracelet, and in an instant her combat armor and fatigues were now the clothes of an Imperial civilian. With everything set, Nova now turned the ship and began its landing sequence, flying what appeared to be a charter vessel directly into the large port of the city. Somewhat clumsily, she coaxed the ungainly beast into the sprawling mass of skyships and maintenance crews, and eventually she touched down next to a unloading cargo vessel. With a few flicks turning off several switches and a pull of a heavy lever, the ship’s magical systems ground to a halt, and a door flipped open allowing Nova to disembark. All around her, the majesty of the City came into Nova's view. Nearly every structure was built out of crystalline glass polished to a shimmer, and nearly all of them seemed to be connected with an intricate web of sky-bridges, many reaching thirty or forty stories high from the immaculate streets of the City. Giant screens and neon signs promoting a variety of goods threw light everywhere, turning the already intricate shadows on the ground into a flurry of decorative architectural features. Overhead a train, silent and incredibly fast, shot through a transparent tube high enough above the ground that passengers may have felt that they were flying. There were people here too, masses of men, women and children walking in the streets with little to no commotion among their ranks. Everyone simply made their way past each other silently without interaction. In a crowd of such proportions, one was nearly impossible to see. With the bracelet carefully concealed under what an onlooker would see as a long sleeve, Nova’s civilian disguise allowed her to easily meld into the crowd for her short walk to the residential blocks. As she walked in the armor invisible to those around her, Nova could feel the pressure mounting on her bladder from the long voyage and she began to scan around her for a public restroom. With a heightened pace, the brunette pushed her way through the throng, her rapid strides taking her past blocks of glass facades eventually reaching a security checkpoint, set up in the presence of the Major General’s visit. Although the checkpoint would be simple enough to breaking through, with only a few light barriers and a distracted guard, it was easy to tell that starting a fight would not be go unnoticed with the hundreds of roaming eyes all around. Ducking into a small alleyway discreetly tucked behind a shop, Nova smirked as she gave her bracelet a few taps and gestures, and with a wisp her clothes immediately transformed into that of a senior guard for the residential block. Her victory was short-lived, however, it was at that moment that Nova sensed a figure shoot into the alley behind her. She had been followed. Nova’s hand shot for a knife, but the figure from behind her seemed to move impossibly fast as it twisted her arm and used the brunt of its body to hurl her against the wall. The cold metal of a gunbarrel pressed against the small of her back and was forcefully twisted against her body armor. It was a maneuver Nova knew would draw out as much pain and fear as possible. “Who sent you?” A cold and hostile voice of a female soldier. Nova’s eyes were wide with shock and terror, and her body gave a few quakes as it collapsed under the soldier’s strong grasp. Despite her training, her very full bladder had let go the moment that she had been forced into the wall. The relatively thin padding of the pull-up swelled with urine, and as she jammed her only free hand into her crotch to desperately stem the torrent of hot piss from the crux of her thighs she could feel a few small rivulets of urine leak down her legs. Her bowels gave way as well, pushing solid mess into the backside of her diaper, and she could feel the small diaper strain to contain her foul release. The assailant laughed haughtily as she observed Nova’s fearful reaction accompanied by the lingering odor of shit in the air. From her pinned position, Nova could feel her fear rapidly turn into anger, and as soon as the soldier’s grip loosened she immediately sprang into action. Breaking free of the soldier’s grasp, she twisted her body around, and in one rapid motion, her now-free arms snatched her two knives from their sheaths. With their blades pointed at the enemy, she lunged forward with ferocity and stabbed down. Much to her disbelief, the sharp blades found nothing. From a crouching position, Nova took the brief moment to size up her discombobulated opponent. The soldier was built similarly to her, with silvery hair tied in a bun, but wore almost no armor and held a simple snub-nosed handgun. She was wearing heavy goggles - was that how she could see through the disguise? On her back there was a rifle, and her waist a bayonet. Now regaining her senses, she was staggering back and bringing her pistol to bear. Nova lunged without hesitation, and although she was fast enough to send the pistol clattering to the floor, she still felt the speed of her maneuver shake loose a brief trickle of urine from her not yet empty bladder into