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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.

So this is just a short little one-off I've been thinking of for a long time, and finally decided to sit down and write. Since I have other stories like this one, I figured I'd lump them together in a big thread. Whenever I have some random one-off idea, odds are it'll go here. Hope you enjoy! With a stretch and a yawn, Lina Altor rose from bed. Her back cracked, she yawned again, and with all the enthusiasm of a snail in a race, set about doing her morning stretches. A big part of her morning routine was also to (begrudgingly) do a set of push-ups and sit-ups, but one look at the inn’s dirty, stained floors was all the persuasion she needed not to. She was certain she’d happened upon the most seedy, vile inn in town. Lina was also confident she was the only person to have spent the night there that didn’t take a companion into their bedroom, if the shouts, moans, and floors creaking was any indication. It was still pretty early, much earlier than she normally awoke; but she was determined to leave this place and find a more… moral place to stay while she took up contracts in the Longmarch. Since she wouldn’t be coming back, she went ahead and put on her armor, since it was difficult to carry otherwise. Dark brown trousers covered her white underwear, and a green tunic covered her chest and arms. Over this went a simple iron breastplate; some small iron shoulderpads; leather gloves with iron plating; and some iron vambraces. All of this covered her dark, tanned skin and lean muscle. Lina knew that many female adventurers and mercenaries were fond of wearing more revealing clothing, or at least shaping their armor to emphasize their more feminine traits, but Lina’s armor was as simple and practical as armor came. Stopping by the mirror briefly to ensure that her long, wavy hair was not a mess, and that she was otherwise presentable, Lina left disgusting inn, feeling like she was holier woman just for stepping away from it. She was eager to spend her time in the more reputable areas of the town. ---------- Nevermind, they’re all crooks, Lina fumed inside her head, Thirteen silvers for breakfast?! Dejectedly, Lina opened up her coin pouch, the somber jingle of the scant few coins inside more than enough indication that it was outside her price range. “Short on coin, lass?” the tavernkeep asked, having also heard the sounds of poverty coming from her coin pouch. “Afraid so… ” She pulled out whatever she had inside. “I don’t suppose you could take this and put the rest on my tab?” She held out her hand, in which she held nine silvers. An angry growling from her stomach betrayed her hunger, which normally would’ve been a little embarrassing, but she could see some sympathy wash over the old man’s face when he heard it. “No tab necessary, lass.” He took the coins from her hand began fixing her a plate of basic foodstuffs, “But take my advice, you might wanna just wanna skip on over to the next town. Reckon any contracts here’ll be taken care of soon enough.” Lina had almost stopped listening, since the plate of food had stolen her attention, “Why’s that?” “Some famous hero just rolled into town. Rumor is she’s one of the most talented sorceresses in Esora,” He explained, setting the breakfast down in front of her. “Half the mercs skipped town when she got here, and I hear the Sentinel’s Guild is reserving any well-paying contracts for her.” “Wonderful… ” Lina groaned, rubbing her eyes. Pushing it out of her mind, and deciding to be thankful for small miracles, she tore into her breakfast. ---------- Lina could hardly see the white stone buildings and cobblestone roads through the throngs of people out and about. It didn’t take long before she caught on to what they were all talking about. “I heard Gleaming Maya killed a wyvern with one arrow!” A young boy shouted to his friends, much to their amazement. “She’s so gorgeous, she can’t walk ten feet without someone proposing!” A girl said, eliciting giggles from her friends. “She knows more about magic than anyone! My uncle told me that every king in the land tries to hire her as their court mage, but she always turns them down!” Some guy said to a large group of travelers. He was talking about this hero like she was already the town’s biggest tourist attraction. I’ve never heard of “Gleaming Maya”, Lina thought, trying to recall any tales about about this legendary hero. After a few more minutes of walking, a brilliant explosion snapped the young knight out of her reverie. Like fireworks, little arrows flew into the air before exploding into magical, glittery dust. After a second, the sparks and colors began rearranging themselves, and resolved into a mosaic-like depiction of a woman with a bow standing before an orc army, ready to trample her. A large audience was gathered around the light show, oooing and awwing at the display, but they gasped and went quiet at the visage of the lone hero facing down certain death. “But, as you may have guessed, this would not be the end of Gleaming Maya!” A young woman called out, evidently the sorceress performing the light show. Lina had no romantic interest in women, but even she had to admit that this woman was beautiful. Her skin, pale and without a single blemish, was lovingly shown off by her rather revealing attire. Her chest was covered only by a tight, blue garment that was only a little more fabric than just a bra. Likewise, her enchanting thighs were bared by her “pants”, which looked to Lina like nothing more than blue panties. From both of these articles, numerous gold bangles hung down, hypnotically swinging and swaying as the mage moved her body in rhythmic motions to keep the magic going. Her hair was the most perfect shade of golden-blonde Lina had ever seen, and her strikingly green eyes were easily visible, even from such a distance. “Indeed,” She continued with her story, “This would only be the beginning of one of my finest adventures!” Ah, Lina realized, So that’s Gleaming Maya in the flesh, huh? The floating sparkles shifted once again, and turned into a scene of Gleaming Maya vanquishing the warlord leading the orc army with only a single, brilliant arrow. “Seeing their leader fall, the orcs were shaken, and I used this opportunity to perform my favorite spell!” She sent up another magical arrow, and in a flash the scene had changed to a vista of orcs running in terror as Maya’s arrows landed on the ground, exploding into gigantic, calamitous fireballs. “The orcs had been driven back, but not defeated. With the city safe, I returned to the king, and said ‘Your majesty! That is twice now I have saved your kingdom from certain destruction! You must listen to me now, and rally your armies, or the orcs will surely be the death of you!’” The crowd cheered. Nothing excited the common people more than a king getting called an idiot. “With an army of knights at my back, I-” She was cut off by the sound of a horrifyingly deep growl, and several people screaming. All eyes looked to the road leading towards a nearby forest, from which a colossal wolf monster had emerged, and was bounding towards the crowd. Lina quickly drew her longsword, and ran to meet the beast. It moved at blinding speeds, and Lina could tell it would be upon the crowd before she could stop it. Could she even stop it? The creature was easily twice her height, and had a jaw that could snap her in half. Lina’s heart pounded with fear. The crowd devolved into a chorus of screaming, fleeing people, each trying to push through the impenetrably thick to get to safety. It had been so densely packed that now, in the chaos, nobody could properly move. At the very least, most of the people who’d been on the outskirts of the audience had pushed in enough to get out of the wolf’s immediate path. All save for one young woman, who’d fallen her butt, paralyzed with terror. A puddle was very rapidly spreading underneath her, soaking the back of her cream colored skirt. It spread around her in unpredictable directions, curving around the cobblestones below her. Pushing herself as hard as she could, Lina managed to reach the girl first, and positioned herself between her and the charging monster. It drew closer and closer, and Lina levelled her sword, preparing to strike. When it saw that it now had a challenger, the wolf howled so loudly it hurt her ears. “Everyone! Shield your eyes!” The familiar voice of Gleaming Maya commanded. Sparing a second to turn and look at the sorceress, Lina saw her floating in the air as if it were the simplest, most natural thing in the world. She held out her hand, and, beckoned from who-knows-where, a spectacular bow materialized from a green light. She quickly but powerfully drew back the string, willing into existence a gleaming green arrow. Letting it loose, it soared through the air at incredible speed, leaving a trail as it flew. Before the wolf even knew what hit it, it was vaporized and reduced to so many glittering sparks in the air. Lina just stood there dumbfounded. If this Gleaming Maya could do that, it was no wonder she was so respected here. “Are you all right, miss?” she heard Maya ask behind her, reminding her that there was a woman she was trying to protect behind her. Turning around, she saw Maya helping the terrified woman to her feet. The poor thing’s face was a mess of tears, and burning bright red. No one could judge her for having lost control of her bladder at a time like that, but she was clearly still humiliated. As the adrenaline rush of being charged by a monster, and then watching that monster explode wore off, the young lady quickly became the center of attention. A number of people snickered, some looked on in sympathy, and many averted their eyes. “Don’t worry about it,” Maya said, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder, “This kinda thing happens, but I’ve got a fix,” She waved her hand for a second, and then snapped her fingers. With a flash of light, the girl’s skirt instantly dried, bearing no trace of the accident. Lina’s mind quickly wandered to many instances throughout her life where a “hide wetting” spell would’ve come in handy. The young woman moved her legs a little, clearly gauging to see if she was truly dry. The look of surprise and disgust on her face answered her question. Maya put her arm around the girl’s shoulder, and whispered conspiratorially, “I could only make it look dry, love. You’ll need to get changed before an hour’s up or it’ll wear off,” She nodded in reply, and with a little shove from Maya, sped off towards her home. And then she turned to Lina. “And now, everyone, let’s have a hand for our fearless friend here! If I hadn’t been here, I daresay you would’ve been in good hands!” The audience cheered and clapped appreciatively, even though Lina hadn’t actually done anything. Nonetheless, she smiled and waved at the crowd. She thought she should’ve said something, but Lina had never been good with crowds. Gleaming Maya resumed her performance, the crowd practically showering her with money, now. Lina turned to walk down the path into the forest. It may be dangerous, but she’d need food when she traveled to the next town, and she certainly wasn’t about to buy any here. An uncomfortable feeling graced her privates as she walked, and only then did she realize that Maya’s remark about her being fearless was pretty ironic. Lina hadn’t even noticed, but she’d leaked a good bit of urine into her panties during the whole ordeal. Groaning in annoyance as her day just got worse, she trudged on down the path. Curiously, she noted that the wolf monster had seemingly left no footprints. ---------- Maya was happy to see that her audience had more than doubled after the wolf attack. The entire street was flooded with people excitedly listening to her tales and watching her magical performance. But two whole had passed since the attack, and she was tired, her voice hoarse, her bladder and bowels full. It was time to wrap things up. “Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you dearly for you attention and your donations,” She happily regarded the pile of gold and silver coins littering the area near her stage, “But it’s time for me to get some rest. I’ll be here tomorro-” A terrifying howl cut her off. Her eyes went wide, and her heart nearly stopped. Everyone looked to see a hulking figure, far larger than the last, emerging from the forest. The audience was on edge, murmurs of panic surging through the mass of people. That is, until someone shouted “You’ve got this, Maya!” Just like that, the audience’s fear turned into joyous excitement. They were eager to watch her slay another problem. There was only one complication… This wolf was real. Nobody knew, but Maya was only an illusionist. She only conjured an illusory monster into existence so she could “vanquish” it, and become a hero to the people. Unlike her fake one, this one approached slowly, analyzing its prey. She stepped forward as the crowd took up a position safely behind her. Maya thought she might puke. It’s okay… I’ll think of something. Maybe if I just… Shoot it with a light arrow, it’ll get scared and run off! Suppressing her trembling, she held out her hand, and once more summoned her bow. Drawing back the string, and forming the magic arrow, she loosed it. The people cheered and screamed as the arrow flew, struck the wolf, and created a blinding explosion. The cheers abruptly ended, though, when the light faded and the wolf remained, dazed and angered, but very much unharmed. It resumed its slow trot, stepping closer and closer to Maya. “It’s a demon!” Someone shouted. Maya tried desperately to think of something to do- anything. Her mind was going blank, and her body wouldn’t move. There was a sound of splashing water, and Maya glanced downwards to see a strong stream of urine falling from her skimpy pants. The crotch bore a growing stain, and she was sure she felt it spreading around her butt, too. Some of the urine coursed down her thighs in streams, winding around her legs before running into her shoes. The puddle she was standing in expanded quickly. Her knees buckled inwards, pressing against one another. She bowed her legs slightly, and felt her bowels empty in terror. With a wet crackle, her shorts, which had previously contoured to her butt perfectly, bulged violently. Tinting slightly brown, the bulge grew and grew, until it looked as though she had an apple resting in her underpants. All of this, she was depressingly aware, occurred directly in front of a massive crowd. She could hear cries of shock and insults, but mostly the people seemed to realize that this thing was about to kill them all, and panic set in once more. I’m gonna die, Maya thought, feeling tears sting her cheeks, I messed myself in front of everyone and now I’m gonna die! Taken over by despair, she fell down on her rear, splashing in the cooling puddle of her own pee. Her mess squished under her, spreading across her butt. The colossal wolf monster drew in, baring its fangs, and preparing to go in for the kill. ---------- Lina had a feeling something was wrong. The howl of another monster only hastened her decision to return to town. Maya was clearly skilled at illusion magic, considering her impressive light shows and ability to hide the woman’s wetting. And the wolf had behaved quite strangely. She’d seemed nice enough, but Lina just knew something wasn’t right. Upon returning, and seeing Maya wet and soil herself, she knew she was right. Whether or not Maya had, indeed, just made an illusion of a wolf monster, its howl was real enough, and it attracted a much meaner one. But that was unimportant. Working as quickly as she could, Lina drew her hunting bow, prepared an arrow, and fired. It struck the wolf just below the eye, getting its attention pretty quickly. It turned to face her with blinding speed, and Lina dropped the next arrow she’d grabbed, and felt a jet of hot piss spill into her panties. After fumbling for a second more, she just threw the bow aside, and grabbed her longsword. Hardly an ideal weapon to fight a monster eight times your size, but she was hardly in a position to be picky. It charged her, and she prepared to slash and roll away. One it was close enough, she swung with all her might, and struck the beast on the jaw. It yelped in pain. She attempted to roll to get away, but was caught in the middle of the action by a paw the size of her entire body. It sent her tumbling through the dirt before she landed on her back, so dizzy she could hardly think. She attempted to stand up, but the wolf was upon her almost immediately, pinning her down with one massive paw placed over her chest. Were it not for her armor, it would’ve crushed her. The wolf loomed over hear, lowering its gargantuan maw down to take her head off in a single bite. She pushed, struggled, and tried to resist, but the thing was holding her down easily, not even fazed. Terrified out of her mind, Lina felt the all too familiar sensation of mess pressing against her. She’d started to soil herself, and hadn’t stopped. The seat of her pants bulged out lightly, but the tightness of the garment forced her mess to spread. Just as she was sure the life-ending bite was near, the wolf jumped back, and began growling. Taking the opportunity, Lina rose to her feet. Upon standing, the weight of her soiling dragged her pants down a little, but she ignored it. The wolf was lowering its head, and looked angry, but not at her. Confused, she turned around, only to be graced with the sight of an enormous bear approaching the wolf. She felt a little more mess come to rest in her pants before she spotted Maya, who was clearly performing an illusion spell, judging by her rhythmic movements. She’s giving me a chance to kill it! The wolf and bear circled each other for a moment, meanwhile Lina quickly and quietly approached the beast that was actually real. With a frightening surge of movement, the wolf leapt upon the bear, only for it to explode in a dazzling burst. Shutting its eyes against the bright light and stumbling backwards in shock, Lina took her chance to strike. Sprinting just below its neck, she slashed her sword, slicing open the beast’s throat. With a gurgling roar, it thrashed around, spewing blood every which way, before finally collapsing. She knelt down, panting hard to catch her breath. After a moment, raucous cheers sounded from behind her, and the crowd that had once been adoring Maya was now surrounding her. Lina took a little comfort in seeing just how many skirts and pairs of pants were soaked or soiled. Through a break in the crown, Lina saw Maya hurrying down a small alleyway between buildings. “Sorry, let me through,” She said as she forced the people apart so she could pass. She wanted to speak with Maya, but she also wanted to distance herself from the crowd before anyone noticed the massive load in her pants. Following down the same path the illusionist had taken, she found her sitting in a secluded little nook, crying. Lina opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words right away. Maya looked up at her for a second, before quickly veering away, “I know, I’m a liar and a coward. I’ll leave town now.” “I take it you’ve never fought real monsters before.” “No, all my stories are just stories. I’m just a pants-wetting coward.” “... So was I.” Lina blushed as she said. “Huh?” “I used to wet myself all the time when I was new to this. Half the time, I didn’t even last to the fight- just seeing a monster was all it took. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve crapped my pants, either.” Maya considered this for a second, before shaking her head, “You’re still not a liar.” “No, I guess I’m not. But do you know what I am?” “What’s that?” “Alive,” She crouched down, ignoring the squish of her mess, and looked Maya in the eyes, “I’m alive, because you were brave when you needed to be. If you were really some coward and a sham, you would’ve run and left me, but you didn’t. You stayed, and helped me. Because of that, I’m alive.” The faintest glimmer of hope returned to the young mage’s face, “I… I guess so. But… How am I gonna live this down? People almost got hurt, I- I… messed, in front of everyone… ” “Do you think I haven’t? I’ve soiled myself in front of a bunch of people, too. Had to kill a monster for them, and I wound wishing it had killed me instead when I turned around, and everyone could see stains on my legs.” Even through her tears, Maya chuckled lightly. “Listen, I’m heading to the next town in the Longmarch, looking for some mercenary work. Would you like to come with me, at least just till we reach the place?” “I… I think I’d like that, thank you… But first, we should probably-” The barking of a dog startled both of them, and after the ordeal they’d just been through, it sounded much too similar to a wolf for either of their likings. For Lina, the strength with which she’d been holding her bladder finally failed, and her brown trousers darkened between her thighs. The stain grew and the pee flowed down her legs, mostly down her left, where it went all the way down and spilled out into a puddle around her boot. The stain on her right leg reach down to her knee. Having already soiled herself, Lina made no attempt to hold it. “... Probably get changed, I was saying.” Maya was smiling at the absurdity of what just happened. Lina knew from experience that humiliation like this took a long time to get over, but she was happy to help… even if it meant pissing herself. “Before we go… Can you still do that spell to make us look dry?”

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.”