her soaked diaper. Watching the woman recover from the failed strike revealed to Nova that the battle would not last long. Instead of reaching for the bayonet on her waist, the soldier clumsily reached for the rifle on her back. While the soldier fumbled with her heavy weapon, Nova jabbed forward with a knife. Although the woman recoiled quickly, she noticeably whimpered in pain, and her blood stained her jacket. Nova grinned as the crimson droplets dotted the cold stone ground. With renewed vigor, the soldier lunged again, the gash on her back only increasing her tenacity. Nova could read her attacks, and this time as she dove out of the way Nova lashed a kick to her opponent’s arm. In an instant, the rifle clattered uselessly to the ground. Before the knight could reach her dropped bayonet Nova had already delivered a powerful kick to her stomach. Nova could see the terror in her opponent’s eyes as her body keeled over against the wall, and the trickles of urine running past the knight’s dampened shorts quickly turned into streams of piss pouring down her bare legs. The knight’s shorts sagged down as well, accompanied by the distinctive sounds of a bowel accident. Nova turned to her now-helpless assailant, and slammed the hilt of her knife into the the soldier’s head, instantly incapacitating her. No sense in raising the price on her head over killing a goon. With the guard splayed out on the ground, Nova assessed herself and their brief scuffle. It seemed that the sounds of the city had drowned out the fight, and it would also be unlikely for anybody to go into an alley like this. Save for a few scratches near her neck, Nova was unhurt as well; and despite the sodden padding rapidly cooling near her skin and the lump in the back of her pants it seemed like she had just barely spared her fatigues. With a sigh, Nova crouched down to the soldier, and opened the small satchel on her waist. Inside, she found the standard first aid equipment supplied by the City, as well as a few gold coins which Nova pocketed. Reaching deeper into the satchel, the tips of her fingers grasped something vaguely cloth-like, and as she pulled the object out Nova realized that it was a thick diaper, folded into thirds and adorned with childish designs. With the image of the soldier lying in a puddle of her piss despite the thick diaper, Nova laughed haughtily in spite of her own soiled state. From a pocket in her armor, Nova produced a spare diaper, and after scanning the area for any wanderers, she quickly stripped out of her fatigues and soaked pull-up. After a makeshift cleaning of herself with a bandage from the soldier, Nova quickly slipped into the childish garment tossing the used one into a dark corner. With a sigh and a burning on her face, Nova started on her way to the penthouse, stopping only to pick up the rifle for a second and hold it in her hands. It was a beautifully engineered automatic weapon, kitted out with the latest in ranging and targeting devices that the City could afford all packed into a compact and sleek package. It would be a fantastic addition to her collection - but Nova could also feel the substantial weight of the weapon. She had a job to do, and the rifle would only slow her down. Without care or caution, the gun clattered onto the ground. “Fucking bureaucrats”, Nova muttered as she leapt onto a catwalk, breezing past the view of any guards at the checkpoint. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________ Still bristling from the unexpected encounter, Nova entered the building wearing the disguise of a young professional. As soon as she entered the heavy, gilded doors of the tower, she was immediately greeted with a blast of cold air and the sickly-sweet scent of perfume. Nova shivered imperceptibly as she walked across the marble floor of the atrium as excessive as the building’s exterior - in spite of all the building’s grace and opulence, it did not feel welcoming or comfortable to the fighter. With a smirk, Nova noted that the guards seemed completely oblivious to her; none had even bothered to glance in her direction. Of course, who would suspect the slender businesswoman of causing any harm? The guards on the higher floors, Nova knew, would not be as unobservant. Taking a quick glance to ensure that the guards were preoccupied, she ducked into a short hallway and opened a door marked for employees only. As the door swung shut behind her, Nova watched the sliver of light cast on the floor shrink before the heavy thud indicated that there was no longer any trace of her entry. The stairwell she had now entered was barren and concrete, similar to the architecture in Nova’s home. Expertly, she traversed the nearly pitch-black stairs on instinct alone, until she had reached a large chasm with several large machines humming with a high-pitched whine, as the building blueprints she acquired had depicted. At the back of this large atrium was a set of heavy double doors, marked with brightly colored tape. The cargo elevator. The only place where someone could do to the upper floors undetected. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________ "There's an intruder in the hotel. Security has been notified. Stay in your room and lock the doors." The tall, redheaded commander barked the warning into a small commuications device linked directly to the general's quarters. She put the device down with some force, turned around, and stepped into a suit of standard issue armor. With rough and deliberate strength, she hefted a large sniper rifle from a rack stacked with similar instruments, and as she slung the powerful weapon over her shoulders she began to go down the concrete staircase at a moderate jog. Towards the back of the large expanse of the penthouse, in a room with full glass windows covered by blinds, the diplomat bade her aides to hide. She herself was entirely unperturbed by the development, immediately going back to behind her entire oak desk, and waited for her guard to take care of the threat. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________ "Show yourself!" The command came reverberating down the halls followed quickly by the cacophony of moving armor. Nova cursed as she pressed her back hard against the wall. She had not planned to encounter resistance this early. Not all was lost, however. Crouching at the ready she produced from her pocket a fist-sized, crudely fashioned bomb. Although the impure explosives created by the mudsills could do little damage to the unit through detonation, it was enough for a blinding flash and incredibly loud explosion. As the sparks flew burning the string down to the explosive core, Nova threw the makeshift flashbang at the wall directly opposite her, sending the explosive ricocheting towards the direction of the voice. There was a deafening bang and an immediate smell of heavy smoke in the air. Despite her mental preparation for the detonation, Nova still felt a second-long stream of urine meet her diaper. She, however, had no time to waste on cursing her bladder - she had also made out the sound of a clattering, possibly a weapon hitting the floor. In a flash, her SMG was out of its chest holster and in her hands. With her hands on the trigger, she used the wall as a starting block to burst past the corner of the hallway below hopefully before whoever was there could recover from the blast. If her quarry was still reeling, perhaps a quick pistol-whip would suffice, and if not the gun had a silencer. However, as soon as she had done so her underestimation of her opponent had become painfully obvious. She first felt the arm slam into her throat, then the fist that struck her stomach with such force that combined with the momentum of her sprint would send her flying into the cold floor of the penthouse, and the SMG clattering across the floor. Acting on pure instinct, Nova immediately twisted her body around just to see her assailant reach with deadly speed towards a holstered pistol. Her eyes widened in raw fear, and her bladder released in terror, a forceful stream of urine poured into her diaper which rapidly swelled with warm urine. With no time to think and with all her strength, Nova threw her body towards the standing figure; her heart screamed in her ears body as the strike connected staggering the guard. Only as she scrambled to her hands and feet was Nova aware of the growing warmth between her legs; fortunately although she had completely lost control of her bladder for those terrifying seconds it seemed that the diaper had managed to contain her brief lapse in continence. With renewed vigor, Nova sprung to her feet before her opponent could find her service weapon, and with her entire body weight struck the guard in the jaw with her fist. Without needing to reach for the arsenal she carried, she followed the attack with a flurry of punches and kicks channeled with the raw vigor of adrenaline. As the guard keeled over, Nova threw the woman into an exotic wooden table, the back of the commander landing forcefully on an ornamental crystal bowl shattering the intricate glass vestibule. Standing over her defeated adversary, Nova smiled cruelly as she unsheathed the glinting knives in one fluid motion. “N..no… please don’t kill me.” The plead came as a whimper. Tears filled the once proud soldier’s eyes as she tried pitifully to crawl away from a painful demise, her gun lost and her body cut and bleeding by the shards now scattered on the floor. The soldier had forgone any sort of protection, and as she pleaded woefully for mercy she could feel but was powerless to stop her bladder from completely relaxing, emptying a torrent of warm piss which soaked through her panties and fatigues rapidly and formed a rapidly-growing puddle on the floor. Now cowering in fear, she could also feel her bowels relax, forcing their contents into her underwear which did little to contain the mess. With the lingering odor in the air now demonstrating the soldier’s cowardice, Nova scoffed condescendingly as she sheathed her knives on a worn bandolier. She had no time to dwell on unimportant targets. Breaking into a run, Nova bolted down the