"I suppose it would be pretty be fair to say that, by the time the apocalypse came, nobody was really surprised. The first outbreak was the Green Scare back in 2013, where a sudden, violent mania suddenly took control of a small town in South Carolina, driving all of the residents insane. In a panic, the Office of Disease Analysis was created to isolate and neutralize the cause. And they succeeded. ODA prevailed when everyone else thought the zombie apocalypse was upon us. In 2015, another epidemic arose in Georgia, much more resilient than the first. ODA once again responded and terminated the threat. In 2016, Louisiana was struck. Amid the panic, ODA began to expand its power, creating new sub-organizations such as the Public Health Commission and the Ministry of Epidemiology. Don’t let the professional names fool you, these were tyrannical parties, bent on containing the infection and exterminating the infected. The rest of the world watched with bated breath, all were terrified of the spreading disease, now ominously known only as “the Contagion”. Then, in late 2016, an outbreak erupted in the UK. That was all it took to blow the house of cards over. Nations everywhere shut down their harbors and airports, fearing they, too, might suffer an outbreak. It is 2018, now. Over the last 2 years, outbreaks have gone from being a yearly occurrence to being monthly, and now only weekly. People have become isolated and paranoid, and ODA is losing control of the situation. There is a lot to know about ODA, the Contagion, the crumbling world around us, but our story has a more humble beginning to it. Our story begins with a small group of three people whose evacuation didn’t quite go to plan…" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Welcome to my interactive story, The Contagion! A terrible plague has ravaged the land, and begun the zombie apocalypse that every gun nut has always dreamed of. There’s just a few points that I want to cover before we can truly begin: 1. This story will be told from the perspective of 1 of 3 characters, and you guys get to decide who that is. While every character will remain in the party, and they will still have accidents, you will only be able to fully control a single character. There will be times when the perspective temporarily shifts to a different character, and there may even be times when the option to completely permanently change perspective is available. 2. This story will feature a main male character who is subject to accidents, along with 2 females. More characters may join the party as it progresses. 3. This story will absolutely feature messing. A lot of it. 4. This story will most likely wind up considerably darker than most others that I’ve written. Characters will get hurt, do bad things, and be put in very horrible situations. 5. And lastly, just to add some risk and unpredictability, the results of a lot of the actions you guys select will be determined via d20 roll. Not all, but a lot. With all of that out of the way, let’s introduce our cast. Leo Taylor Bio: The younger brother of Grace Taylor. His quiet, reserved speech on top of a decisively unimpressive stature and musculature makes Leo the last person anyone would expect to survive any kind of disaster. Despite his physical shortcomings, Leo has managed to survive thanks to his shortness, speed, agility, and quick wit. He always manages to find some way out of any trouble that comes his way. Though the thought of being alone terrifies him, both Grace and Angela know that he’s likely the only one of them who could survive alone. Appearance + Equipment: Leo is younger than his companions, being only 17. He is short for his age. He has light skin and shaggy, messy brown hair. Currently, he wears a green hoodie and some blue jeans. He possesses a small pistol, some ammunition, and a combat knife. Continence: Bladder control - Low, prone to leaking. Bowel control - Medium low. Fear/Stress Tolerance - Low, he will lose control easily. While Leo may always find or invent a way out of dangerous situations, he hasn’t yet discovered a way to do so without needing a change of pants. Being the timid, nervous sort of person he is, he’s always had a little trouble keeping his bowels and bladder under control. After the apocalypse, this has manifested itself in him being too shy to ask his companions to stop for a bathroom break, along with him being pretty easily scared to the point of leaking, if not flat out voiding himself in his clothes. Grace Taylor Bio: The elder sister of Leo. Grace is a respected and admired individual. Prior to the end of the world, she was a police officer, and one with a stunning record. Talented, intelligent, and strong, she was very well suited for her line of work. Evidently, she was pretty well suited for the apocalypse, too. Granted, a whole lot of her survival knowledge comes from video games and movies, but it’s served her well enough so far. Appearance + Equipment: She is 25. Similar to her brother, Grace has light skin and brown hair, though hers is kept tied in a small ponytail. She is fairly tall, and fairly fit. Currently, she wears an unbuttoned blue shirt on top of a white tee shirt, and dark blue jeans. She also wears an old, gray baseball cap that she’s owned for many years. She is the most well-armed of the group, carrying a bolt action rifle and her police handgun. She also carries a police baton. Continence: Bladder control - High Bowel control - Medium Fear/Stress Tolerance - Mixed, fear is high, stress is low. Details are below. Grace is no stranger to terrifying and dangerous situations, considering her line of work. Undoubtedly, during the early days of her career, the more intense conundrums saw her pissing or soiling her pants, but those days are long past. However, Grace has always had stomach problems, ever since she was a kid. Today, performing exceptionally strenuous physical activity will often cause her bowels to leak, or even totally empty. Angela Blake Bio: While she is unrelated to the Taylor siblings, Angela has been a close friend to both of them for many years. Before the apocalypse, she was a librarian. Like Leo, she is not the type of person you might expect to see outlive everyone else in a disaster. And, well, you wouldn’t really be wrong to think that way. Angela is not a skilled fighter or survivalist. At all. She has survived mostly by doing whatever Grace tells her. She is, however, fairly good at keeping the others going. She is decently skilled at mending clothes and wounds. She is also an excellent cook and organizer, so she is generally left in charge of supplies. Even beyond those skills, though, she is simply a very charming and optimistic person, and is usually able to inspire her friends to keep going, no matter what. Appearance + Equipment: She is 23. She has pale white skin, due to all the time she spends indoors. Her hair is black, perfectly straight, and stretches down to her back. Currently, she wears a light pink sweater and a long purple skirt that reaches nearly to her ankles. A slim pair of glasses adorns her face. She is equipped with a small revolver and a switchblade. Generally speaking, she carries their supplies, due to her skill at managing them, unless an item proves too heavy. Continence: Bladder control - Really low. Bowel control - High. Fear/Stress Tolerance - Extremely low. Angela has somewhat of a weak bladder, and it’s always been a bit of a problem for her. Scary movies or games, Halloween haunted houses, even just startling pranks, all of them had a tendency to leave her slightly damp. When the end of days rolled around, Angela found it nearly impossible to keep herself dry. Curiously, however, neither Grace nor Leo have ever seen her shit herself, nor even mention the need to relieve herself. For whatever reason, despite her weak bladder, her bowels are stronger than anyone’s. Which character will you control? A). Leo Taylor B). Grace Taylor C). Angela Blake

Has anyone played the games Outlast, Outlast Whistleblower, or Outlast II? I feel like, especially for fans of male omo like myself, they have a lot of potential. I can just imagine Miles Upshur (one of the player characters) getting desperate in the middle of his investigation and realizing too late that there’s no where to go as he constantly has to run/hide from danger. Fear wetting could be a HUGE potential for any of the games too, especially if the characters were already desperate and then come face-to-face with the variant thy had been running from! This is just an idea, but if anyone else likes the sound of it or is interested in talking more, please please comment or even message me, I love these games so much.

Hi! Here is my Skyrim mod! It makes all female characters incontinent, including (perhaps) the player! Female player characters will also wet the bed. Though I hear the puddle sometimes doesn't show up, it seemed to mostly work for me D: Anyway! The only real requirement is those crazy ZaZ Animations and everything that requires. http://www.loverslab.com/topic/17062-zaz-animation-pack/ I do, however, recommend playing with the UNP female body mod of your choice, and the UNP sexy armor replacer so you can actually see the messing :O http://skyrim.nexusmods.com/mods/6709 http://skyrim.nexusmods.com/mods/34160 There is also a Brawl Bug mod which is a good idea to have as well. http://skyrim.nexusmods.com/mods/24020 EDIT: All the requirements should be in incontinenceModBundle.rar! Explicit Content incontinenceMod.rar incontinenceModBundle.rar

https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x785nlu At about 40:50. It's called 'Watching'.

so i had a bit more of a think about where i wanted to go with this messenger teasing idea. the format's been quite fun to use, and i can write them up quickly since all i have to do is tinker with chat logs a bit. my friend has cooled a bit on the idea of writing anything up herself, but she's still keen for me to keep going on the condition that i also have to do write ups for times when it was her teasing me about having accidents (she likes boy omo as much if not more than girl omo). anyway i'm a switch and I have always liked the mild humiliation that came with her playful banter so i'm happy to accept her condition. but it did raise the question for me of whether it's best to include what would be both male and female omo under the same topic - knowing that most people tend to prefer one to the exclusion of the other. i did think about having two separate topics for male and female omo, but there's a lot of overlap in the convos so i can't really see the point. also i'd prefer to have everything in the one topic instead of having a new one each time. so what i will do as a compromise is I'll include a list of relevant tags in bold in the body at the top of each new post (e.g. female, messing, diapers etc...), and you can choose whether to read on or not. since i did one of hers last time, this first post will be one of mine. so please do note the male tag on the post below before reading on if that's not what you're here for! the tag prefix for the overall topic is still going to be female because there have been more instances of me teasing her than vice-versa and she's still the star of the show as far as i'm concerned. i'm not exactly the most masculine looking guy out there, anyway, so no hard feelings 😂 (edit: for reference, here's the link to where i tried this out the first time - - des The Essayist and the Editor tags: male, desperation, wetting, messing, diapers, fear Stephanie says: hey you! Stephanie says: have you finished reading my preventative health essay yet? 😊 Stephanie says: no rush...but i do have to submit it tonight... des says: hey hey! des says: hmmm, not yet des says: i only just got back from our walk Stephanie says: 😮 Stephanie says: Walking Dozer? des says: yeah des says: hes been barking a lot the last couple of days des says: am hoping that he might calm down if i tire him out a bit Stephanie says: naughty pup!! Stephanie says: well i have been sitting here Stephanie says: for the last hour Stephanie says: trying to hit the word count......... Stephanie says: ughhhhhhh Stephanie says: why do i suck at writing so much Stephanie says: 😞 des says: who, whoa, whoa des says: you don't suck at it des says: you said you got 87% the other day! Stephanie says: 😛 Stephanie says: ya, for the journal entries Stephanie says: those were super easy!! Stephanie says: like 300 words each is nothing Stephanie says: this essay is much harder 😣 des says: i'm sure it's not as abd as you think 😊 des says: bad* Stephanie says: itt's probably worse 😥 des says: nah des says: you're a smart cookie des says: i bet you've been working on it for weeks Stephanie says: ...!! Stephanie says: well! Stephanie says: actually i have! 🤓 haha Stephanie says: but i dont think im using the right references 😞 Stephanie says: i dont think it reads well des says: technically it doesnt need to read at all, its your readers who have to read well 😛 Stephanie says: 😡 Stephanie says: can you just look at it now instead of being a smartass please???!!! des says: okay! okay! des says: i was already reading it anyway 😛 Stephanie says: good boy 😊 des says: *wags tail* Stephanie says: 😛 ... Stephanie says: ... well? Stephanie says: is it that bad? 😓 des says: "the mangement of children's lifestyle choices is paramount"? des says: 'management' maybe? 😛 Stephanie says: hahaha oops 💁‍♀️ Stephanie says: possibly i should have run a spell check?! des says: and i'm not sure about this bit about school lunches at the end des says: how come you don't have a source there? Stephanie says: hmmm well i do have a source for it somehwere! Stephanie says: one of the texts talks about junk food in tuck shops Stephanie says: habits formed at school are a cause of childhood obesity des says: hmmm des says: well find it and stick it in, you need something in there Stephanie says: 😛 ok! des says: otherwise it reads okay des says: conclusion's a bit weak though Stephanie says: 😮 Stephanie says: I havent written a conclusion yet!! des says: whats that bit down the bottom then?! Stephanie says: that was my draft! Stephanie says: its not finished yet 😛 des says: well hurry up and finish it then! Stephanie says: i'm trying too!! des says: 😛 des says: kids these days... Stephanie says: 😮 what??! des says: not you! des says: literally 'kids these days!' des says: getting fat on junk food at the canteen Stephanie says: hmmm yeah 😛 Stephanie says: you probably did too, though 😂 des says: im not fat! Stephanie says: surrrre about that? 😛 Stephanie says: lol okay your not. but maybe you were when you were in primary school 😛 des says: nope des says: i didnt each much of anything as a kid Stephanie says: 😮 des says: i always used to have sultanas for recess des says: mum used to pack a yoghurt and sandwiches too des says: i always ate the yoghurt cause otherwise it'd get loose in my bag and explode yoghurt everywhere Stephanie says: 😛 des says: had to clean out quite a few backpacks in my time! Stephanie says: 😛 des says: but no junk food for me! des says: i didnt even tend to eat the sandwiches 😛 Stephanie says: naughty! des says: why? des says: she always put too much tomato in them and they would come out soggy! Stephanie says: your mumma bear made sandwiches for you and you wouldnt even eatthem!! Stephanie says: 😮 soggy sandwiches? Stephanie says: yikes, okay des says: yeah 😛 des says: bet you wouldnt have eaten them either 😛 Stephanie says: lol probably not Stephanie says: id just swap it with somebody else des says: nobody's going to trade for a soggy sandwich though...... Stephanie says: well, not that kind 😉 des says: 😛 Stephanie says: anyway, i meant i'd swap it when they werent looking 😂 des says: 😮 des says: and what if you got caught?! Stephanie says: hmmm, i'd tell them they could have a soggy sandwich or a knuckle sandwich?! Stephanie says: 😈 des says: 😮 des says: you wouldnt have said that! Stephanie says: i probably wouldve! Stephanie says: i was a bit of a tomboy when i was a kid 😂 Stephanie says: i once broke a kids tooth when he pushed in line for the bubbler! des says: you did what?! Stephanie says: i was thirsty!! Stephanie says: and there was a line for a reason! des says: 😛 des says: wow Stephanie says: wow what 😛 des says: i'm just having trouble imagining you doing that des says: i mean i got in a few fights at school, but well, im a boy 😛 des says: i thought boys were supposed to beat each other up! Stephanie says: !! Stephanie says: well girls can fight too! Stephanie says: even if its with nails! des says: you broke his tooth with your nails?! Stephanie says: 😛 Stephanie says: nah, i pushed him into the bubbler des says: ouch 😵 thats a bit mean! Stephanie says: i didnt mean to hurt him 😞 Stephanie says: i just wanted to shove him out of the way! des says: still! Stephanie says: 😞 des says: well i guess maybe he was a bully if he was pushing in des says: so maybe he deserved it?! Stephanie says: hmmm i was the bully if anything!! Stephanie says: he was a nice kid, i think maybe he just didnt relaise there was a line! des says: oh dear! bully steph! 😛 Stephanie says: 😞 des says: hmmm, guess i'd better be careful what i say about your essay then! 😂 Stephanie says: haha yep! 😈 des says: anyway, i've sent it back to you with changes tracked des says: resent it to me when you have that conclusion though! Stephanie says: lifesaver 😊 thank you!!! des says: no worries 🙂 i'll be here waiting for that final draft! Stephanie says: ahh, youi are such a good boy😛! des says: yeah, but apparently you used to beat up good boys 😛 Stephanie says: 😛 Stephanie says: am i meant to beat you up too then?! 😛 des says: 😮 Stephanie says: I might, hey! 😈 des says: dont scare me!! 😭 Stephanie says: 😄 Stephanie says: maybe you need that nappy?! des says: 😮😳 Stephanie says: 😄 des says: well i'll just go change my pants now... Stephanie says: in preparation, hey! Stephanie says: I'm that scary, huh?! des says: preparation? i might need it now!! Stephanie says: 😂 Stephanie says: well it would give you a bit of padding for when im kicking your butt!!! 😈 des says: a lot of padding depending on what i had for lunch...! 😳 Stephanie says: 😉💩💩😄 Stephanie says: hmmm, ok maybe a bit too far 😛 des says: 😛 des says: a bit! Stephanie says: 😛 des says: but on an unrelated note, i do actually need to get up now des says: and, well, go to the bathroom 😛 Stephanie says: hahahah Stephanie says: well i will do some more work on my essay then 😊 Stephanie says: thanks for checking it for me again😘! des says: anytime 🙂 des says: but don't submit it without letting me see it again first! Stephanie says: i wont! Stephanie says: you go and clean up 😛😂 des says: 😮 des says: i dont need to clean up!!! des says: just tired of sitting here with legs crossed 😛 Stephanie says: sure sure! Stephanie says: laters 😘

View File Omoani FHD/UHD Upscales This is the semi-complete Omoani video collection upscaled to 1080p FHD (and for a few videos, 4k UHD) format. This was done using deep convolutional neural networks (specifically waifu2x) with some additional post-processing to remove banding and other artifacts. Most of the original clips, which were originally 640x480, have been scaled up 2.25x to 1440x1080. A few of the most recent (higher quality) releases which were originally 720p have also been scaled up 3x to 4k UHD for those with hardware powerful enough to handle it, and 1080p HD for everyone else. This is also a semi-preview of a new feature that will be coming to OmoOrg's gallery Soon™. Eventually, our gallery system will be able to automatically upscale lower resolution image uploads in the same manner, with minimal loss in quality! Submitter Kirito Submitted 03/09/2017 Category Anime / Animated Clips  

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".

Mal looked in awe at the bizarre spectacle unfolding on the beach hundreds of feet below. He had been looking for birds, crabs, seashells, cloud formations, or whatever else would look good in a photograph. His attempts to throw a college art project together didn't go so well on the public beach. There were too many people in the way, and one girl in particular he wanted to avoid. Now he was atop a cliff not far away, his camera hanging from a strap on his shoulder, as he stood in a spellbound state and stared at the things that were coming out of the sea. First he had thought them to be a trick of the light. When they surfaced, it was clear they were things rather than reflections of things. As they crawled and loped onto shore he thought they were seals, but it soon became clear they weren't. A shiver came to Mal's body with the realization that they were something truly strange. He expected to recognize them immediately, as if it were only some optical illusion or hallucination that made them look like something out of the ordinary. But they only looked more eldritch as his eyes focused. They had dark glistening skin like newts or leeches, but their eyes had a strange sparkle. There were mere suggestions of limbs rather than actual legs or fins. Three were on the shore now, while another three puppet-like heads had surfaced. They were clumsy on land, but something about them looked artful and clever. It was all very strange. Mal had been willing to entertain the possibility that they were dinosaurs, or even dragons. But soon he stopped even trying to place them, and sought only to observe them. Finally he remembered his camera. His expensive digital camera with the great zoom function. He snatched it up, pointed it in the general direction of the secluded stretch of beach where the creatures were coming ashore. It was still on maximum zoom from the seagulls he had been photographing earlier, and, when he put his eye to the eyepiece, he was surprised to see a nude woman stretching out her arms. He lowered the camera, thinking he was somehow seeing a different part of the shore. It turned out he had pointed the camera in the right direction. There was a redheaded young woman stretching herself next to the six unidentified animals. Or was it seven? There was an indistinct lump that could have been a seventh animal. Having returned the camera to the default view, he looked through it again, and slowly zoomed in, snapping pictures all the time. The woman kept smiling and stretching, and glancing at the Protean creatures every now and then. The extra sharpness of the picture didn't help Mal to identify the figures. They were still semi-symmetrical globs pseudopods of some sort. Their skin was muted shades of blue and green, and seemed now to be made up of something like scales. Things that could have been mouths and nostrils, and things that were definitely gills, appeared before him. But it was the eyes that attracted his attention like magnets. They could have almost belonged to dogs. Or even, perhaps, humans. Mal's curiosity and anxiety turned to fear and disgust when the back of one of the beast split open. It was red underneath. The gash widened and widened until it ran the length of the spine...assuming it had a spine. Then the red mass inside started to rise out, like the globby redness that oozes from a cherry pie when the knife slides in. In no more than a minute, the entire skin had been pulled away from the muscle and bones, and what almost looked like a red copy of the animal was scrambling across the sand. But it didn't bleed. It seemed all right. The woman smiled as it freed itself from the skin, and many of its brethren were now splitting apart. Mal realized that the small seventh shape was a discarded skin. But where was the thing that had molted it? The red and pink seal-shaped monsters stretched and squeezed and kneaded themselves until they were shaped like people. Then they actually became people. Women with red hair and blue eyes. They stretched, then walked, and ran, and leaped, and danced about. They seemed to forget about their skins as they enjoyed the warm sand and the cool breeze and everything else around them. One of the skins, which had been kicked off in a hurry, was now draped across a large, pointed rock. Mal had a naughty idea. ------------------ "Hey, Malford, it's me, Rochelle!" a young woman in a powder blue bathing suit called out to her old classmate. She squinted her hazel eyes in the sun as she removed her sunglasses and brushed her wind-whipped brown hair out of her face, hoping to make herself more recognizable. The young man looked at her stoically for a second, then went back to gathering up his things, paying no attention to the girl. Rochelle wasn't dissuaded. They'd been friends last year in high school, and, despite a little awkwardness the day of their graduation ceremony, she assumed they were still friends. She tiptoed across the hot sand to meet him. "Whatcha got there?" she asked as she saw the odd thing he had draped over his arm. "It's nothing," Mal answered curtly. "Look, I don't have time to talk. I'm working against a deadline. I've got a complicated project for my photography course." "Ooh, can I see it when it's done?" "Sure. You still got the same e-mail address?" "Yeah. So what is that?" She reached out and touched the strange cloth Mal was holding. It felt at the same time like fine silk, the wing of a butterfly, and the belly of a garter snake. It was a beautiful blue, but only showed its color where the light hit it straight on. "Careful, it's rare." "But what is it?" "It's a long story." He folded it up carefully and put it in a duffel bag with the rest of his things. After a few more pleasantries and dodged questions, Mal was off, and Rochelle was wondering if she had offended him. But mostly she was wondering about the cloth he had carried. Something about it utterly fascinated her from the instant her brain had registered the sensation of her fingertips touching it. That fascination was growing every second. But she hadn't lost sight of the destination where she'd been heading before she sighted Mal. A bunker-like cement building painted tan housed the public restrooms. Rochelle had much time to think as she stood in line. She'd gotten the impression Mal had just found the cloth. So if she could just backtrack the way she'd seen him coming, maybe she could find where he had gotten it, and what it was. Her obsession grew, her patience diminished, and soon she abandoned the slowly-moving line in favor of her quest. A strange feeling came upon her while she was making her way along the winding cliffside. She didn't know what it was, but it frightened as well as excited her. As she was rounding a bend, she caught sight of a triangular rock that jutted out of the ground like a tooth. The rock had been enough to catch her attention, but she could see something behind it, just peeking out of the edge. The girl's blood pressure jumped. That something was covered with blood. When she came in full view of the thing she had glimpsed, she put her hands over her mouth in shock. She didn't scream, or even gasp, but her eyes were wide and her tan skin was starting to turn white. In the sand lay a human corpse that had been skinned from head to toe. Every muscle was fully exposed for her to see. Tendons, ligaments, and even mammary glands could be spotted amongst the glistening red meat. The scavengers were keeping their distance. There was no pool of blood or stench of decay or any other sign of decomposition. It looked as clean as a freshly-butchered hog. This orderliness made the grisly sight even more unnerving to the faint-hearted young woman. But this horror was nothing compared to what came next. Just as Rochelle's rational mind was starting to kick in and she thought about whether she should go back and tell a lifeguard or call 911 right now, she saw the body move. Slowly, it sat up. Rochelle shrieked. When it was in an upright position, the stringy red eyelids on the skinless face opened to reveal a pair of blue eyes. Rochelle's screams were soon suppressed into squeaks and gasps as her breath left her. But she lost control of more than just her voice. Rochelle's bikini began to turn a darker shade of blue in a spot just behind where her thighs met. Her body wobbled as she tried to fight gravity and the loss of her strength and oxygen. The large navy blue spot reached forwards, backwards, and sideways, until it met the borders of the fabric and liquid began to run down her legs like streams of rainwater coursing over the lips of an overburdened gutter. The skinned fiend opened its mouth, revealing paradoxically white teeth, and spoke. "I have the same problem with this human body. Sometimes liquid leaks from between my legs." ------------------ When Rochelle sat up from the couch, she hoped it had all been a dream. It hadn't. There was a strange redhead in her apartment, wearing some of her spare clothes, staring at her with those creepy blue eyes. Rochelle hadn't really slept. It was late, but she wasn't counting on getting any sleep this night. She had just laid down to collect her wits, to get a grasp on this strange situation. But she had drifted into a sort of half-sleep, perhaps because her brain wanted to shut down and leave reality behind. "Your name is Rochelle Reincken, is it not?" the mysterious woman said. "I can't even remember if I introduced myself," Rochelle said. "What's your name, anyway?" "I can't seem to make the right sounds with this throat or these lips. But the name of my people is 'Selkie.' I heard your name when I was learning from you while you rested. I hope you don't mind. I was desperate to know things." "Learning from me?" asked Rochelle, squinting in confusion. "Listening to your thoughts. I thought I could learn enough to solve my problems. I heard very little in your mind, but I did pick out what I thought was your name." "Yeah, I'm Rochelle Reincken. Your problem is that you need your skin back, I understand that much...except you have skin now, so I guess I don't understand. God, this is all so crazy." "I have two more urgent problems, and I need to call upon your knowledge of the human body to determine how to solve them. The first problem is a pain I have here." She put her hand on her stomach. "I'm not surprised. In the last couple hours you've eaten a dead pelican, two fast food meals, including the paper the burgers were wrapped in, then I let you into my fridge...I'm kind of regretting that...and you ate four hard boiled eggs and eight raw eggs, all with the shells on, a head of lettuce, a dozen carrots, and a bowl of leftover chili, then I chased you out of the fridge and you ate a dozen bananas without peeling them or taking off the stickers, and probably every other piece of fruit around here. I just got groceries last night, too. "I need energy for my magic. Maintaining this false skin requires much magical energy. Don't worry about the ill effects of the things you say aren't edible. Even in this human body, I possess enough intrinsic magic to protect myself from poisons." "But my point is that's why you have a tummyache. Your stomach is too full. Don't worry about it. It will feel better as you digest your food...which I paid for." "I'm sorry if you are displeased, but I need false skin and a large magical reserve if I'm going to inconspicuously locate my skin and steal it back. "No offense, but that's not gonna work. There's nothing inconspicuous about you. When I brought you home, you didn't know what a door was. You didn't even understand clothes. How do you think you're going to function in human society without attracting unwanted attention?" "I don't know. But right now I have a more urgent problem." "Right, you did say two problems, didn't you?" "I have a second pain lower in the body. Not a pain so much as a...I think 'tingling' is the best word." "Hmm...Oh! I bet you have to pee." "That's the word you used when you spoke of the unwanted liquid outpouring that happened in your swimming clothes, is it not?" "Yeah, but don't go telling anybody I did that. You're probably getting that tingling because you have to pee, so I'll show you where the bathroom is." "I still don't understand 'pee' fully, and I don't understand 'bathroom' at all. All I know is that, when I take the form of my human ancestors for substantial lengths of time, I have problems with liquid pouring out of my body. Some of the other Selkies have had it happen too." Rochelle blushed. She really didn't want to explain. "How about you do that mind-reading thing to find out all about it? That'll be faster than using words, right?" "Yes, that should work." The fire-haired stranger put the palm of her cold hand on Rochelle's forehead. "Concentrate on the area of knowledge you want me to absorb." "This isn't working," Rochelle heard her say after a few moments. Are you thinking about the subject?" "Yeah." "I can't learn about it." "You sure?" Rochelle was dreading a verbal explanation. One of the reasons she never wanted to have children was to avoid having to potty train anyone. Now it looked like this strange being from the sea needed just such a lesson. "All I can really understand is that bathrooms are a place human females go to in pairs or groups. The rest of the subject eludes me. It's as if your mind is hiding it all behind a dark veil." Rochelle blushed again. She realized it must be because she was unconsciously censoring herself. This was a shameful subject, after all. "I guess I'll have to tell you. Follow me to the bathroom." Rochelle winced as she remembered. "Actually, the plumbing's been acting up. I can't trust the toilet to flush. I need to talk to the landlord about that again. In the meantime, we'll have to use the public bathroom on the first floor." "What is this 'bathroom'?" "It's the place where you can pee." "Can't I pee anywhere? You peed inside your swimming clothes on the beach." "You can but you shouldn't. So hold it." The woman held out her hands. "What do I need to hold?" "Your pee. Hold it inside." She put her hands inside her pants and gripped the flesh between her legs. "That won't help. Well, maybe it will, but don't do it when people are watching. At the very least, keep your hands outside of your clothes when you hold yourself." "The tingling is getting worse. What should I do?" "I don't know how to explain how to hold it in. But please figure out a way. We're going to the bathroom, and you need to stay dry until we get there." "Why does peeing happen? Why can't we control it?" "It happens because you drink liquids. They have to go somewhere." "I suppose. My skin is full of magic that benefits my body in many ways, so I never think much about how my organs work. I've never noticed peeing happening while in my skin." "Lucky you." As they left Rochelle's apartment, the strange woman asked, "Am I right to think it is taboo to let water pour out of you at any place except in the confines of a bathroom?" "Yes." "So what you did inside your swimming clothes is forbidden?" "Yes, but please don't mention it. And don't talk like this when you're not in my apartment. There could be people..." As if on cue, Rochelle saw someone headed down the hallway in the opposite direction. It was a tall man with dark skin, short black hair, and a friendly smile. "Hi, Ben." "Hey, Rochelle. Who's your friend?" "You may call me 'Selkie.' It would be most accurate." Rochelle blushed, but "Selkie" was clearly unaware she was saying anything strange or embarrassing. "I like the accent," Ben commented. "Where are you from?" "The Reykjanes Ridge." "Is that in Ireland?" "It's nearby." "So what are you doing here?" "Right now Rochelle Reincken and I are going to the bathroom together, as human females are wont to do." Ben didn't have anything to say to that. Rochelle wanted to scream, she was so embarrassed. "Let's go, Selkie," she said, and she fled from the embarrassing conversation as quickly as she could without making it obvious that she was running away. "It's the ascending room again," Selkie commented when they reached the elevator. "This is so intriguing." "It's called an elevator. It's going to take us down to where the bathrooms are." "How does it work?" "Don't worry about it. Actually, maybe you should. If you take your mind off your pee it should keep you from peeing your pants." "The peeing of pants is what you did on the beach, is it not?" "Yes, that's the right phrase. But don't mention that again. It's embarrassing." "Ah! Because you are ashamed of accidentally violating a taboo." "Yeah. I don't want to pee my pants, and neither should you. Nobody does." "Except inside a bathroom." "No! You don't pee your pants there either. You pee in a toilet." "A toilet is something inside a bathroom?" Rochelle relaxed her neck until her head bumped into the wall of the elevator. "This is going to be a hard lesson to teach," she muttered to herself. On the ground floor, they walked to the lobby where the closest restrooms were. "Just keep remembering you don't want to pee your pants under any circumstances," Rochelle whispered. "You take them off first." Selkie reached for the fly of her jeans. "No! Not now!" When inside the bathroom, Selkie again tried to take off her pants, but Rochelle again stopped her. Someone at the sink noticed this happening in the mirror, and turned around in puzzlement. "Hi, Rochelle!" said the perky blonde. "Oh, hi, Jenna," Rochelle said, again wanting to wince. "God, I didn't know you still lived here! I haven't seen you in ages." "Yeah, I'm working some crazy hours these days." "Please tell me what to do soon," Selkie said. Rochelle noticed she was now holding her crotch. "Don't do that," she snapped. "I have to. I'm very close to peeing my pants." "What?!? Jenna exclaimed." "This is my friend Selkie. We're coming back from a little girls' night out, and she had too much to drink." "Yes, I drank very much, it has to go somewhere." "You're in trouble, then," Jenna remarked with a laugh. "All the stalls are taken." "Just my luck!" Rochelle bemoaned. "Are there toilets inside the stalls?" Selkie asked. "Why don't you just go in the men's room? That's what I always do in a situation like this. It's never full." "I can't take Selkie into the men's bathroom! She's too innocent!" "Huh?" "I don't want to be in there with guys. She doesn't know how to handle herself." "I don't?" "No, you don't." Jenna gave Rochelle a quizzical look. "Please take me somewhere where I can pee without breaking a taboo, Rochelle Reincken," Selkie said. "Fine, we'll go to the men's room," Rochelle said. She couldn't say no to those big blue pleading eyes. "I'll watch the door for you," Jenna volunteered. "I don't think any guys'll mind waiting for you. Especially if they see how cute you are." Inside the empty men's room, Rochelle began to lecture Selkie. "Take your pants down to your knees and sit down." Selkie obliged, and Rochelle cradled her head in her hands and groaned. "Selkie, that's not a toilet," she said in a pained voice. "That's a sink." The redhead lifted her rear end out of the sink and prepared to hop down. But the countertop around the sink was wet, and her hands and legs slipped. She flew sideways and landed bottom-first on the tile floor. "I peed," Selkie announced. Indeed, there was a puddle growing around her. But it was worse than just that. "You didn't pull down your underwear," Rochelle said, once again burying her face in her hands. "You only mentioned the pants. Will I be punished now?" "No." "Later, then?" "Don't worry about it. Nobody here will punish you for peeing your pants." "But it is a taboo, is it not?" "Yes, but it's not a law." "Then how is it enforced?" "It's hard to explain. Just don't worry about anyone around here punishing you." "I feel excellent." "What?!? Why?" "The peeing felt good, because it removed the tingling pain. My human body is now devoid of bad feelings. Correction: The two lumps of flesh just above the tops of my legs are sore." "Get up. I'll show you how to use a toilet, for future reference." Rochelle helped Selkie off the floor, and she pulled up her jeans. The seat of her pants was already soaked, and the front began to darken as well when the denim came into contact with the wet panties. "The pee is pleasantly warm," Selkie commented with a smile. "It feels like blood, but I am uninjured." "Here's what to do next time," Rochelle said. She was in a stall with the door left wide open. She loosened her belt buckle, unbuttoned and unzipped her faded hip-hugging jeans, and pulled them down to her knees. Then she did the same with her lime green cotton hipsters. "You sit down on the toilet like this, after making sure the seat is down." "But the seat is up." "That's the lid. It's different." "Why is there both a lid and a seat?" "Don't worry about it. You sit down and you let go of your pee." Rochelle spurted and sputtered. It was a little hard to get going while Selkie was watching and scrutinizing with wide blue eyes. But she managed to initiate the stream, which continued until she was almost empty. After a few squirt gun-like blasts to the inside of the bowl, her bladder was fully voided. "Your pee isn't nearly as yellow as mine," Selkie observed "It's different colors at different times. I'm not sure why." "Why have you never inquired or researched the different pee colors?" "Because it's taboo. We don't talk about it." "Don't you have to talk about it?" "Sometimes. But we prefer to avoid it. Just like we prefer to avoid peeing our pants." "That is why you wish to avoid talking about your peeing in your swimming clothes, is it not?" "Yes! Don't talk about it again!" Rochelle scolded for what felt like the hundredth time. Then she returned to the lesson. "Now that I've peed in the toilet, I wipe the extra pee off my body so it doesn't get my clothes wet." She got some toilet paper and dabbed at her wet parts. "Then I flush the pee along with the paper." "Where does all that water and pee and paper go?" "Into a lot of pipes." "Where do the pipes go?" "Why do you ask so many questions?" "I want to learn about the dry world so I can go about in it long enough to recover my skin. My life depends on it." For the first time, Rochelle felt truly sad for Selkie. "What happens if you can't get your skin back?" "I won't be able to breathe underwater, so I won't be able to go home. If I stay away from the sea for too long, my magic will drain away. No amount of food can help that. When I have no magic, my tissues will no longer be able to stay together without skin, and my organs will fail. I will die." "We'll go up to my room and get started right away," Rochelle said forcefully as she pulled up her pants. "You'll learn from my mind, and with that knowledge we can make a plan." "I can also teach you from my mind." "Great! I know how to find the person who took your skin, and I'm sure we can get it back from him without betraying your people's secret. How long can you live without your skin, anyway?" "I don't know. No Selkie has had to die that way for centuries." "And you won't die that way, either. I may not understand the situation, but I know I won't let that happen to you." When Rochelle exited the bathroom, she realized she had forgotten another situation. Jenna was still waiting outside, as were a trio of college-age boys. Rochelle could see each one of their faces light up as they saw a pair of beautiful girls their age and a chance to talk to them. It was also obvious when each one noticed Selkie's wet spot. "Thanks for waiting, guys," Rochelle said. Sorry about that. "No problem," one of the boys said. "Are you all right?" Jenna asked Selkie as everyone around pretended not to stare at her wet spot. "No. I peed my pants." "She'll be all right," Rochelle assured. "Now we're going back to Rochelle Reincken's room," Selkie continued, "where she will punish me." Rochelle hastily led Selkie to the stairs. "Why aren't we taking the box that ascends and descends?" the confused girl asked. "We might run into people there, and I don't want to share an elevator with them and have to explain our situation. So we'll take the stairs, where there are less people. By the way, I'm not going to punish you for peeing your pants. I thought I already made that clear." "You said no one down there would punish me. I thought you were reserving that duty for yourself." "No. You won't be punished at all." "I feel wonderful!" "I wish I did." "These 'stairs' are a lot of work to climb," Selkie commented after making it up two flights. "I wish I could swim up to the floor where your room is." "I don't know what to tell you. You'll have to get used to using your legs." "Legs are fun to use every so often, but I wouldn't want to have to depend on them all the time." On the sixth floor they again encountered Rochelle's friend Ben. Selkie spoke before Rochelle could say anything. "I see you're staring at my pants. I wet them because my journey to a toilet was delayed. But don't worry about me; I will receive no punishment." Ben looked at her dumbfounded. Not knowing what to do, Selkie smiled. Rochelle led the girl away from the boy, all the while suppressing the urge to chomp down on her own hand. Back in the privacy of her apartment the two fared better. From Rochelle, Selkie learned about things like cars, makeup, and money. What she needed to know to get around in this world of dry land. Rochelle, in turn, learned about the Selkies. Their ancestors were strange sea monsters who took human brides. Magic allowed the women to live in the dark undersea abode, where their descendants now live in happiness. But female Selkies take after their ancestral mothers, and have an inborn homesickness for the land above. To this day, they take excursions to deserted shores, slough off the inconvenient skins that contain their gills and most of their magical attributes, and enjoy the land and air and Sun. They can do this because their bodies under their skin can be reshaped into the ancestral form, and they have enough magic residing within themselves to fashion temporary false skins that make them look and feel even more human. But their skins are essential to them. They protect them from drowning, disease, the blindness they would otherwise have so deep underwater, and the ill effects of high water pressure. They also, Rochelle could infer, protect them from the need to urinate and defecate. And so Selkies think nothing more of their food once they have swallowed it. Even though a Selkie's skin is so important, this Selkie had become so intoxicated by the feeling of being on land that she hadn't kept an eye on it. Then, when it was time to follow her older sisters back home, she couldn't find it, and realized a land-dwelling person or thing must have crept in and stolen it away. "My mind is spinning," Rochelle said once the two were done sharing their thoughts. "There's so much to take in. I know I said we would draw up a plan tonight, but I'm exhausted. Physically and mentally. I'm going to try to get some sleep, although that's probably impossible." "You have trouble sleeping?" Selkie asked, sounding concerned. "Not normally, but my mind is racing right now. I've been through so much today." "You should rest." "I'll try." "Here," Selkie said, coming close to Rochelle. "I know a trick that will help you." ------------------ It was a beautiful morning, and Selkie was so glad she was up here where she could see the Sun shining down on the Earth. She got out of bed and stretched, as if she were coming out of her skin. How she longed to have that skin back. Still, this body had definite plusses. She felt one of the minuses instantly, but knew how to remedy it. She got dressed, took the elevator down to the ground floor, greeting Rochelle's friends and acquaintances as she met them, and made her way to the bathroom. She followed Rochelle's directions perfectly this time, pulling down both her panties and her pants, and sitting on the toilet's seat even though it hurt her sore buttocks. She only deviated from the instructions by letting out a moan of satisfaction as the urine was released from her aching bladder. She covered her mouth, and felt shameful for doing something that seemed like it should be a taboo. If she had known a little more, or been able to read human expressions better, she would have known that leaving the stall door open was also taboo. But none of the women who saw her sitting there said anything, so how could she know? When she was done, she wiped herself, stared in amazement as the toilet flushed, pulled back up her panties and pants, and washed her hands. Back up in Rochelle's room, she got some things together, then went to the bathroom to get herself ready for her meeting with Malford Poynter today. She had learned enough from Rochelle's mind to feel confident that she could solve this problem. There was the other, minor problem of the pain she felt in her lower abdomen, but she wasn't worried about that. Her knowledge from Rochelle told her what implements were located in which drawers, and what most of the things in the medicine cabinet were. She knew how to apply makeup, fix hair, and do everything else she needed to look pretty. But she knew she didn't need much. She had a beautiful face with silky brown hair, and her own blue eyes worked well in the ensemble. Before turning the light off, Selkie glanced at the bathtub. There, half-submerged in red-tinted water, lay what was left of Rochelle Reincken. "Thanks for everything."