tall, windowed halls of the penthouse, the sound of her boots striking the hard ground reverberating through the floor and her brown hair flying wildly behind her. The General's door would be at the end of the floor, behind an grand atrium of glass ceiling and marble pillars. No more guards stood in the way of the suite's door. Pay was fifteen, fourteen, thirteen steps away now. A glint of red appeared against the warm rays of the sun struck the very edge of Nova's vision. Danger. The run turned into a dive as she slammed bodily into the marbled tile, followed not a moment later by a deafening explosion as shattered glass rained all around her. Thank fuck their snipers can't aim without laser dots. A combat roll sent crystal shards bit into the unarmored portions of Nova's skin, but it was a small sacrifice to avoid decapitation from afar. Bringing her arms close to her stomach, she felt the shape of a small cylindrical grenade, the latest in the City's arsenal. Her fingers flicked to the two trigger pins, and in one quick and desperate motion she threw out both pins. Although she had squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away, the searing flash sent flashes of purple and blue all across her vision. But Nova noticed only the crack of a gunshot racing across the sea of skyscrapers, coinciding with the tiny flash of white to her left. Nova snapped her head towards its source, the top of a glass tower only about a block away. It was easy to discern the black figure against the white of building. The sniper had chosen a poor roost, a clean and clinical modern rooftop where any obtrusion would stand out instantly instead of blending in with AC units and overhead cables. Returning fire would be futile, but the window of opportunity was all she really needed. Still, Nova unloaded her weapon at her target out of spite if nothing else. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________ "Missed!" The transmission seemed ages ago, yet still pounded in the redhead's soul as she retreated from her position. She had lost her target in the shattering glass, and she had only found her for an instant before her retina, locked into the scope, exploded with a blinding flash of light. Panic had forced her finger on the trigger and urine into her combat slacks. She had scrambled to get up from her prone position with the acrid piss running down her thighs when the unmistakable sound of bullets started to bounce off the roof all around her. The staccato explosion of glass windows was simply too much, and the once proud commander fell on her knees as the puddle of pee below her grew. Terror relaxed her body and a foul mush forced its way into her panties. She had crawled with dampened fatigues clinging to her skin and a load in her pants all the way back to the stairwell, and hardly noticed as she collapsed in a sitting position right on top of her mess. With a quavering voice of defeat and terror, she whimpered into her radio, "Target's still there. You've got a fight. Please be careful". And with tears, "I'm sorry". ____________________________________________________________________________________________________ The flimsy lock on the door gave way to Nova’s imposing figure without any resistance. Walking with slow, purposeful steps, Nova rapidly closed the distance between her and the desk of the General located at the back of the room. Challant was not there. Where was she? "Come out now with your hands up and I won't kill you!". “What do you want?” The words, dripping with contempt instead of terror, took Nova off guard. She stopped in her tracks, halfway to the large desk. “I’m here to kill you.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it helped in making you target truly afraid of her life. Nova drew her gun and moved towards the desk. It was at that moment when the room exploded with light and the smell of propellant. The screaming automatic bark of an assault rifle reverberated off the sides of the room. The scream that came out of Nova was fueled by absolute terror as she dove behind the cover of a wall jutting out from the room's sides. Warmth radiated through her crotch as a small stream of piss escaped into her already sodden diaper. As her fear subsided, Nova felt adrenaline course through her entire body. This fight would be nothing like she had planned for. The gunfire stopped for just long enough for Nova to burst out from cover with her automatic weapon in her grip. Her opponent was dressed in the ornamental garb of generals conducting diplomacy, a starched white uniform with a chest full of gleaming medals. In her hands was a short, snub-nosed rifle smoking at the barrel. It didn't faze Nova, in her element now, with surprise and speed on her side against the combat incompetence of military high brass. She hadn't originally planned to kill the general, but the fight was too dangerous to continue. The SMG's silenced found its mark quickly, and Nova's finger squeezed the trigger. Muffled, silenced bullets erupted out of the suppressor without any telltale flash. They were