(Hi this is my second attempt on making a Fan Fic, this time it's based on Episode 1 at the old mill. it'll be from Chloe's prospective and any issues that were in the last story I'll try to deal with here, that being said feel free to tell me what you thought of this and if anything could be improved, I hope you enjoy. for those interested Chloe is wearing a white logoed tank top with a black studded hoodie with ripped jeans and convers shoes.) I emerge from the trees and stand on a rail track grabbing my lighter and a cigarette before lighting the cigarette and taking a puff, I hear a train approaching but I stand my ground taking the cigarette from my mouth and exhaling the smoke before taking a couple more hits. I drop the cigarette and it lands between the tracks, the train honks at me and I hear the breaks being engaged I then jump out of the way before removing the hood from my head and letting it rest on my back, I look over towards the old mill. Me: *I can't believe Firewalk is playing a show at the Old Mill....Fuck yes, Mum would kill me if she knew I was out here.* After walking down the hill I come across a barb wired fence with a sign that says No Entry, I take a running start then vault the fence and as I land I look back and flip off the sign before continuing towards the Mill. I can just about hear the music playing inside, Looking around I see Frank's RV, some men having a hell of a time, some bikes and a bouncer. Me: *If I'm ganna get inside, I have to get through the door.* Ignoring the married couple I approach the bouncer prepared to show him my 100% legit ID. Bouncer: "Can I help you, Miss?" I hand him my ID. Me: "You gotta let me in, check it I'm totally legit." He looks at my ID before laughing. Bouncer: "It's not a bad fake, kid but you're way over your head here." he throws the ID to my feet. Bouncer: "Do yourself a favour and scram!" I pick up my ID and scoff at him. Me: *I can't let him push me around, I'm going to have to stand up to him.* I look towards him with a look of determination. Me: "Don't you remember what it's like to be a teenager?? I just want to see the band." He sighs at me. Bouncer: "I thought we went over this, isn't it past your bed time?" Me: "Isn't it past yours?" I laugh. Bouncer: "Real cute. But I still don't know you." I lean in and point at myself. Me: "Look at my face!! I don't do 'cute'. Or do I look like I'm going to kick your ass?" He chuckles. Bouncer: "Ok kid I get it, you're tough." I then look around the area. Me: "Maybe I am a kid, because this place looks like a playground to me." The bouncer looks to the door then back to me. Bouncer: A girl like you.....I can't protect you in there." I look over towards the bikes specifically the one with the floral art on it. Me: "Is that your bike over there?" He looks over to the bike. Bouncer: "Yup, what's your point?" Me: "Well a girl like you with pretty, pretty flowers on her bike, shouldn't lecture me on what I can do." The bouncer clenches his fists and leans towards me. Bouncer: "That's a traditional Samoan!!!......" He then realises I'm only winding him up and laughs. Bouncer: " Look, my boss decides who gets to go in alright?" Me: "Bosses suck, screw the man and fuck the rules dude!" The bouncer laughs leaning forward and resting his hands on his knees. Bouncer: "Haha, okay you're funny, you know I think Damon would get a kick out of you." Me: "Who's Damon? the guy who made you his bitch in prison?" the bouncer chuckles then sighs. Bouncer: "You....you're not taking no for an answer are you? I fold my arms. Me: "Nope and it wouldn't matter if you had a knife, a gun or even a flamethrower backup up by robot ninjas and a motherfucking dragon!! I'd still kick your ass." He laughs and steps to one side. Bouncer: "I give up kid, you're alright go on in." I walk pass the bouncer smiling to myself as I open the door and walk inside. (I'm going to take a break and continue this later.)

I saw Ashe, and knew what I had to do. This story also includes some fine art of our favorite cowgirl done by Livinginfinite. You can see more of his excellent art on his tumblr: https://thelivinginfinite.tumblr.com/ There will be a part 2, I just decided to split it up because it was really long and it was taking too much time, so I figured I'd just post the first Ashe part for now. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ “All right, saddle up, everyone!” The commanding voice of Ashe issued over the clamor of the Deadlock gang. The various thieves, crooks, outlaws and other vagabonds stopped in their tracks as they heard the voice of their leader, “We got a score, and soon. I want every gun loaded, every bomb prepped, and I want everyone to know the plan!” Ashe stood atop a tall stack of crates, overlooking the crowd gathering in front of her. Her colossal Omnic guardian stood to the side, watching on. There was not a peep from the gang once Ashe took the stage; everyone in the Deadlock knew better than to piss off their fierce leader. There was no shortage of tales of her chaotic, spiteful and vengeful nature. Everyone in the gang knew that Ashe’d have Bob wring their necks if they so much as looked at her funny. Ashe, naturally, adored the fear and respect her underlings had for her. She began to outline their plan; it was a relatively simple one, just a smash-and-grab on a nearby bank. However, as Ashe laid out the plan to her crew, she began to feel the urge to pee, and this was a problem for her. She was one of the last people you might think would have troubles with any sort of bathroom matters, but you’d be in for a surprise. Years of fighting, drinking, firefights, and explosives had taken their toll on Ashe, and left her with certain… “weaknesses” in regards to her bladder and bowels. Weaknesses that required the young woman to wear diapers. No one except for Bob knew about her protection, and she aimed to keep it that way. Fortunately for her, her long coat obscured anyone’s view of her rear, preventing them from seeing the bulky garment bulging through her pants. Still, though, Ashe greatly preferred to avoid using the thing when in front of her crew, which became a problem as she felt her need to relieve herself rising. She had very little control over her bladder, and in the middle of her speech, she felt the space between her legs begin to grow hot and soggy. Her cheeks reddened, and she found herself stuttering slightly while speaking. She cleared her throat, and continued speaking, doing her best to ignore the fact that she was still urinating on herself. Her diaper happily soaked up her pee, growing and swelling as it did so. The hot wetness spread around, thoroughly saturating her privates before travelling to her backside and soaking into the fabric there. Astoundingly, she was still peeing, too. Ashe was just wrapping up her speech when she felt something that nearly made her heart stop: a drop of urine slowly winding down her thigh. Her diaper was leaking. “Er, and that’s about everything,” Ashe hastily concluded her speech, “So start gettin’ ready, we’re headin’ out ASAP!” She jumped down off the crates, wincing as her diaper squished from the movement. She and Bob walked away from the crew and, when they were out of earshot of anybody, Ashe leaned over to ask, “Bob! I peed while I was talkin’, was it noticeable?” In response, her silent partner simply gave a thumbs-up, signalling that she was good. Ashe exhaled in relief. Now she just needed to get changed, then she’d be ready to head out on their excursion. They came upon a two-story building near Route 66 that the Deadlock had appropriated as a temporary headquarters; the upstairs of which was being used as Ashe’s room. “Just gimme a sec, Bob, I just gotta changed,” she said, ascending the stairs. Bob held out his hand in a sort of “wait for me!” gesture, but Ashe stopped him, “It’s not that bad, Bob. I’ll be fine,” she said, still grateful for his concern. Entering into her room, Ashe tossed her coat to the side, and prepared to further undress in a way that had become routine since her incontinence had fully manifested… only, she stopped when she saw what was in her room. An exceptionally tall, slender, orange-haired woman stood imposingly in her room. Around her were several unconscious Deadlock members, several of them lying in puddles with lumpy bulges in their pants. The tall woman turned quickly to face Ashe. Ashe reached for her rifle, but did not draw it when she realized that the woman had no weapon, and was simply smiling and steepling her fingers at her arrival. She kept her hand on her gun, just in case. “Ah, at last,” the woman began, her Irish accent only raising more questions about who she was, “I was growing tired of waiting for you.” “You got five seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t blow you away here and now, lady!” The Irish woman chuckled before putting her hand on her chest, “I am Moira, I represent a party whose goals I feel can align with your own.” “Uh-huh. That why you took out so many of my guys?” “Now I did try to tell them I wasn’t here to hurt anyone,” She gave one of them a little kick, causing the downed woman to groan a little, “they are still alive.” “And what goals do you think we have in common, you psycho?” “Simple: There’s a woman I want to hunt down. There’s a man you want to hunt down.” “Yer talkin’ about McCree.” “Mmhm,” Moira nodded, “Turns out our respective targets are fairly well acquainted.” “Cut to the chase, already!” “I’m trying to do away with an old colleague of mine- one Angela Ziegler- and she would most certainly know how to go about finding your old friend,” Just mentioning McCree made Ashe tighten her grip on her rifle, “My organization didn’t want to spare any resources on what they deemed a ‘personal vendetta,’ so I’m left pretty short-handed. I’ve got a very simple offer for you, Ashe: help me take care of this thorn in my side, and I’ll let you interrogate her for McCree’s location before we… tidy up.” “... Interestin’... ” Ashe murmured, “Now, what’s stoppin’ me from callin’ my friend Bob up here and having him snap you in half like the twig you are for disrespectin’ me and my gang like this?” Moira scowled slightly, then seemed to vanish from sight in a puff of purple and black smoke. “Wha-” Ashe exclaimed. Only a split second later, Moira reappeared in a similar cloud of dark smoke, with her right hand gripping Ashe’s face tightly. Where each finger pressed into her skin, she felt a painful burning sensation. “I am what’s stopping you,” Her fingers dug deeper, still burning intensely, “I’m here to offer you an alliance to benefit the both of us, not to make enemies,” Ashe’s entire face began to tingle, then sting when Moira’s hand seemed to glow purple, “But if you are so intent on it, I can assure you that I am a powerful and deadly enemy.” Ashe had no idea what was happening. It felt like her head was being burned away. She’d fought in thousands of intense fights, but she’d never seen anything like this before. Her heart was nearly beating out of her chest, and she couldn’t find her words. A sound, a bit like a mudslide, filled the room as Ashe’s bowels were emptied into her soaked diaper. She felt the foul mess drop out of her body, piling up in her diaper, filling the spaces between her legs. The mess was soft, and spread around quickly. She was sure she felt some of it slip out of the diaper and into her actual pants. Her bladder had found more contents to lose, as well; while she was soiling herself, a powerful stream of urine flooded her diaper once more. The garment was soaked and full to bursting, and the urine not so much “leaked” as poured out of the diaper, which had lost all pretense of functioning by this point. Her thighs were suddenly warmed and wet by the twin rivers of pee flowing down her legs. Moira arrogantly smirked the entire time this was transpiring. Once Ashe had finished wetting and soiling her pants, the intimidating woman let go of her face, saying, “Seems like we have an understanding, then,” With a little flick of her other hand, a small, golden cloud was sprayed onto Ashe’s face. She expected more pain or further humiliation, but was surprised to feel the burning sensation fade away. She frantically patted her head with both hands, searching for damage, but none was to be found. “Stop worrying, I’ve healed you up.” Moira took a step back, and extended her hand- the healing one- out for a handshake, “We don’t have to be enemies, Ashe. Let’s work together, and take care of two pests at once,” Ashe slowed her breathing, and found her voice, “And you’re sure this woman you’re after is gonna know where McCree ran off to?” “I’m certain of it,” “... Okay, yeah… You got a deal, Moira,” Ashe reached out, and shook the mysterious woman’s hand. “Excellent. I’ll contact you again in about an hour with some instructions. For the time being, you may wish to devote some time to cleaning yourself up.” The deal struck, Moira vanished into thin air once more. Ashe looked around, but did not see her reappear anywhere nearby. Ashe absolutely hated the woman, but she did have a point about cleaning up. She hadn’t made a mess of herself this severely in a very long while. Now she probably would need Bob’s help to get changed. Not to mention that were several injured people unconscious in her room, many of them in similar states of needing a change. “Bob!” She shouted as she exited the building to get her Omnic companion, “Need some help here, Bo-” “Ms. Ashe!” Her heart almost stopped when she was greeted by a small group of Deadlock members outside the building. They looked somewhat panicked and had their weapons ready. “We heard someone say that an intruder was attacking us! Are you okay, Ms. Ashe?” The person at the forefront of this small group, a young woman, asked. Her eyes drifted downwards, settling on the obviously wet crotch of Ashe’s pants. And Ashe was sure they could smell her other accident. The Deadlock woman averted her eyes, and the others present slowly caught on and did the same. Ashe wanted to die on the spot. “Oh, um… Did you, uh… need a minute, Ms. Ashe?” The woman’s voice grew fainter and fainter as she spoke. Something snapped inside of her, and Ashe felt her shame get replaced by anger. She couldn’t stand the way they were pitying her right then. Her blood beginning to boil, she took an intimidating step forward, “I’m doin’ just fine, kid. You came by at the perfect time, as a matter of fact. There’s about ten people knocked out in my room, and unless you’re plannin’ on joinin’ them, I suggest you get to clearin’ them out!!” The Deadlock woman almost fell down as she retreated backwards, away from Ashe. As she’d hoped, a wet stain formed on the woman’s crotch, and travelled down her thighs. A few others in the group were doing the same. “Get movin’!” Ashe commanded. The woman frantically nodded, then ran into the building. The others followed after her. Ashe smirked when she noticed the messy bulge in the back of the woman’s pants. “Bob!” She called out. After a second, the large Omnic stood by her side. “Help me get cleaned up. After that, we’ve got a new plan...”

Dark shadows cast across the walls of Tam-tara Deepcroft, in stark contrast to the ever-burning sconces and torches that lined it's walls. While normally one would expect an undercroft to be a silent as... well, a grave, it seemed tonight was an exception; Shuffling and moans steadily echoed through the halls, accentuated by a distant cacophony of chants. A lone Keeper of the Moon miqo'te, Rui, had entered the Deepcroft. She had been expecting it to be relatively quiet after being cleared by a group of adventurers moons ago. Shortly after entering it, however, she realized that not all was well in the massive maze of tombs. Clutching her cane in front of her, she took a few breaths as she tried to calm the pounding heart in her little chest. It didn't help that she needed to make water, either, but she hadn't counted on being frightened nearly as much as she was. Shuffling through the corridors meekly, she eventually came across several hunched over forms. Made up of both hyur, a couple elezen and what appeared to be at least one male miqo'te, they turned to her slowly and in time with each other to gaze upon the intruder. Rui froze in place, feeling terror fill her as those pale, dead eyes locked onto the lone living thing in the cavernous expanse. A shiver passed through her body, and she was acutely aware of a few dribbles escaping into her panties as her bladder recoiled. Thankfully, she managed to clench and keep herself mostly dry, only a few wet droplets appearing on the gusset of her smallclothes. Remembering her magickal training, she tore several sizable rocks from the ground, flinging one at each of the walking corpses. All but one were flung to the ground, their bodies being crushed handily by the blunt force. The lone miqo'te was a bit more nimble, however, somehow retaining the traits he had in life. He rushed at the Keeper, and she had just enough time to cast a massive burst of wind magic at him, sending him flying down the hall before falling over a ledge into a chasm. The close call caused the poor girl to clutch her cane with both hands now, holding it close to her bosom as she could. She couldn't tell if she had dribbled any more into her panties, but the fact that her legs were still dry under her skirt indicated she had yet held on to her dignity. This situation felt beyond her, however she felt obliged to at least discover the source of the corruption before she went running. It was her duty to the Shroud, to Eorzea, perhaps! Still clutching her cane like a child would their favorite stuffed animal, she shuffled forward until she came to a massive chamber. A reddish glow filled the chamber, and it was oddly quiet compared to the rest of the Deepcroft. Moving to the center, she couldn't find anything of note... however, a strange sense of dread filled her, and her body began to tremble as she looked around for the source. Turning around, then, she finally found it... ...or it had found her. What appeared to be a hyuran woman, clad in dirty white robes and hat, stood. Rui's breathe caught in her throat with a soft gasp as the woman tilted her head up, the brim of her hat slowly revealing her grinning face. She had never met this woman before, but the way she spoke to the Keeper made it seem like they were childhood friends. "Ah, you made it to the wedding, Rui!" "I am -so- glad you could be here for me and Avere's day! Your presence blesses us..." She stepped closer, arms outstretched as if to embrace. Despite her desire to run, Rui's body was seemingly paralyzed in terror, wide eyes only seeming to get wider as a whimper passed her lips. This was it, she was done for. The poor miqo'te felt as her bladder finally gave in, deciding there was no point in holding all that pent-up pee if this was her end. Her panties steadily flooded as a stream poured from her, both passing straight through the thin material and dribbling down Rui's trembling lets under her skirt. A puddle quickly began to form under her feet, the gentle sound of trickling urine almost appropriate for such a damp place, even if it was quite a bit warmer and fresher. "No!" Rui thought, "Not like this!" She clenched her eyes shut then, still standing, trembling and watering herself in fear as she felt something well up within her. A burst of light and aether came from her body then, unbeknownst to her. When the poor Keeper opened her eyes again, the scary hyur was no longer there. The chamber was empty, save for her, and the puddle she stood in, the few last drops of her voided bladder echoing on the walls. Regaining control of her body, she looked down, shoes gently splishing in the puddle as she raised one to give her leg a final shake, thanking the twelve she had been alone when she had wee'd herself like a little kit. She quickly made her way out of the Deepcroft, intent on telling the Seedseers what she had discovered. Another adventurer would take care of it for sure, but... the most important thing to her was safety, and maybe a bath... (Featuring @Ruromo's character, Rui! I hope I did this cute scaredy catte justice! ^_^)

This was a request from Livinginfinite that took me entirely too long to complete. But, at long last, here is some omo of the best girl from Fullmetal Alchemist. Hope you guys enjoy! Prologue If General Olivier Mira Armstrong had learned anything over her years spent serving at Fort Briggs, it was that nothing- not guns, not bombs, not numbers- nothing was as crucial to winning a war as morale. Her soldiers’ willingness to fight, their bravery to march into the fires of warfare, these were the things that permitted victory. If these soldiers could only soil themselves and surrender, then all the guns, bombs, and strategies in the world couldn’t help them. It was for this exact reason that Olivier had to keep her own accidents a secret. After all, if the soldiers saw her spraying piss down her legs when they came under fire, or messily filling her panties with her own shit when they were ambushed, it would devastate their morale. This rather embarrassing secret all began some time ago. Being the overseer of Fort Briggs, the enormous military garrison tasked with defending the icy northern border of Amestris from its warlike neighbor, Drachma, was no small or simple task. While Olivier was certainly up to the task, she wasn’t invincible. Slowly but surely, the stress and fatigue of the job began to wear on her, until the night were it’d be fair to say it all started. She’d wet the bed. Her. Olivier, the fierce defender of Fort Briggs, had really, truly urinated on herself in her sleep. All because of a bad dream. A grown woman, the general of a deadly army, woke up encircled by a yellow stain of her own making. In all her life, she’d never truly felt shame and confusion of such a caliber. But it had only just begun. Waking up to soaked sheets became a weekly occurrence. It came to a head after a very disturbing nightmare. She’d dreamt of a surprise invasion. Drachma came in the night, while they weren’t ready. The fortress fell, the soldiers inside perished, and it had been because she wasn’t ready for it. The nightmare had been harrowing. Olivier, as she expected, awoke to the wet and warm sensation of pissing her panties. A sensation that had, regrettably, become familiar. However, a foul scent lingered in the air, and the muddy, squishy feeling beneath her was not the same as a wet mattress. She stood up to inspect herself, and confirmed her worst fears: she had soiled herself in her sleep. In the middle of the yellow stain on her sheets was a brown one, and a flattened bulge rested in the rear of her underwear. That had been the final straw for her, and she resigned herself to wearing diapers to bed after that. Of course, as stated, this was only the beginning. The rest of her story is better told through the General’s own perspective… Part 1 The contents of a number of Olivier’s nightmares had come to life today. While she and a small detachment of troops were away from the fortress, an attack had come. Olivier and her troops took shelter in a small, old bunker. The sounds of distant gunfire and artillery penetrated through the thick walls of the structure. Drachma… She thought with great contempt. Amestris’ northerly neighbor had always been an aggressive and imperialistic nation. Since Amestris’ founding, Drachma had labored incessantly to conquer them. Thanks to her efforts, though, every attack had failed. They must have learned that she wasn’t there to command her forces, and thought it was an ideal time to strike. How they learned that, she had no idea. A spy, perhaps. “Is the radio operational, yet?” She demanded from one of her technicians, who was furiously attempting to make some repairs on the bunker’s long-broken radio. “N-not yet, sir! Working on it!” The young soldier replied, stammering lightly. “Damn it all!” She swore, banging her fist on the table. The earth shook violently for a moment, and a thunderous sound filled the air, startling everyone. The artillery barrages were getting dangerously close to their position. A bunker this old and weathered wouldn’t last more than a few seconds under such heavy fire. The radio was certainly not working, and the bunker honestly left them just as vulnerable as if they were out in the open. There were no choices left. “Everyone!” Olivier shouted with her powerful voice, “Drop anything that isn’t essential, and prepare to leave! We’re returning to Briggs!” A chorus of men voicing their disbelief and disapproval greeted her. The general gritted her teeth and shouted, “Quiet, all of you!” As much as they didn’t want to go through with her plan, no one dared to speak after Olivier Armstrong told them to be quiet. As if to accentuate what she was about to say, another volley of artillery fire shook the earth, even closer this time. “That will reach us before long. There are paths we can take through the hills that will offer cover and mask our positions. We’re needed at the fort, and that’s where we’re go-” Her command was cut off as an artillery shell impacted the bunker. The thunder, once distant, was now deafening. The only things that broke through the wall of sound it created were the terrified shrieks of the bunker’s inhabitants. Though Olivier stood her ground longer than everyone else present, the shockwave it produced knocked everybody to the ground, even her. She was closer to the ordinance than anyone, and she certainly paid the price for it. She thought the heat was going to burn her alive, and had she been much closer, it certainly would have. Shrapnel and debris were launched in all directions, and Olivier felt the metal shards biting into what felt like every inch of her body. Perhaps it was the fear, the pain, or simply the shock of what happened that caused it, but Olivier had totally lost control of her bowels during the blast. It had probably even made quite a loud sound, but simply couldn’t compete. At almost the exact second the shell hit, she expelled a large quantity of waste into her white panties. It was soft and wet, and collected into a ball just behind her thighs. As she attempted to stand her ground against the force of the explosion, far more mess found its way out, and the seat of her panties filled very suddenly with her waste. Like the first release, it was wet, and she did notice some of the mess beginning to run down her thighs. When, at last, the explosion knocked her off of her feet, she landed on her back, her release getting flattened underneath her. As much as the general wished she could rest there, she knew that she had no such luxury. She grabbed her sword that had been dislodged by the blast, and used it like a can to pick herself up. As fast on the uptake as Olivier was, she quickly assessed the situation, and had a feeling that her men would be less hesitant to evacuate the bunker, now that over half of it was gone. It turns out that the decrepit old thing couldn’t even take a single shell without collapsing. A gaping hole provided them a view of the snow-blanketed warzone outside. It also only took Olivier a second to notice just how badly she’d filled her pants. She could feel her panties sagging under the weight, and knew that there must be a somewhat conspicuous bulge, even in the very baggy pants Amestrian soldiers wore. She cringed in disgust for a moment as she felt some of the mess still creeping slowly down her thighs, but quickly swallowed her emotions. This was no time to have a breakdown. Besides, she was far from the only one to have soiled themselves. Even a cursory glance around the room revealed a number of soldiers sitting in puddles (some even still making them) and plenty clutching at bulges on their backsides. “Anyone still want to stay put?!” She shouted. She was not met with any resistance, this time. “Then get moving!!” Everyone forgetting the states of their clothes, or their wounds or disorientation, they got up, grabbed their gear, and made for the back exit. Once the last of the soldiers had made for the door, Olivier herself followed suit. A stab of pain stopped her in her tracks. She tasted something metallic. Blood, she thought, being very familiar with the taste. Looking down, she noticed a slowly spreading red stain on her abdomen. Must’ve been the damn shrapnel. It would have to wait. The fort wasn’t too far away, and she could be more properly treated there. ------------------------------------------------------------- By the time they had reached the fort, Oliver was covered in so many cuts, bruises, stains, and other damages that the large, brown discoloration on her rear just looked like another dirt smear. While there was certainly nobody in the entire Northern region with the balls to comment on General Armstrong having an accident, she was still relieved that nobody would have cause to even think as much. The soldiers who had returned with her were rushed either to the medical bay or to their battlestations. Despite everyone’s insistence that she join the wounded for treatment, Olivier had gone to the top of the fortress to oversee the defense. The mess pressing against her rear had long since turned cold, bitterly reminding her of her lapse in control with every step she took. She reached the ramparts, where her snipers and artillery were hard at work repelling the invasion force. The soldiers were elated to have their general back, her mere presence galvanizing them to fight much harder. She issued commands to her soldiers, but it wasn’t truly that necessary; she’d already trained and conditioned her men to be killing machines, and it showed. Within hours, the Drachman army was soundly obliterated. What caught her by surprise, however, was the hot sting of liquid coursing down her legs near the end of the battle. She had pissed herself. But why? She wasn’t afraid, she wasn’t being attacked directly; her bladder just… let go. Streams of hot urine soaked her panties, and ran down her legs. She was once again very grateful she was covered in so much dirt and grime that the stains weren’t identifiable as her piss and shit. … At least, she hoped they weren’t. ------------------------------------------------------------- The news that the doctor gave her was unpleasant, but undeniable: the shrapnel that riddled her body during the explosion had damaged some of her organs, and severely diminished her continence. Pragmatic as she was, Olivier swallowed her pride, and asked what needed to be asked. “Is this permanent?” “Most likely,” The doctor began, “But, the way medicine and alchemy advance, maybe not. It’s certainly possible that either science could advance enough to mend your body.” “But you’re telling me that for the foreseeable future-” “That it’s either diapers or a lot of laundry for you.” Olivier gritted her teeth and sighed. She had been lucky enough that her accidents today were relatively inconspicuous. She knew that she couldn’t be lucky every day. Her soldiers depended on her, they relied on her, and it would be pretty hard for them to have faith in her if they constantly saw her wetting and soiling herself. She hated that it had come to this, but if this was what it took to keep the north in line, then it was what she would do. Part 2 Waking up to a wet, and occasionally even a full diaper had become a common occurrence for Olivier. She had long since become accustomed to nighttime accidents, since they had begun even before her injuries, and they no longer bothered her very much. What did bother her were her other accidents. ------------------------------------------------------------- Olivier and a number of officers of Fort Briggs had gathered to discuss their defensive strategies and changes to their patrol routes in light of the recent attack. In the middle of laying out the new tactics, Olivier’s weakened hold on her bladder failed, and she flooded her diaper. The hot wetness collected around her groin, and then saturated the fabric near her butt, bathing her privates in sickly warmth. The diaper swelled up between her legs. The others in attendance might’ve noticed their general’s scowl deepen slightly, but she managed to keep her reaction minimal. The meeting was adjourned, and Olivier headed back to her quarters to change. On the way back, she noticed a weight in her abdomen, and could feel her body already struggling to keep it in. Her room was still several minutes away. She growled in angry resignation, and stopped holding back. With a slight push, her mess came right out of her. With a disgusting squish, she felt the warm, soft mush press against her backside. The rest of the walk back was nerve-wracking, walking by many soldiers and officers, any one of whom could’ve noticed the foul smell the general left behind her. There had already been a rumor or two that Olivier had shit her pants during the attack, but at least that was an appropriate time to shit your pants. She would be beside herself with fury if word spread that the general could not even endure a simple meeting without going on herself. ------------------------------------------------------------- A couple days later, Oliver and some other officers had decided to inspect a number of their storage facilities in the fort. The plan was twofold: to ensure that they were well-stocked for another attack, and to search for signs of sabotage. Olivier was still confident that Briggs had been infiltrated by an enemy agent, and she wouldn’t rest until she knew for sure. One site in particular was suspicious given that it was largely avoided by most of the staff. It was presumed empty, and some structural instabilities left it unfit to be used for storing anything important. Away from everyone’s sight as it was, it would’ve made an ideal hiding place for a spy. A couple soldiers stood on either side of the general while another worked on opening the gate, which was rusted and difficult to move. With an ear-grating screech, the door slid upwards, dropping flakes of rust as it went. Inside were only old, broken boxes and some long-rotted food. The three soldiers moved inside, but provoked something as they did. Squeaks and squeals filled the air as a small family of rats rushed from the boxes, and scurried by Olivier’s feet. Having expected to encounter a spy, and having been prepared to fight him to the death, Olivier was already prepared to jump into action. It appeared her body was, as well. No sooner had the rats scurried away than Olivier noticed the small amount of shit she’d released into her diaper, or the still collecting warmth of her urine soaking into it. Have I really gotten so soft? She thought. “Sir! The storage unit is completely empty!” One of her soldiers reported. “Good. Keep searching inside for any signs of someone having been there. I’ll go check the other units.” “Yes, sir!” They replied in unison. None of them were privy to the fact that Olivier was still pissing herself as she gave them their orders. She left them to their search, and ventured towards the next storage unit, where a search would already be underway. As was often the case, she greatly wished she could go and change, but her duty meant she would have to stay in her soiled undergarments for a while longer. Approaching the next storage unit, one of the soldiers inside jumped at something, accidentally firing his pistol into the wall of the structure. Hearing the bang, Olivier quickly drew her sword, but as she quickened her pace, she noticed that the quantity of shit in her diaper had increased greatly, and was still doing so. Her bladder had even found new urine to expel. Still wetting her soiling herself, she moved inside the small warehouse, only to find that it was nothing more than one of the rats from the other storage site that had wandered in during the search. Perhaps she was being paranoid, and the attack had simply come at an inopportune time. Either way, it had been totally ineffective. ------------------------------------------------------------- Such incidents became commonplace for the unfortunate general. But, while rumors circulated about her tendencies to have accidents, the stories that more commonly got passed around were of the invincible woman who withstood an artillery barrage without a scratch, while her soldiers shit themselves behind her. While Olivier certainly preferred that version of the story, she was never one to judge her subordinates on their control, especially considering her condition. Greater than any military information, Olivier’s incontinence had somehow become Briggs’ best kept secret.

So if you haven’t played Prey, I dunno what you’re doing with your life, but you’re doing it wrong. There were several moments in the game where, considering I nearly wet myself just playing it, I thought it was impossible someone really in that situation wouldn’t have lost control of themselves. If this turns out well, I might do some other stories of a similar theme, and maybe some more Prey ones. And fear not, this fic will be almost completely spoiler free. All major scenes, twists, events, and so on, will not be spoiled. As always, any and all feedback is appreciated. I know it’s a bit shorter than what I usually post, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. ----------------------------------------------------------- Talos 1 Lobby, 2035 Morgan Yu peered as slowly and carefully through the large doorway as she could. Considering the mutilated human corpse she found just a short distance behind her, she wasn’t taking any chances. The Typhon were lethal and merciless, and they could be anywhere. Wrench in hand, Morgan slowly walked through the doorway, and entered the lobby. A massive window to her right constituted the wall of the space station. The area around was lavish and lovingly furnished, but for the moment she was captivated by the sight of Earth as it took up a good portion of her view out the window. She walked forward, stopping at a table with some snacks and water bottles on it, still admiring the view of her home. Her quiet moment of reflection was rudely interrupted as she heard a very sudden rustling from behind her. Raising her wrench to strike, she whipped around, and wasn’t surprised when there were no enemies to strike. Instead, she saw only an apple on the ground, lazily rolling towards her feet. She was not fooled, however. Raising the wrench high in the air, she slammed it down, towards the apple. Unsurprisingly, the apple was suddenly engulfed in black smoke as the four-legged beast shifted into its true form, a Mimic. They were spider-like creatures composed of hundreds of little black tendrils. This one wasn’t going to be making a meal out of Morgan today, as she deftly smashed the wrench into the creature, causing to explode into several bits and lots of black goo. She reeled a bit. The Typhon were great at messing with people’s heads, and even the humble Mimic was no different. Upon seeing them transform, it always hurt her head and eyes a bit. As she groaned in pain and rubbed her temples lightly, Morgan became conscious of the fact that she needed the restroom. All the running around, wrench-swinging, and alien battling she’d been doing had worn her out, and she’d been drinking a ton of water she’d found in order to keep hydrated. And now that was coming back to bite her. She sighed in annoyance. They never show in movies or videogames that you still have to go to the bathroom, even if you’re an action hero. Her annoyance about quadrupled when she also felt the need to get rid of the other kind of waste present itself. She had a station to save, she couldn’t lose so much time just to go to bathroom! Of course, the obvious alternative was to just… go. To go to the bathroom in her suit. As compelling as the thought of saving time was, it most certainly was not worth the humiliation of wetting and soiling herself. As something in the room to her left very suddenly and very quickly shifted position, she wondered if she’d really have a choice in the matter, as the damned Typhon might just scare it out of her before she even reaches the bathroom. She moved to the right, giving the now suspect room a wide berth. Morgan continued walking throughout the lobby, suddenly very paranoid of the large open space it presented. So many corners… so many places for things to hide. She could feel her heartbeat quicken, yet her blood ran cold. So many things around her seemed to be changing position. Any random thing she walked by could be her death. Her control faltered in her paranoid state, and she was vaguely conscious of the fact that she was dribbling into her red boxers. The crotch of her underwear darkened as it met with her urine, and she could feel a few wet trails racing down her thighs. Fortunately, her rubbery suit would show no trace of her leaking. Morgan slowed her breathing, and tried to remain calm. The Typhon mess with people’s heads, and right now, they were getting into hers. After calming down, she looked around again, and noted that everything seemed to be in order, more or less. If there were more Mimics, they weren’t right next to her, at least. She released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her eyes widened when she noticed the cooling wetness on her crotch. She clamped her thighs together, attempting to hold the rest of her urine. She needed a bathroom, and now. Scanning the room, her prayers were answered as she saw a sign labelling a nearby hallway as the bathroom she was after. Taking one last look around her for any Typhon aliens, she rushed towards the God-sent hallway. Curiously, the entrance to one of the restrooms was barricaded by large crates. Conveniently, it was the men’s restroom. Of course, she didn’t think anyone was going to scold for using the wrong toilet at this point, anyway. She entered the ladies’ room, and could feel her bladder and bowels nearly give out in relief. She slid open the door to one of the stalls, and smiled gratefully when she saw this one was stocked with extra toilet paper. She reached for the zipper on the front of her suit, and suddenly made a realization, as the Mimic that was masquerading as the spare paper lunged at her. She only barely managed to swing the wrench fast enough to stop the alien mid-jump. It skittered away, and hopped up onto the counter, preparing its front legs to strike. Morgan made sure it never got that chance, and crushed it under her trusty wrench. Her swing was powerful enough to crack the counter the Mimic was on. As Morgan panted, trying to catch her breath, her attention immediately snapped to her decreasing need to use the restroom. It took her a moment to realize that the scare the Mimic gave her had startled her into… going in her suit. The wet stain on the crotch of her boxers had rapidly expanded, and the stain travelled down both legs. Small rivers of hot urine now poured past the cuffs of her underwear, racing down her legs and filling her boots. She firmly planted her hands in her crotch, attempting to regain control, but by the time she did, most of the damage was done. She also became aware of the load that now occupied the back of her red boxers. She had even pooped her pants, she was so startled. Her mess weighed down her underwear, and she could feel it pressing up against her bottom. And the worst part was: She wasn’t done. She sighed, and, with tears just beginning to form in her eyes, resigned herself to just finishing now, in her clothes. She already had to clean up, anyway. She spread her legs, and released her hold on her pee. Her privates were suddenly warmed, and she felt much smaller rivulets than before streaming down her thighs, then past her knees, then into her boots. Her hands were still hovering over her crotch, and through her suit, they could feel the heat and vibrations caused by the urine impacting the suit. Now for the rest… she thought, as she squatted down. She could feel the mess that was already present be squished against a little as she did so. She scrunched her face, and pushed. Her mess came out, slow and steady. It met the existing load, and caused her underwear to bulge out far, then her suit to bulge out as the underwear made contact with it. She could feel her boxers growing heavier and heavier, and was beginning to lament her decision to not just finish in the toilet. The mess was downright huge, and she worried about her underwear's ability to hold all of it. She reached a hand back and felt the end result. It was a lot. Even though her thick, concealing jumpsuit, it would be completely obvious she'd voided her bowels on herself. After another moment of pooping herself, she was done. She sighed in embarrassment, her cheeks burning. As she prepared to stand up, a loud, distorted human voice yelled something near the entrance to the bathroom. Morgan slipped, and found herself recoiling in disgust as she fell on her rear, smushing her mess under her. She could feel it smooth and flatten out, covering her backside. The urine that was still trapped in her suit levelled out as she changed position, some of it returning to her thighs. As she sat there, she didn’t know if she was grateful or not that her puddle and mess were confined to her suit. She gave herself a quick little slap to her face, and bolted upright. What was she doing?! An alien might be right behind her, and she’s too busy feeling sorry for herself to notice! Coming to her senses, she grabbed her wrench, and slowly looked out the doorway into the lobby. A strange, human-shaped figure was wandering towards the bathroom area. It seemed to be made of the same black tendrils that comprised the Mimics. Despite everything she’d just been through, she somehow found herself leaking even more pee into her suit, but she no longer cared. As she waited, her back to the wall, the creature seemed to lose interest, and turned around. She released a pent-up breath. As long as it didn’t come back, she figured she should have a couple of minutes to clean herself up, then hopefully save the entire station. Assuming she could refrain from doing something like this again. Funny, out of all the terrible things that happened to her today, she couldn’t decide what was the worst: the alien invasion, or her complete accident. It would take some time to come up with an answer.