all aimed directly at center mass. But the spray of blood didn't erupt from Challant's unarmored chest. How the fuck could I have missed? Only then did Nova see the shimmering purple sheen that enveloped half of the room. Some sort of energy shield? Force field? She didn't spend much time on the question before Challant responded with her much louder fully automatic fire. Nova hadn't stopped moving since she came out of cover, and she broke into a full sprint towards a connecting hall. Speed and size made her a small target, but just as she reached the door a bullet struck her armored abdomen. The kinetic force of the impact made her stagger, and a searing pain sliced across her hip. Still running and full of adrenaline, Nova didn't notice as her bladder emptied in terror. The padding tucked discreetly between her thighs rapidly expanded as it absorbed the torrent of hot piss, pressing warmly against her crotch even as her pee continued to soak the waiting padding. A hot stream of pee running warmly down her thigh finally alerted Nova to her accident just as she ducked behind a corner, and the flow of urine finally stemmed. It was obvious that the diaper, now tugging against Nova's waist, would not hold another drop of her pee. More pressing matters occupied Nova's attention as she checked her wound. Blood was dripping from her armor, but the bullet had mostly grazed her side. A quick glance of the room around her revealed a kitchen without cover. She couldn't hear the general give chase, probably because she wouldn't have the protection of the force field here. It was obvious at this point that the mission was a failure. As she leaned against a wall, her muscles burning and her chest pounding, Nova saw her opportunity for escape in a door marked by a glowing FIRE EXIT sign. It wouldn't be a silent escape, but she would at least be able to save her life. The SMG was strapped back across her chest, and she quickly tapped into her bracelet to give herself the appearance of a hotel employee. Down the concrete staircase she went. Shit shit shit shit shit. At least I'm still alive. Climbing down to the ground floor obviously wasn't an option, but the disguise would allow her to disembark at any floor and blend in quickly. The cooling urine against her crotch reminded her of a pressing need to clean herself up soon. With a sinking heart, Nova realized that she was wearing her last diaper. Going back to the ship commando with the rough fabric of the fatigues was not her idea of a good end to a mission. As Nova rounded first corner of the stairwell, the butt of a rifle slammed into the side of her head. All 130 pounds of her were sent careening into the hard concrete floor. Before she knew it a shoe slammed into the small of her back, pinning her to the ground, and a gun's barrel pressed painfully into her scalp. A raspy woman's voice screamed for her to "Put your hands on the back of your head!". Tears of exhaustion and of unadulterated terror reached Nova's eyes. Her body quivered and the remainder of her bladder came pouring out into her already drenched diaper, which quickly reached its capacity allowing the acrid yellow liquid to stream down her legs, soaking her panties and darkening her fatigues. The contents of her bowels also came tumbling out in fear, pressed against the back of her ass by the tight fabric of the diaper. The redheaded commander looked in disgust at her prisoner, lying in a puddle of her own piss on the floor and who had, judging by the odor, obviously just shit herself. This was the woman who had escaped her aim earlier? A quick search of her waist revealed no handcuffs to restrain the would-be assassin. In no mood to show Nova any mercy, she reached for her electroshock gun and turned it up to the maximum allowable voltage, and savored in the process taking careful aim at Nova before shooting the arcing electricity into the cowering body. The bounty hunter convulsed on the ground before going entirely limp, allowing for the commander to strip her of the knives, grenades, and gun. She reached for her radio. "This is Thirteen. Target neutralized. Send in the grunts. And she'll need herself a diaper change".
  11. View File JAV - SAND-023 19-year-old Girl Pure Flower Incontinence JAV movie. School uniform, diaper, kimono, and masturbation wetting. Submitter Present Submitted 05/23/2019 Category Female videos Clothing Diaper Pajamas Panties/Undies Skirt
  12. View File JAV - SAND-016 5 Classroom Experience Peeing JAV movie. School uniform, cloth diaper, jeans wetting. Submitter Present Submitted 05/23/2019 Category Female videos Clothing Diaper Jeans Panties/Undies Skirt
  13. View File JAV - Cloth Diapers JAV movie, don't know the title. Playing and wetting in cloth diapers. Submitter Present Submitted 05/23/2019 Category Diapers and ageplay
  14. Version 1.0.0

    857 downloads

    JAV movie, don't know the title. Playing and wetting in cloth diapers.
    Free
  15. Version 1.0.0

    1,108 downloads

    JAV movie. School uniform, cloth diaper, jeans wetting.
    Free
×
×
  • Create New...