Hi guys, long time no post. Some of you may remember a story I started working on a few years ago that got quickly shelved. It was named 'Where is Alec Tremethick?', you can still find it here if you look back far enough. The challenge that I took on with that project lay in trying to create a narrative that was compelling in and of itself while still being essentially an omo story. The reason I stopped adding to it wasn't that I lost interest in it, more that the narrative had not yet fully developed in my mind. As it started to become a more complete picture in my head I realised how utterly inadequate the first few entries were - entertaining though they had been to write. There were a number of things I wasn't happy with, but three things stood out in particular: firstly, the egregious dip in writing standards at the end of Chapter 2; secondly, the appalling character assassination that concluded Chapter 3; and thirdly, I did not feel that the characters were being rendered quite as I saw them in my head - save maybe Martin. I've gone back and rewritten a lot. Chapter 1 is much the same as it was with just a few minor tweaks. Chapter 2 has been significantly rewritten, especially the end with which I was previously deeply dissatisfied. Chapter 3 has gotten the chop. Though Kate is an integral character to the story, I've decided to introduce her much later in the story and in such a way that does not shred her integrity just for the sake of showing that she's a badass. She is a badass. But outright murdering people she could arrest is not something she would ever do, and her integrity as a cop is one of the key conflicts of the storyline. So Chapter 3 doesn't work. Meanwhile I prefer to keep the focus on who the real protagonist of the story is: Elise. The first half of the story focuses significantly more on her character development. As such, I have an entirely new Chapter 3 to replace the old one. There's also a brand new Chapter 4, and a prologue that I think adds a bit extra to the story. The good news or bad news depending upon how you look at it is that the story now runs to just shy of 13,000 words and we're not quite halfway. In any case, I've decided to lay down here what I've gotten to so far, although I now know better than to make promises for when the next chapters are going to appear. Anyway, hope you're all doing well. Enjoy, Des Tremethyk Prologue At the carefully selected location high above the dockyard a man cupped his hands against the cool early Sunday morning breeze as he lit his last cigarette. He'd had a commanding view of the forest of dockworkers and paraphernalia when he'd been standing on this exact spot just hours before. But now a thick cloud of fog obscured the waterfront and the piers below. It made no real difference to him. He had people where he needed them to be. For now he had only to wait. He did not move as footsteps approached his position from somewhere in the distance behind him. He stood there savouring his vice as the rhythmic thuds grew louder before turning metallic as another man came up the gangway behind him. 'Nothing yet, Aiden?' the smoker asked his visitor casually, as the man in the greatcoat and trilby stepped up alongside him and leaned over the side gripping the railing. Aiden pushed himself back and brushed off the front of his coat. 'Not a peep, sir,' Aiden replied softly, not looking his boss in the eye. 'I'm not "sir"', the man reminded him, waving his cigarette irritably, 'Not out here. You know better than that.' Aiden smiled to himself weakly. 'Sorry, Arthur,' Aiden pled meekly, 'But my answer remains the same.' Arthur snorted and stomped his feet on the steel platform impatiently. 'What are we doing out here?' Arthur complained petulantly, 'Bloody middle of the night dockyard liaisons? Seriously, who does that?' 'It's happening here, Arthur,' Aiden insisted, 'we've been over this a hundred times.' 'I'm not saying you're wrong,' Arthur responded, 'I'm saying anybody with half a brain would know it was a terrible idea. I find it hard to believe that his contacts agreed to it.' 'Very hard to believe, Arthur.' Arthur shot Aiden an inquisitive glance, but said nothing. The pressure must be getting to him, Arthur thought to himself. Arthur clapped his friend on the back. 'Don't fret, lad,' Arthur assured him, 'You're right. We've thought of everything. Can't go wrong.' Aiden sighed and closed his eyes. Preparation was the key and he'd gone over every detail until his eyes had bled. He knew he'd never get this kind of opportunity again and he was determined to make the most of it. Even Arthur had shown some admiration for the thoroughness of the planning that Aiden had allowed him to see. Still… 'Tremethyk didn't seem all that keen on it yesterday afternoon…?' Aiden ventured, watching his boss closely. Arthur frowned. 'That daft playboy's losing his marbles,' Arthur declared gruffly, 'Who cares what he thinks?' 'He thinks this is a bad idea, then?' 'Who cares what he thinks?' Arthur repeated obdurately. 'Well, maybe we could-' 'It's gonna work, goddammnit,' Arthur insisted, 'I know these types. Get so caught up in their persona of bullshit that they lose touch with reality. They'd be the devil to catch if they weren't totally up their own arses. But our fellows are better trained,' he added proudly. 'Yeah…' Aiden trailed off. 'Anyway - get your head in the game, son,' Arthur chided his subordinate, 'it won't be long now.' The two men continued to stand vigil up above. Arthur was almost right. It had already begun. Chapter One: Dust Dark. Cool. Dry. A gloomy cellar. The room was nearly silent. The only sounds came from the wind and the twigs of the ash tree outside as they skittered across the narrow, grimey slat glass window near the ceiling. Every so often sunlight would flash through the waving boughs and then through the window to illuminate fractions of the room. Save for the afternoon's rays the room would be completely dark. In the corner a steep spiral staircase rose out of sight, the stone steps worn by ages of use. Leaning on the opposite wall was a very tall and wide semicircular cedar table some four metres in diameter. Scattered around the rest of the room were three dilapidated wooden chairs, an easel, a vice, a bucket, and a work bench covered in tools and dust. Somewhat unusually, the room was occupied. A young auburn-haired lady of no more than twenty five years lay bound and gagged and motionless underneath the cedar table. It would not be immediately clear to a hypothetical rescuer whether the woman lay alive or dead. Her torso and her legs right down to her tightly bound ankles were blanketed by a very wide gentleman's coat. She appeared petite for a woman of her age and the coat seemed to have been designed in mind of a man more than twice her size. Had she two bound companions of similar size on either side of her they would all three have comfortably fit under the extraordinarily large garment. But she lay alone - and alive for the time being. The wind picked up outside and the small branches started to rap on the window with more urgency as if they understood the woman's predicament. The noise finally seemed to elicit a response and a small moan escaped the woman's taped over lips as she awoke. Elise opened her eyes blearily. She tried to stretch before remembering her bonds and how she had come to be here. Still in this room, then... and still alone. Damn. Elise was surprised by how calm she felt upon waking this time. This was her second day of captivity and still she had not seen a living soul since she had been chloroformed and plucked off a quiet street the previous day in broad daylight. It was tricky to move with her hands, thighs and ankles bound together, but her unknown kidnapper had mercifully bound her wrists in front of her. She found that the limited freedom this gave her made squirming across the floor possible and she chose this moment to wiggle out from the coat and lean her back against the wall underneath the table. Elise shifted a little uneasily on the hard stone and her loose business skirt clung damply to her bottom. She had wet herself twice since being captured; when she had woken up on the cellar floor for the first time the day before in a panic, and the following morning when her bladder reached its capacity and she tearfully realised that she could hold it no longer. She had felt humiliated upon realising both accidents, particularly the second which had soaked her skirt and tights leaving a massive puddle at the base of the stairs. Though nobody had seen her disgrace herself she still could not help but feel impotent outrage at the people who had dumped her there like a chained animal. She was hungry, dehydrated, cramping, and in her forty hours in the room nobody had come to show any interest as to whether she was alive or dead. She grimly thought to herself that it seemed likely that they didn't care. The bound girl sat there for a few minutes listening to the twigs that had awoken her, straining her hearing and willing herself to hear from outside any other sound that might indicate the presence of another person nearby. She could hear nothing of the kind. Looking around the room, Elise got an uneasy sense that something had changed. The light was starting to fade as the sun went down outside and she realised that she would only have a handful more precious minutes to move about the room before it would get pitch black and she would have to bed down for the night. Deciding that she would try to see if she could hear anything from inside the house, she wiggled across the room to the base of the stairs. She skirted the far wall, flushing as she remembered to avoid the puddle of her urine that she had left near the stairs earlier in the day. Having reached the base of the stairs, she leaned against the wall and tried to determine whether any sound came from within the house. She could only hear the whirr of an air-conditioner, and before long she realised that something else was out of place. She looked to where she had accidented earlier that day and she noticed the puddle was completely gone! Bewildered, she leaned down and gingerly put her face to the floor to confirm her suspicion. She sniffed. Pine detergent?! Somebody had been inside while she had slept! She looked over to the corner where she had first awoke the day before and noticed with a shock that the drying remains of the first puddle had been mopped away as well. Somebody's been inside and they cared more about their stupid floor than me!, Elise realised with indignation. Trying to shout through her gag, Elise attempted to climb the steps to bang on the door with her wrists, but found climbing the steep steps in her condition to be quite impossible. Her elbows slipped and banged painfully into the bottom steps. Tears sprang to her eyes as she collapsed exasperated and upset back onto the floor. She sobbed bitterly. Elise wouldn't treat her worst enemy with such contempt, and she couldn't imagine what it was that she could have done to have been singled out for this treatment. After some minutes spent sprawled on the floor, she miserably slid back under the table using her bound wrists to lever the coat over her body again. But no sooner had she settled down before she heard a door open somewhere above and behind her and footsteps crossing the ceiling. Heart suddenly racing and with a dry mouth and an unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach the girl watched fearfully as she heard the cellar door get wrenched open and footsteps begin to descend the stairs. Chapter 2: Die Vorschlaghammer In a quiet area on the outskirts of the city, a single car sped down a lonely road lined with unfinished housing blocks. Even as dusk fell, the streets lay mostly unilluminated and the headlights of the vehicle blazed a path of white light through the dim twilight that prevailed over the avenues of ghostly concrete shells and scaffolding. The lone occupant of the sedan gazed out the window at what was effectively his kingdom. Through a series of strategic, carefully-planned construction contracts on behalf of Syndicate-aligned firms, Alan Sanders had succeeded in clandestinely taking control of the continued development of the entire district and through the use of some industrial shenanigans had brought further development of the area to a complete standstill. For the time being, the Syndicate owned the neighbourhood and it suited them to keep it sparsely populated. The situation could have caused a significant public scandal if certain 'independent' surveyors commissioned during the later stages of development hadn't conveniently found previously undetected chemical contaminants in the soil at multiple sites throughout the area making further suburban development totally out of the question. Now the councils were making up excuses to the public and doing the Syndicate's covering up for them. It couldn't carry on forever, but in the eyes of Alan's few superiors it was a real stroke of genius which had propelled the young man to his lofty position in the organisation's ranks. Unfortunately for Alan, his reputation tended to precede him throughout the organisation. It was for this very reason that his subordinates had failed to inform him of their kidnapping of Elise Wakefield until the day after the blunder was committed. As he closed in on the safe house at the end of the road in which she was being detained, he knew very well that he was in damage control. Alan had no use for this hostage with which he had been saddled. He could have had her disappeared, but this thought struck Alan as ungentlemanly. In an odd kind of way, he was an honourable man. Certainly, an honourable crook. It was true that few in the Syndicate were feared as much as Alan, but his reputation for ruthlessness was perhaps a little misplaced. He had certainly never let expediency trump his conscience when it came to unrelated members of the public and he deplored needless violence. Of course, that didn't change the fact that he had to get rid of his prisoner and to do so fast. But he couldn't just push her out onto the street they'd spirited her away from like nothing had happened. First, he needed certainty. The car pulled into the driveway and Alan retrieved a balaclava from the glovebox. For a second he eyed the material with some resentment. Alan was very much a gentleman's gentleman and he did not enjoy dressing himself up as a thug. On the other hand, he absolutely could not afford to be identifiable and he was going to have to speak to his prisoner face-to-face. It only had to stay on until he could ensure that she was properly blindfolded, Alan reasoned. So, with a measure of reluctance he pulled the woollen material down over his face, exited the car, strode up the driveway and entered the house. The front door admitted Alan into a kind of entrance hall. To his immediate left lay a fully furnished lounge room, while a doorway on his right would have taken him to a dining room with an attached kitchen. Stairs at the back of the hall ascended to the upper level which contained bedrooms and a bathroom. Of interest to Alan and adjacent to the stairs was a wooden and stained-glass pane door beyond which lay the descending stone spiral staircase which led to the basement workshop in which his guest was being entertained. As he crossed the floor to open the door he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the door's coloured-glass panels; a short, stocky man in a business suit… and balaclava. He snorted at the jarring asymmetry of it and then he was through the door and descending the stairs. The room came into sight as Alan rounded the last few steps and he came to a halt at the base. He could see from his vantage point that the prisoner was lying on her side underneath the cedar table on the other side of the room. He couldn't see her face and she seemed to be feigning sleep. Alan wasn't buying it, however, and he decided that taking charge at this stage meant using his voice. A suitably fake voice, of course. 'You are awake, Miss Wakefield,' Alan asserted in a more gravelly voice than normal. 'And I am not here to play games. You have some questions to answer and if your answers are truthful, I may grant you your release.' Alan smirked to himself as Elise betrayed her sleeping act by visibly jolting into alertness. 'Before you can answer my questions, however, I will be blindfolding you,' Alan continued. 'You are to keep your eyes shut until then. You must not ever see my face.' Hearing a timorous moan of acknowledgement, Alan managed a thin smile and tugged the balaclava off as he crossed the floor and tossed it aside. Where Elise lay underneath the table, Alan could see that she had her eyes clenched almost theatrically tight. Good. She understands. This should be fixable. He gently dragged the petite redhead out from under the table then rolled her onto her side to face her away from him so he could safely blindfold her without any risk of being seen. A pretty young lady, he thought to himself. Though he supposed that it shouldn't make a difference. Reaching into his breast pocket, Alan withdrew a large handkerchief and folded it lengthways to serve as a blindfold. He then gently lifted Elise's unresisting head off the ground to apply the blindfold, carefully manipulating the fabric around her soft tresses of chestnut-red curls. As he did so he noticed that she was shaking and he could see streaks of tears on her cheeks. Alan felt a twinge of sympathy, but he was a professional and he had his job to do. Blindfold successfully fitted, Alan sat down on the stone floor behind the bound girl. 'I'm sorry about all of this,' Alan said softly and with some genuine sympathy. 'I don't want to hurt you... If I can make it happen, I'd like to let you go.' 'But first, I must ask you a very important question,' Alan continued wearily. 'I have to ensure that you cannot betray me should I decide to release you. I will remove the tape over your mouth to allow you to answer.' 'But be assured that any screaming will result in a termination of this… interview, as well as of any chance you have of leaving here alive'. Alan added harshly. 'Do you understand?' Elise made a noise somewhere between a squeak and mumble. 'Very well'. Alan reached down and removed her gag. 'Please don't kill me, please, please, I swear I won't tell anyone, I won't say anything-' Elise gabbled, her voice shaking. 'Calm yourself,' Alan soothed, taken aback by her desperation. 'Elise, isn't it? Listen to me, Elise, my name is… My name is Alan. And that's the truth.' Harmless detail. Anybody would assume it to be a false name, anyway. 'I meant what I said,' he continued, 'I don't want to hurt you. I wish you had never been brought here and I want you to go home tonight. But it's not as simple as that... I do need to know what you know about why you're here. Do you know where you are? Do you know why you're here?' Alan enquired, his voice level, but his heart racing. This was crucial. 'I don't know! I swear!' Elise pleaded, praying that her kidnapper would hear the truth in her voice. 'I was walking to my car, you grabbed me, and I woke up here! I didn't see anything, I don't remember anything, please mister, I promise I don't know-…' Alan gently shushed her to calm her down. Inwardly he was sighing in relief. She thought that he was her kidnapper. The morons who'd actually done it had at least managed it without compromising themselves to the victim. They had earned themselves a much less painful death. 'Hmmm. Well, Miss, I don't really see any harm in letting you go home tonight,' Alan said. 'But if that's what you want then you're going to do exactly what I say, when I say it. And that starts with you staying quiet for the time being.' 'Thank you, sir!' Elise breathed, hardly daring to believe her ears. 'I swear I won't tell a soul.' 'I would know if you did, believe me,' growled Alan, but without much menace. 'Now I hope you won't take offence if I reapply the tape.' She started to speak again but he was already regagging her. He then bent down to pick her up. He got one hand under her right shoulder and she mewled something in protest. Getting his other hand under her thighs, he realised her skirt was damp and he jerked back his hand in surprise. Then he saw the oval shaped dark patch on the seat of the girl's skirt. She's pissed her pants! Christ almighty, don't tell me those cretins left her down here on her own for hours at a time. Sitting her back upright with her back to the wall he removed her gag. 'Miss, I noticed you, er… had an… accident.'. Alan had dropped the pretence of his false voice completely. The discovery had made him angry. 'I… I couldn't hold it!' Elise blurted out in an angry sob. 'You just left me here! I couldn't do anything!' 'Just left here?!' Alan exclaimed, aghast. 'You haven't been untied at all? What about for meals?' 'N- No! I haven't even seen anyone! I haven't had anything to eat or drink since I got here! And I had to… go to the bathroom on myself,' she cried indignantly, flushing as she confessed. Fucking hell. They just left her here? Brutes! They'll pay dearly for this. 'Jesus. I'm going to get you some water. I'll be back.' Alan ascended the stairs in a rush leaving Elise sitting there alone. She had no idea what was going on. Was this man her kidnapper? Had this been some stupid joke that had gone wrong? Why had he only turned up after all this time? It boggled the mind. She could hear the plumbing working upstairs, and with some unease the sound jolted a reminder to her that in spite of her earlier accidents she had still not pooped for a couple of days and she would need to go soon or risk having an even more humiliating accident. A few minutes later, Alan came down the stairs holding a sandwich and a jug of liquid which fizzed audibly as he approached. 'Berocca,' he said by way of explanation. 'I've brought you a sandwich as well. I'll unbind your hands so you can eat and drink. After that we are leaving. Wrists.' She presented him her wrists and started to mumble her request just as she felt her tummy cramp, causing her to jerk her hands a bit. 'What was that?' Alan asked sharply. 'I… I have to go to the bathroom again.' Elise mumbled, blushing beneath her blindfold. 'Oh! Oh, okay, well, there are facilities upstairs. But drink that first. You're dehydrated, you'll feel a lot better for it. Now… wrists, please.' Elise bit back the impudent response that leapt to her brain and simply nodded and presented her wrists again. She would be able to hold it a while longer and the deprivation of fluids during her incarceration was indeed causing her a nasty headache to go along with all her other troubles. 'I know it can't make up for anything or even really mean much,' Alan rambled, a little defensively. 'Nevertheless, I really can't tell you how sorry I am about the way you've been treated. The people responsible for this will be held accountable, you have my word.' Aren't you responsible? Elise thought to herself with some confusion and a little bitterness. But at the same time she felt a nervous, hopeful energy. She was going to be released. With her hands now free she felt a glass being proffered to her. She gulped down the contents gratefully. Under other circumstances she'd have been nervous that the drink might have been tampered with. But she was completely in this man's power anyway, and it did not seem as though he wanted her harmed. With the glass emptied she started on the sandwich which had been tossed onto her lap. She heard her captor refill the glass and take a drink from it himself. Definitely not drugged, then. Elise heard the glass being topped up again before Alan stood up and strode back over to the stairs. She finished the sandwich and picked up the glass again. It did not take her long to drain the second glass, but she decided not to return for a third. The urge to relieve herself had not abated during her meal, and to her surprise she even felt some pressure growing in her bladder. She thought her body could not have had all that much liquid in it left. Realising that her need was more pressing than she'd hoped, Elise addressed Alan again. 'Mister Alan, please. I need to go to the bathroom now.' Elise asked as politely but urgently as she could manage, sheepishly feeling like a schoolgirl asking her teacher for permission for the bathroom. As she said it, her tummy cramped momentarily and to her embarrassment she was unable to stop a fart from escaping audibly. Flushing pink to the roots of her hair and a little annoyed to have been ignored, she asked again. 'Please, sir,' she whimpered, 'I really need to go!' 'Be quiet!' Alan snapped suddenly from near the stairs, a razor edge in his voice taking her by surprise. Stung by the rebuke, Elise fell silent and tried to understand what she could have done to antagonise him. The answer came to her moments later when she heard other voices coming from upstairs. Were they police? Should she call out? Surely they'd find her anyway? A stream of thoughts rushed through her head as she tried to process the arrival of others. She was so caught up in them that she didn't hear Alan's near noiseless approach. 'The people upstairs are the ones who took you,' Alan suddenly hissed in her ear, nearly causing her to void into her underwear in fright. 'but it was a… a case of mistaken identity? You don't have what they want. Unfortunately, they're not the kind to throw back a catch and my bet is that they have come to liquidate you.' 'L-liquidate?' Elise rasped with a growing feeling of dread. 'Liquidate,' Alan repeated obliquely. 'They are stupid and cowardly and they tend to look for… short cuts…' Elise completely tensed up. Was this a trick? It sounded absurd, the kind of surrealism that you might expect in a movie. But she couldn't - wouldn't - bet her life on it. 'W-what… What can we do?' she asked nervously. For a moment there was silence. 'I need you to trust me.' 'What? What does that mean?' Elise asked desperately and almost too loudly, fearing what the answer might be. 'I am going to return you to the condition in which I found you and then I will head back into the house and wait for our friends to get separated. I will deal with them one at a time.' Elise gulped. So there was going to be violence. And if he couldn't overcome the others… 'Please,' she begged, 'Please don't leave me here. Don't let them-… Don't let them….' Her voice broke as she stammered over the sentence she couldn't bring herself to say. She felt her blindfold being pulled off and she blinked in the gloom, tears clouding her vision. She could blearily take in her captor crouching before her; a young man only a little older than she was. He had thick dark hair, grey eyes, greying stubble, and he was dressed in a neat navy suit. 'I will have to leave you here,' he said with a strange look on his face. 'But I won't let them hurt you. You have my word.' He quickly refastened her wrist bindings and reapplied the tape. He then placed the makeshift blindfold, the jug, and the glass into a box under the workbench. He then quietly reascended the stairs, flicking the light back off as he went. Elise was left alone in the dark and quiet room once more. She shivered, frightened of the uncertain fate that awaited her and becoming increasingly aware of the pressure building in the back and in the front. Time passed, perhaps an hour with her huddled in the dark. She quietly farted every now and then releasing the pressure that was building up, but she knew she couldn't hold it forever. She could hear the voices above her having an animated conversation although she couldn't make out their words. At one point it seemed to become quite heated and she was sure she heard a glass being broken. What are they talking about? How would Alan be able to separate them? Why is it taking so long, she thought as she shifted uncomfortably. Then she heard heavy footsteps cross the ceiling again and a door opened at the top of the stairs. The light came on. '-… -nd get her. You call Handscombe.' Elise was thunderstruck. That wasn't Alan's voice. What was he doing?! He'd been right there on his haunches in front of her - his grey-eyed gaze boring into her frightened viridian eyes - and he'd left her with a promise to protect her. Hadn't he? But with a sinking feeling, Alan's first instruction came rushing back and engulfed her like a bath of ice, tensing her body and sapping the breath from her chest. 'You must not ever see my face.' he'd said. And she had, hadn't she? But he was the one who'd taken off her blindfold. She didn't ask him to do that. It wasn't fair! Why did he do that? Was he just planning to let them finish her off after all? She heard the footsteps draw closer and closer until a giant of a man rounded the base of the stairs. 'Well, well… Princess Pissypants is awake!' he proclaimed in a rough voice to the sound of laughter upstairs. Filled with doubts, Elise squealed and tried to wriggle backwards away from the man. He leered at her as she bumped her head into one of the table legs behind her. 'We're going on a loooonnnng drive, baby doll. If you be a good girl I might even get you a fresh diaper on the way.' He advanced on her with a wicked smirk as she squirmed under the table to get away from him. 'Come on, now, come on out to Daddy,' the man said with glittering eyes. 'If you come out now, I promise I won't even hurt you. Maybe, anyway.' Suddenly there were some shouts from upstairs and a loud crash. The man paused and half-turned. 'Hey, what's going on up there?' he shouted with a nervous edge in his voice. Elise profited from the distraction by rolling herself as far under the table as she could manage. She pushed her back up against the wall and tucked up her knees to get her feet as far away from the edge of the table as possible. She wasn't crying now, but she was shaking violently, silently pleading for the man to take the bait; to leave her alone and go back upstairs. Having received no answer from upstairs, the man seemed to hesitate. He took a step towards the staircase, then seemed to think better of it and rounded on Elise again. 'Come out now or when I get my hands on you I will tear your throat out with my bare hands!' he roared. Elise was paralysed with terror. This is it, then. Whatever's happening upstairs, down here it's just me and the monster. She was dimly aware of a warmth spreading underneath her ass. She looked down and could see a puddle growing where she sat as she forcefully peed into her nylons with no control or restraint. But even realising this loss of composure, she knew she could not give in. Going out there would be a death sentence. Her only hope was to try to make things difficult for her attacker. The man was far too large to fit under the table so he would have to try to heft it aside to get at her. He was a large man, but it was a massive table with iron struts and it seemed to have been bolted straight into the rock. If it were as immovable as she fervently hoped it was then there was no way he could get her out in a hurry. But she did not have forever. Where was Alan?! She used her thumbs to rip the tape away from her mouth and screamed, hoping against hope that Alan could hear it and had not abandoned her. This disobedience seemed to send her assailant into a towering rage. He tried to pull the table away. It shifted no more than a few millimetres before his grip slipped and with a yawp of exasperation he gave up trying to move it. Elise didn't dare to believe it. Her plan had worked! He couldn't get her out! But the man walked across the room and selected a sledgehammer from the workbench. He stalked back towards her with murder in his eyes, the heft of the sledge dragging along the cellar floor ominously. Surely not. Surely he can't- The man drew it back and with an almighty heave he swung it down with the primal force of a goliath. With an almighty crash the cedar buckled and nearly split in two right down the middle. The noise was deafening. The man's strength seemed superhuman. And then he drew it back for a second swing. The poor girl saw her life flashing before her eyes. She couldn't believe that she was going to go out this way. How could anyone have that kind of strength? Where was Alan? She was going to be pulverised! Through her shock she felt her bowels begin to move. At first it started slowly, her poop solid and coming out into her lace-cotton panties at a steady pace, forming a tennis-ball sized bulge in her tights. Then all of a sudden it seemed to rush out all at once. She had completely lost control and was filling her panties with mushy poop loudly and uncontrollably. Nearly three days' worth of soft crap filled out the seat of her underwear and tights making a very large bulge under her bottom and filling the small space with the unpleasant smell of her accident. I'm messing myself, Elise thought to herself through the shellshock. I'm about to die and when they find me they'll know that I filled my pants like a toddler. And with that, the sledge reached its apex, and out of futile despairing instinct she ducked her head. The world went dark. Elise blinked against the near total blackness, willing her eyes to work. For an eerie, fleeting moment she wondered if she was dead. But the clatter of the sledgehammer's heft impacting the stone floor dispelled that vision, and she heard her assailant's furious, fearful shout as he span around. 'Who was that?! Show yourself, you coward! Do you- Two shots rang out in rapid succession. Elise heard the man slump to the floor. Gloomy strands of light were filtering down the stairs now, and she could make out a silhouette standing over the threshold, a pistol outstretched in one arm. Self-awareness returned and Elise came crashing back to earth. Her lungs had frozen in her chest the moment her attacker's sledge reached the zenith of its vicious killing blow. But now she breathed. Her eyes glazed over as she took in desperate, shuddering gasps of air. As the figure advanced into the room, Elise's hyperventilation began to slow. Eventually it receded to the point where she leaned on a table leg and began to sob loudly. But through the ghastly shock she felt her resolve to return to her. She grunted determinedly, forcing herself to bring her breathing back under control. When she looked to her rescuer again its shadowy form stood over the felled giant. Something was being inspected. Still weeping quietly, Elise watched as the spectre toyed with something small. Then it turned to the table and bent down to peer at her. Through the obscurity, she finally saw the creature's face. A mask. A blank, white mask. The eyeholes were two pits of shadow in the half-light, but from within those wells of black she could feel a penetrating gaze staring right through her. Ghoulish though it was, after all that had happened it did not frighten Elise. Just a mask, a man in a mask, she thought to herself. Is it Alan? The figure silently reached into a pocket and withdrew a knife. It tossed it next to her meaningfully. Then turning on its heel, the figure glided back up the stairs and exited the cellar without a second glance. Elise sat stunned for a moment before she came to her senses. 'H-Hey!' she yelled after the figure. 'Wait!' With trembling hands, she grabbed the knife and sawed away at her restraints, accidentally nicking her ankle in her haste to get free. Alan had not bound her wrists tightly so with some care she was able to cut those bonds as well. But it took time. She clambered out from her hiding space, wincing as she felt the mound of poop in her underwear and tights squishing up against her rear. But she couldn't worry about that now. She had to get out of here. Shaking as she stepped around the outline of her attacker's motionless body, Elise climbed the stairs and exited the cellar to find a house seemingly untouched by the commotion she had heard. Or so she thought until she saw two bodies slumped in the lounge room adjacent to the entrance hall. With a shock, she recognised the navy-clad figure closest to the door. A bloodied knife lay on the ground below Alan's outstretched hand. True to his word, he had tried to protect her. She approached and noted with surprise that he was unbloodied. The other man was bleeding out all over the floor and appeared to have been run through with the knife. Alan, on the other hand, seemed to have been struck from behind. He's still breathing! Suddenly the reality of the situation hit Elise like the sledgehammer she had only just barely evaded. Her captors were incapacitated or dead. The masked man was gone. She was free of her bonds. Nobody could stop her leaving. She was free. Outside, the rain intensified from a drizzle to a downpour. Through the sheets of water cascading over the gutters to the concrete paving outside she could see a silver car parked in the driveway. And beyond lay freedom in the cold, dark night. With escape a fait accompli few others would have hesitated. And yet here stood Elise with her head to one side, sucking on her lower lip with calculation stamped across her soft features. It struck Elise that Alan was not very tall. It was a strange thought to have, but he couldn't have been more than two inches taller than she, and he looked even smaller still lying knocked out cold on the floor. To Elise's faint surprise she felt sorry for him. He was in with these crooks, she knew. But he wasn't like them, was he? He'd tried to protect her. As she stood there wrestling with her indecision, Alan stirred a little, groaning, and reached out for his knife before slumping back to the floor. And just like that, she made up her mind. She was going to get even. Grabbing a set of keys she saw lying on the coffee table in front of the sofa, Elise shook Alan to wake him. He stirred once more, but seemed very groggy. 'Come on, let's get out of here,' Elise said firmly. Alan was too out of it to resist as she led him out the door to the driveway and into the night. Chapter 3: En Route Rivulets cascaded over the gutters in thin refractive columns as Elise and Alan lurched out the doorway under the security light towards the stationary sedan. The water drenched Elise's white blouse in mere moments and sent little columns of ice streaming down the small of her back and into the waistband of her skirt. Staggering down the driveway, the pair halted next to the vehicle as the deluge took hold of them and drenched them to their bones. Keys. Elise's fingers shook as she fumbled with the keys. Finding a fob, she unlocked the car and wrenched open the passenger side door. With Alan grumbling and moving erratically, Elise managed to womanhandle him into his seat and tossed his legs in after him. Slamming the door shut, she trotted around to the car's right-hand side and, rushing to get out of the icy shower, she plonked herself roughly down into the driver's seat. Squish. The mess that she had forgotten about in a few blessed moments of adrenaline now oozed through the legholes of her hopelessly browned bikini underpants into her black nylon tights and smeared her upper thighs. Some had been forced up to the elastic at the back, left and right across the cheeks of her buttocks, and worryingly close to other unmentionable vectors. If Elise's facial expression in that moment could have been committed to canvas by a painter it would have been a prizewinning masterpiece. In spite of herself, Elise half-giggled through her shock. The old joke was right, it really did feel like she was sitting in a shepherd's pie, she thought to herself with amusement. One embarrassing classroom wetting aside, Elise had never had many accidents. In the heat of the moment when she had been facing oblivion earlier, her messing had seemed almost mundane like it was just another slide in the horror show that she'd only narrowly escaped. But now she could almost laugh about it… She shifted a little and felt the mess squelch below her like a water cushion. It must have been the adrenaline, but she felt exhilarated; like she'd gotten away with something incredibly naughty. But as the smell started to fill the car she realised she would not be able to hide what she'd done from Alan. She finally glanced at Alan only to see that he was awake and watching her, eyes open and mouth slightly ajar. 'Oh! It's… I…' was all a flustered and slightly humiliated Elise could manage before Alan interrupted. 'Home. Override!' Alan enunciated, more loudly and firmly than Elise would have thought he could have managed in his condition. But her surprise at his apparent recovery was nothing compared to her shock as the vehicle responded to its master's command. The car locked its doors. The vehicle started itself up in defiance of the keys Elise still clutched in her right hand. Then it began reversing down the driveway as Elise grappled with the steering wheel in futile confusion. Then she heard a female voice. 'Voice activation engaged. Welcome back, Master Sanders. Navigating to Home - Inner Rothsay.' Panicking a little at the realisation she'd been trapped again, Elise floundered with the controls in desperation. The steering wheel did nothing. The pedals did nothing. The gearstick felt like it had been fixed in cement. As the car pulled out onto the street, she rounded on Alan angrily. 'What did you do?! What are you doing?! Where are we going?! Why-…' she cried before Alan interrupted. 'We're getting to safety. The only place I know for sure we'll be safe.' 'Home? Your home? Stop! Let me out!' 'I can't. We're not safe. You're not safe. Those fuc-…' remembering his manners, Alan cut off the expletive. 'I mean, those… gentlemen apparently did some… silly things that have made things worse. A lot worse. You can't go home now, they would come back for you.' 'But they're dead!' Alan eyed her calculatingly. 'Both of them?' he asked, eyebrow arched. 'Yes!' 'Well, then, clearly I've underestimated you, Miss,' Alan said, impressed. 'How'd you do it?' 'Do what? I-… Wait, no, I-I didn't! Somebody else was there!' 'Somebody else?' Alan furrowed his brow. 'Yes! I-' 'Who?' Alan interrupted. 'W-well,' Elise stammered, 'I, I, I'm not sure. They never spoke, or at least I don't think they did.' '"You don't think they did"?' Alan repeated at her impatiently, 'Well, did they or didn't they?' 'Look,' Elise snarled angrily, 'that maniac you let come downstairs nearly smashed me apart with a sledgehammer! I was a bit too focused on that to be worrying about other things like who said what and when!' 'Wait - Anders attacked you? With a sledgehammer?!' Alan exclaimed in astonishment. 'But they were planning to-…' 'IT HAPPENED!' Elise thundered indignantly. 'I was under the table and he tried to kill me!' 'Okay, okay, I understand, I do apologise for my rudeness,' said Alan contritely, raising his hands in apology. 'This other person, he killed Anders and set you free?' 'Uh… Yes…' Elise confirmed uncertainly. 'Just as the huge guy was going to strike, this other guy came down and fired a pistol. And then he threw a knife to me.' 'He saw you, then? Did you get a good look at him?' Alan inquired curiously. 'Why does it matter?' 'It could be very important. Please.' Elise bowed her head into her hands and rubbed her temples. 'I don't know,' she said quietly. 'I didn't get that good a look. He had a white mask on.' 'Ah,' Alan uttered stonily, and with this disclosure he fell silent and diverted his gaze to stare out the window. Elise gaped at him for a moment. It seemed like this new revelation was troubling him and she could sense that Alan knew more than he was letting on. 'I don't suppose you saw where this person went?' Alan enquired eventually. 'No.' The car turned off the road they had been on to a wider dual-carriageway road. Here streetlights intermittently illuminated the interior of the car as Elise chewed her lower lip and stared at Alan with a mixture of frustration and apprehension. As ever, Alan's poker face was unreadable, but she thought she could detect worry and possibly even fear. But she had worries of her own. 'Am I still your hostage?' Elise asked with some trepidation. 'Hmmm?' Alan appeared to stir from his reverie. 'You said I can't leave,' Elise reminded him bitterly. 'You're taking me somewhere else against my will. What are you going to do with me?' 'Well… No. You're not,' Alan sighed. 'As I said, we're going to the only place I know for sure we'll be safe. Then we can decide what to do.' 'But they're dead!' Elise exclaimed. 'I told you!' 'Makes no difference, I'm afraid,' Alan continued glumly. 'Those two clowns were going to try to ransom you off to somebody on the premise that you had something valuable that they're looking for. And they'd already given your name.' Elise frowned in bewilderment. 'Who were they going to ransom me to?' she asked confusedly. 'I don't know exactly. All I know is that it's someone well-connected with a lot of… well, certain kinds of people that you don't want to meet.' Alan fixed her with a grim stare. 'The kinds of people who own pig farms and chemical storage warehouses.' 'Well, what do they want from me?' 'I don't know that either. Information is my best guess,' Alan idly speculated. 'Documents, maybe?' Seeing the expression of protest on Elise's face Alan quickly added 'I know you don't have anything like that. Like I said earlier, it's an asinine case of mistaken identity. But that's what they're looking for. I think.' 'And it's worth kidnapping somebody over, is it?' Elise demanded as she glared at Alan. 'Honestly, I don't know what it's worth,' Alan responded impassively. 'What I do know is that if you had been carrying documents or whatever it is that those guys are after and they knew you had it, you would've thanked your lucky stars that the idiots back at the house who grabbed you first worked for me.' Silence reigned in the car for a moment as Elise took this in. 'So where do you fit in all of this, then?' 'Pardon?' 'Well, they want documents, or information, or whatever,' Elise observed. 'But in the end it wasn't them who kidnapped me. It was your men. So you're after something as well!' 'Maybe I just want money?' Alan suggested. 'Then you could have just gone through with the ransom to the other group!' Elise pointed out. Alan looked scandalised. 'I would never agree to that!' he snapped. 'What kind of a man do you think I am?' 'Oh, so you're not that sort of kidnapper, then?' Elise laughed. 'And you said you were going to let me go. I've never heard of a kidnapper giving up a ransom just because they didn't get the exact rich white girl that they set out to get!' In spite of himself, Alan smirked - seemingly with approval, but he said nothing. 'I think,' Elise continued slowly, 'I think you know exactly what it is that they're after. I think you want it too.' Elise held Alan's stony stare for a few seconds. Alan sighed. 'Look, I really am truly sorry about what's happened to you,' Alan stated with his head downcast, looking at his hands, 'Everything seems to be happening so fast. I'm ashamed to say this whole affair's been out of my control since the start.' He looked up at her. 'I didn't know that that oaf would try to kill you back there,' Alan continued, this time looking her square in the eye, 'I would never have permitted him to go down to bring you upstairs if I thought something like that might have happened. I'd have sooner shot him where he stood. Maybe I should have. But I promise you that I will not put you in harm's way like that again.' 'You could just let me out of the car now,' Elise suggested hopefully. The car had pulled up for a red light at an intersection on the edge of the Syndicate's new territory. Other road traffic whizzed past in front of them. Alan clicked his tongue. 'I told you, others would come looking for you,' Alan reminded her. 'Just because you don't have what they want doesn't mean that they wouldn't bury you in a ditch somewhere. Possibly - but not necessarily - after putting a bullet in the back of your head' 'So what am I supposed to do, then?' Elise exclaimed in dismay. 'I'm still your hostage, but it's all for my protection?' 'You're my guest, not my hostage,' Alan insisted. 'There's a difference.' 'Oh? What difference?' Alan dipped his head in exhaustion. 'Please, Miss Wakefield, I'm just trying to protect you.'. 'Are you?' Elise demanded. 'I only have your word for it that anybody else might come for me. Come to that, how can I be sure that anything you've said is true? You're lying, aren't you?! You're making all of this up just so that I will follow along compliantly without questioning anything and let you throw me into another cellar!' Alan looked up at her with a glint in his eye. 'You need proof? Okay.' Alan lifted his voice and addressed the car's internal service unit. 'Jacey, display review camera 11-, uh, 117. Please.' The female voice Elise had heard when the car had started up replied: 'Review Camera 117 connecting... Please stand by.' A panel above the car radio lit up and was showing a loading screen. After a couple of seconds a picture appeared showing a high-resolution CCTV view of the cellar workshop in which Elise had been imprisoned. Elise gaped in surprise at the picture. She did not remember seeing a camera in the room. 'Okay,' she said slowly, 'but what's this supposed to prove?' 'Hmmm,' Alan muttered to himself, 'well, nothing yet… Jacey, 116, please. Actually, 115, please, 115.' The view on the screen flicked to the entry hall of the house very briefly before moving to a camera showing the driveway they'd departed not ten minutes before. 'Aha!' Alan cried triumphantly, 'what have we here?' It was hard to make out in the dark, but another car had just pulled into the driveway. Elise watched as three men disembarked the car. The men were heavily built and casually dressed in jeans and sweaters. Each of them seemed to be carrying a firearm. 'Track them, please, Jacey,' Alan instructed, 'and I'd like audio when they enter the house too.' They watched from the driveway camera as the men entered the house. The screen switched to the entry hall camera feed. Two of the men went straight over to the cellar's glass-pane door and wrenched it open before descending. The man who stayed behind peeked into the lounge room curiously checking out the mess from Alan's fight with the dead man. '117, please, Jacey. And audio!' Alan reiterated. The view shifted back to the cellar camera. The two men had reached the bottom and were standing over the corpse of Elise's tormentor. One of the men spun around and kicked a bucket across the room, cursing in frustration. The other man reached for his phone, dialled, and then lifted it to his ear. 'Nope, sorry. They're dead. She's gone.' Elise was stunned. She looked from the screen to Alan and back to the screen. Alan merely grimaced without taking his eyes off the screen and nodded dejectedly to himself. The two men turned and went back up the stairs and the camera switched back to the entry hall. The man who had stayed upstairs was leaning against a wall as his colleagues came out of the cellar. 'Well?' The man who had made the phone call gave a quick shake of the head and continued out the door without breaking his stride. Shrugging, the leaning man followed him out just as the bucket-kicking man ascended from the cellar himself. He, too, started to follow his friends out, but stopped in the middle of the room and suddenly looked right up at the camera causing Elise to jolt upright in her seat. 'You smartarse pr*ck. We're gonna find you.' And with that he raised his pistol and the camera feed cut to static before switching to the driveway camera. 'We'll see about that,' Alan countered smugly. He glanced back to Elise and was taken aback when he saw her face. This turn of events had clearly affected her in a big way. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks as she sat transfixed watching the display as the men loaded up into the car and set off again. 'Ah,' Alan said, suddenly discomfited, 'er, Jacey, cut the feed, please, thank you.' As the feed cut to black, Elise broke into a sob and buried her face in her hands. Unsure of himself, Alan awkwardly reached across to pat her on the shoulder. 'Don't worry, Miss Wakefield, they will never find you,' Alan reassured her, 'you'll be safe with us, it's okay, it's alright.' 'Easy for you to say!' Elise sobbed, 'it's me they're after! I can't go home! I can't go anywhere! What about my family, my partner, my job? Oh god, Tyson. Who's looking after Tyson?!' 'Tyson?' Alan asked carefully, 'Who is Tyson?' 'My dog!' Elise shrieked, 'My partner's away on business and he's been at home by himself for three days! Nobody to feed him or give him water. All because of you! Oh my god, Tyson, we've got to go get him!' 'Are you crazy?' Alan jerked back in alarm, 'There will be people watching your house! Neither of us can go there!' 'He's my dog!' Elise yelled back hysterically, 'You want him to die of exposure? Let me out!' Elise scrabbled at the door and Alan leapt across to restrain her. 'Stop it! Stop it! Okay, okay, for god's sake, we'll get your damn dog!' Alan promised exasperatedly, 'I guess that can be a job for Millie. Gee, I hope she's home when we get back.' Elise slumped back and sobbed quietly in her seat, but she was beginning to calm down a little. 'Who's Millie?' Elise asked, sniffling. 'Erm,' Alan hesitated, struggling to think of a description that would do Emiliana Madaffari justice. 'She's, er, a friend of a friend,' he finished lamely, 'She'd be about your age. Actually, a bit younger, I think. She can be a bit of a, er, a livewire. If she gets too intense, be sure to tell her. God knows I have to. ' Alan shook his head. 'Anyway, we're not far off from arriving now. Three minutes, give or take.' They sat there in silence for a moment. Eventually Elise broke it. 'I… I'm sorry I called you a liar,' she said with a shaking voice. 'Miss Wakefield, you have nothing to apologise for,' Alan assured her, 'In your position, I'm sure I would have been suspicious too.' 'Elise,' Elise interjected. 'What?' 'Just Elise, please. 'Miss Wakefield' is weird, it makes you sound like my landlord.' Elise said, still sniffling but with a small chuckle. Alan stared blankly for a second before snickering awkwardly. 'Very well, Elise. Anyway, we're nearly there. We'll have dinner, and you can shower. I'm sure Millie has some clothes she can lend you. She'd be about your size, I think. And by hook or by crook we will get your dog.' 'Thanks,' Elise managed a weak smile for a second before she broke down again, 'But this is so insane, I can't believe this is all happening. How am I going to get my life back? I… I'm scared. I don't want to say it, but I am, I'm scared!' Alan was at a loss for words. Truth be told, he had never had the most sensitive people skills, and this one was well beyond him. And what could he even say? The people hunting her were animals. She was right to be scared. 'There, there…' he soothed pathetically, 'We'll… We'll work something out. In the meantime, you'll be safe where we're going. That much is true.' Silence reigned in the car for another moment once again broken only by Elise's sniffling. 'Sorry about your car seat, Alan…' Elise murmured sheepishly. 'What? What on earth for?' Alan asked with a frown. Elise blinked at him with incredulity. The unfortunate odour of her accident was unmistakeable in the car, but Alan's baffled expression betrayed no sign that he'd noticed it. Either he was a fantastic actor and set on playing the gentleman or he was being intensely obtuse. Maybe that hit to the head had done more damage than they'd realised, Elise pondered. 'I, uh, well, uh,' Elise stammered in confusion, 'You remember I said that I hadn't been untied to… go to the bathroom since you, well… kidnapped me. Well-…' 'Oh, that,' Alan interrupted, waving a hand dismissively, 'please don't worry about it. The seat will dry. The important thing is that you're safe.' 'Yes, but I didn't just-…' 'The rain probably rinsed it all out anyway,' Alan blundered on obliviously, 'it's just a bit of… water at the end of the day, no harm done.' 'Oh? Er, alright, then?' Elise ventured in bewilderment, searching Alan's expression for any hint of discreet understanding and finding only earnest ignorance. The car turned onto a narrow cobbled road and began to slow. This was an older, more affluent area, quite far removed from the hustle and bustle of the busy city centre that Elise called home. She peeked out curiously into the darkness. Facing each other from opposite sides of the lane, a hedge and a two-metre high sandstone wall completely blocked her view of the homes on either side. Further ahead she glimpsed the silhouettes of behemoth gothic mansions lurking in the distance, shrouded in shadow. 'We're here,' Alan announced woodenly as the car slowed up alongside the hedge and proceeded through a brass and steel gate that had opened automatically. As the car's headlights flashed over a bronze plaque adorning the stonework bestride the gate, Elise just had time to make out the name: 'Halatine Hill'. What lay beyond caused Elise's jaw to drop. They had been admitted to what looked like an old-fashioned country estate. A very large oak tree occupied the heart of a lush, manicured lawn which rolled away before them down to a tall red-brick Victorian manor which awaited them at the end of a rhododendron-lined driveway. Light poured out of large picture windows on the ground floor into trapezoids splayed across the grass around the house. Partly illuminated at the foot of the manor's front steps was a rose garden with a fountain featuring a stone statue of Hermes, naked except for a cloak and brandishing his famous kerykeion. 'What is this place?' Elise asked breathlessly. 'Home.' Alan answered simply. Elise gaped at him. 'Well, I guess that does seem to rule out any money motivations,' Elise mused teasingly. Alan shot her a look. 'This is a friend's place, not mine. I just live here. For the time being, anyway.' 'A friend?' Elise asked, 'This Millie girl?' 'Millie? Hah! No,' Alan sneered, 'but she does act as if she owns the place so watch out. Millie's… Millie. You'll see.' Elise wasn't sure what to make of that comment. But she pressed on. 'So who is the lucky owner, then?' Alan sighed, 'A gentleman named Roman Laquiere. We're… good friends. And since you're interested, he's also the one who had the bright idea of plucking a certain woman off a certain street not all that long ago.' The car pulled up to the side of the manor and parked itself neatly next to a gravel path that meandered towards the front of the house. 'You have reached your destination,' Jacey announced, 'Good evening, Master Sanders, Mistress Wakefield.' 'Wait, you mean-…' 'Let's go,' Alan said firmly. As Elise disembarked the vehicle she experienced the confronting sensation of suction as she peeled her bottom away from the chair. The seat was obviously quite badly soiled, Elise noted guiltily. She certainly wouldn't be able to hide that. But Alan was already making his way down the gravel path. It passed through a white wooden arbour gate and continued alongside the house underneath a pergola laced with vines and lilacs up to the front steps. Alan pushed the arbour gate open and turned back to give Elise a quizzical look. The sight of Alan holding the gate open for her made Elise hesitate. Was she really doing this? Voluntarily following her own captor into his lair? She'd heard of hostages experiencing Stockholm Syndrome before, but this wasn't like that. She'd come this far because she'd had no choice, but it didn't seem like it was Alan who was keeping her prisoner anymore. Nevertheless Elise dithered, half-expecting Alan would come over and force her up the path to the house to put her in his power again. But he just stood waiting at the gate watching her sadly. 'Why are you doing this?' she demanded tearing up again, 'I'm no use to you. You could have left me to those gangsters back there, but you didn't. You brought me here. Why?' Alan shrugged. 'You're involved now because of me. I feel responsible. You deserve better.' Elise stood there absorbing his words, turning them over in her head, trying to find the lie contained within. 'Come on, Elise. Let's go inside?' Alan suggested meekly. Well, she was here now. What else was there to do? Still, she felt like a ghost as she swept past Alan up the path towards the house. Alea iacta est. Chapter 4: Livewire The heavy oaken front door featured an impressive engraving of a lion fighting a bear amidst a storm. The design looked somewhat Eastern. Out of place among the rest of the manor's conservative architecture, Elise thought to herself as she waited for Alan to open the door for her. Just as Alan came up the steps, however, a dog started barking from inside. 'Beanie!' scolded a female voice from inside the house somewhere, 'Just a minute, Al!' Elise heard some footsteps approaching the door and feeling a little nervous she stepped behind Alan. The door unlocked and was pulled back bathing Alan and Elise in light and permitting a young German Shepherd to leap out the door and start jumping up at Alan. 'Get off me, you stupid mutt!' Alan exclaimed in annoyance, pushing the dogs waving front paws away from his hips. A figure moved into the doorway silhouetted by the light behind. 'Sorry about Beanie, Al' the shadow said with a giggle. 'I was going to take him for a walk this afternoon, but I ended up bingeing on Netflix instead.' Elise's eyes finally adapted to the light and took in the figure at the door. The pyjama-clad girl standing over the threshold was breathtakingly pretty. She had light brown hair that hung in a braid to just below her shoulders and she was a little shorter than Elise, but with a very youthful face - young enough to be in her mid-teens. By contrast, her full figure suggested late-teens and her bronzed skin hinted that she didn't spend a lot of time in classrooms. Her mere presence had made Elise feel very self-conscious. The dog that had been pouncing up at Alan shifted its focus to Elise now, and to her embarrassment it started sniffing around her butt where much of her mess had coalesced back into a ball in the seat of her pants. The dog's attention drew the girl's gaze too. 'But who's this, Al? You've brought a new friend home for Beanie!' she said beaming. The girl stepped out from the door, twirling a dog leash in her hands with her eyes locked on the trapped Elise. 'Uh, yes,' Alan mumbled clumsily, 'Millie this is Elise. Elise, Millie.' 'Wowee, Al! I didn't know you had it in you!' Millie laughed causing Alan to go red, much to Elise's shock. 'How did you two meet?' Millie enquired innocently, 'Ooh, I bet it was somewhere romantic!' 'Uh,' Alan said with an awkward glance at Elise's stony-faced expression, 'not exactly. She's had a bit of a rough time, actually, Millie. I wonder if you could-…' Millie came over and hugged Elise in welcome. 'Hi, Elise, my name's Millie! It's a pleasure to-' Millie sniffed and wrinkled her nose, 'Ugh, what on earth is that smell?' 'I can't smell anything.' Alan remarked, 'But then again, I wouldn't, would I?' he added bitterly. 'I think somebody must have stepped in one of Beanie's presents… Or-…' Millie started. Suddenly she became very aware of Elise's tomato red cheeks and put two and two together. 'Oh! Oh my gosh.' Millie exclaimed in surprise, clasping her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. 'What?' said Alan looking from the ashen-faced Elise to Millie, bewildered. Millie rounded on Alan in a rage. 'She's not a friend of yours at all, is she?' Millie demanded accusingly. 'Who is she? What have you done to her?' 'Wha… I… But…' Alan blithered in confusion. 'You went through with that idiot scheme of Roman's, didn't you? Jesus Christ, Alan.' Millie snarled, 'What the hell were you thinking? You don't care what happens to people like her, do you? The ends justify the means, yeah?' 'I… I'm trying to help her!' Alan protested, 'It was all a stupid mistake. Anyway, she's here now, so she's safe.' '"Safe"?!' Millie raged, incensed, 'What about from you? You've traumatised her!' 'What do you mean?' She's alright, isn't she? What's wrong with her?' 'You're… You're going to make me say it?' Millie was flabbergasted. 'You pig!' 'M-Millie…' Elise finally managed in a very small voice. Millie turned to her and enveloped her in a tight embrace. 'It's okay, babe,' Millie said soothingly, glowering at Alan over Elise's shoulder, 'I don't hold it against you. I know it wasn't your fault.' 'Millie,' Alan growled through gritted teeth, 'You don't understand. It wasn't like that.' 'No?' Millie asked incredulously, 'You expect me to believe that?' 'It's… It's true, M-Millie…' Elise offered timidly. She pulled away from Millie. 'Alan… Alan helped me when I needed it the most,' she affirmed miserably, 'If it weren't for him I'd be d-dead.' Millie bit her lower lip, and her glittering golden eyes flicked piercingly between Alan and Elise. 'Well, okay, maybe I've misread things,' Millie acknowledged eventually, 'But still… Bringing her here like this…' Millie shook her head. 'If you ever humiliate somebody like this in front of me again, I'll cut you in half, Al.' 'Humiliate?' Alan threw up his hands in dismay, 'I don't know what you mean, I certainly didn't mean to do that.' 'Yes, but, obviously she's-…' Millie stopped herself when she saw pleading tears in Elise's expression. Wait. He doesn't know, does he? 'You know what? Forget I said anything, Al,' Millie said cheerfully, reverting back to her chipper innocence with frightening speed. 'You don't mind taking Beanie for a walk around the garden do you? Me and Leasey have girl things to talk about.' 'Wha- Wait, but-…' 'Thanks, sweetie,' Millie interrupted, pushing the dog leash into his hands and grabbing Elise by the arm. 'Come on, babe,' Millie whispered in Elise ear, 'Before he catches on.' Millie dragged Elise into the house, insolently shutting the door on a miffed Alan as he stood outside the door holding the leash limply while the excited puppy bounced around him in excitement. 'Sorry about that, Elise' Millie said regretfully, 'I thought Alan was being a bell-end, but he lost his sense of smell when he was a kid. I guess I assumed he'd noticed anyway…' Elise blinked at this revelation. 'Oh,' she said in surprise, 'That's awful. I can't imagine. Um,' Elise added with a blush. 'Is it… really obvious?' 'It's pretty hard to miss, babe,' Millie smiled at her empathetically. 'But accidents happen. Believe me, I know. It's our secret.' The lobby they had entered had several doors leading off to other parts of the house. Marble busts of men from different periods of history stared down imperiously from pedestals situated around the lobby. A wide sweeping marble staircase dominated the room and it was up these steps that Millie dragged Elise up to a dimly lit landing with thick burgundy carpet. 'You'd be a Size 8 like me, I reckon?' Millie enquired conversationally. 'Lucky you! Your boobs are a little bigger than mine, but I reckon we can find you some stuff to tide you over til tomorrow.' Elise was having a bit of a hard time keeping up. While Millie's warm friendliness was hugely comforting, her innate self-confidence and unabashed outspokenness were a little bit jarring. Millie led Elise off the landing and down a corridor. The room at the end turned out to be a very large bedroom - Millie's. The room was a total disaster zone: clothes, books, and papers flung all over the floor, a desk piled up with pictures of friends and parties, plates and glasses, and even a depleted toilet paper roll. Just inside the door a couple of beanbags sat in front of a large LED TV which displayed the pause menu of a game Millie had been playing on her Playstation. A King Size Bed piled with cushions sat unmade at the far side of the room adjacent to the window. Mirrors lined the wall on the other side of the room, each one concealing a cupboard behind it. One of them stood ajar and Elise could see a number of dresses and frocks on hangers inside. Millie strode over to one of the mirrors and slid it aside. 'Hmmm,' she pursed her lips as she appraised the contents of a shelf, 'You know what? I think these would look cute on you!' She produced a light grey pair of button-up pyjamas patterned with sheep and retrieved a matching pair of slippers from underneath. Elise couldn't help but notice the pyjamas looked a little low cut for her tastes, but she took them gratefully. 'The ensuite's down there,' Millie said, indicating a half-open sliding door down next to her bed, 'You take as much time in there as you want. I'll go grab some stuff from the kitchen and then we can veg on the beanbags. Well, go on!' Millie gave Elise a playful spank on the butt. 'Uh, what about my clothes?' Elise pointed out. 'Oh, just dump them in the laundry basket in the ensuite. I've got to do a load, I'll take it down later,' Millie said casually. Seeing Elise's expression, she continued 'Babe, it doesn't bother me. Really. Every girl has the occasional accident. For some of us it's a bit more than occasional, too.' She added with a laugh. The stunned expression on Elise's face prompted a few more giggles from Millie. 'Feel free to use my shampoo and stuff in there. But if you touch my straightener, you're dead meat. Kinda joking, but not really. Anyway! I'll be watching my show over there if you need me!' And with that, Millie waltzed across the room and planted herself on one of the bean bags before picking up her controller and switching over to Netflix. Elise just stood there overwhelmed. Millie tended to have that effect on people. Elise must have been five years older than Millie, but she felt a kinship with the younger girl as if she'd known her for years. And she found herself thinking that Millie was more than a little attractive. Eventually she waddled into the ensuite for her long awaited shower. As her skirt fell to the tiled floor, she twisted to look over her shoulder in the mirror at the load in her tights. Even after all she'd been through, it looked about the size of a grapefruit. No wonder Millie had noticed it instantly. In a way it felt strange as she rolled down her tights and threw them to one side. She'd gotten used to the feeling of the load in her underwear, and although humiliating, the experience had provided her with one of the most intriguing sensations of her life. She half-wondered if she might do it again privately one day, but with a pang of self-flagellating shame she shook her head to clear the impure thought. She tipped out the load into the toilet and was relieved to see that it all came out stuck together, leaving nothing behind on her lacey panties except an embarrassing brown stain in the seat. She hoped that would come out in the wash. As she jumped into the shower, she reflected on the crazy few days that had been. Quite quickly she realised how exhausted she was. She finished her shower and donned her pyjamas which turned out to be very revealing around her cleavage. But she was too tired to care. She staggered out of the room and flopped down onto Millie's bed, and she was asleep in mere seconds. To be continued...