Chapter 6 - Morning’s Gloom

The night stretched on like an unwelcome second punishment—slow and suffocating. Elara tossed and turned in her crib, the soft mattress rustling beneath her every time she shifted, the whispering lullaby of the enchanted mobile above her doing little to lull her into anything resembling rest. The room remained cloaked in low magical twilight, a dull glow from the glowstones embedded in the walls keeping shadows at bay but offering no comfort. And beneath it all, around her hips and thighs, was the persistent, humiliating reminder of what she had done—and what she was meant to do again.

Her diaper had cooled sometime in the night, and the thick padding was now swollen, clammy, and dense against her skin. It clung to her with a soft, damp weight, a physical echo of her shame that pulsed every time she moved. Every shift of her hips. Every roll to her side. There was no escaping it. Her body had obeyed Selena’s command, her bladder giving way in a moment of desperation and panic, and now she was forced to lie in the evidence of her accident until someone deemed her worthy of a change. It was degrading. And there was nothing she could do about it.

Time blurred. Minutes dragged into hours. She couldn’t be sure how long she had been awake—it could’ve been dawn, it could’ve been deep in the night—but sleep never came. Just the constant, muffled crinkle of her onesie, the rhythmic spin of the glowing dragons above her, and the soft breaths of Quinn across the room, occasionally broken by a faint sniffle or mumble in her sleep. Elara’s limbs ached with fatigue, her thoughts looping endlessly in her skull. The injustice. The helplessness. The growing, gnawing reality that no one was coming for her unless they wanted to. She wasn’t just confined—she was forgotten. A baby left to wait for her caregiver’s convenience.

At some point, early morning, she guessed—her body betrayed her again.

It started as a cramp. Subtle, but manageable. She curled onto her side, hoping the motion would pass. But then it returned, deeper this time, twisting through her abdomen like a coiled rope tightening. Elara’s eyes snapped open. No. No, no, no…

Her body sent its next warning—a low, undeniable pressure blooming beneath her navel and radiating downward. She clenched, legs pressing together beneath the thick bulk of the onesie, one arm wrapping around her midsection like she could physically hold the pressure inside through sheer force of will.

She wouldn’t, she couldn’t, not that, anything but that.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. “Just hold it a little longer. She’ll come soon. Someone will come…”

Her knees drew up to her chest, her breathing shallow. The pressure ebbed, but only slightly, like a wave retreating before the inevitable crash. Every second stretched, every shift of her weight threatening to bring it back tenfold. Her body ached for release. But her mind screamed against it. That was a line she wasn’t ready to cross yet.

Elara shifted again, the onesie’s thick fabric stretching around her hips. She reached behind her instinctively, fingers scrabbling at the zipper. Still sealed and immovable. She grunted, twisting in place, trying to find some trick, some latch, some hidden enchantment she might have missed. Nothing. The sleeper fit her snugly, locking away her dignity with its soft pastel charm and enchanted fireflies dancing along the seams.

Desperate, she reached down toward the snaps along the crotch, fingers fumbling beneath the stretch of the fabric, trying to feel for any kind of opening. But the garment hugged tightly and resisted; the inner seams sewn into place by magic were far more patient than her panic. She couldn’t even touch the tapes of her diaper, let alone remove them. Every attempt just brought more frustration, more dawning horror at the realization of her complete helplessness.

She wasn’t in control, not even of her basic needs.

A soft whimper slipped past her lips. She buried her face in the crook of her elbow, trying to stifle the panic blooming in her chest. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to need help. But that was exactly what they were teaching her: that she would beg, and that she would fail.

And when her stomach cramped again—sharp and demanding—Elara knew, with sickening certainty, that it was only a matter of time. She lay back, legs drawn in, arms shaking, her diaper already wet, her pride worn paper-thin, and waited, hoping.

The minutes stretched into agony. Elara’s body was locked in a constant battle—mind clenched against muscle, muscle clenched against time. Her knees still pulled up to her chest, her face pressed into her pillow, every breath shallow and shaking. The pressure was relentless, coiling tighter with each passing moment, her stomach twisting like a knot being cinched by invisible hands. Sweat beaded at her temples despite the room’s cool, enchanted air. She was running out of strength, and she knew it. But still she held on. Because if she let go—if she surrendered—there would be no coming back from it. Not in her eyes.

She didn’t hear the door open, didn’t notice the soft, measured steps until they were nearly beside her crib.

“Good morning, baby girl,” came Selena’s voice, syrup-sweet and far too cheerful for the gravity in Elara’s world. “Did we have a rough night?”

Elara’s breath caught. She turned her head, eyes wide, pupils wide with effort and panic. Selena stood just beyond the bars, dressed immaculately in her uniform—soft red robes trimmed in silver, her golden hair tied back with a ribbon the same color as Elara’s onesie. In the morning light, the woman seemed to glow.

Selena’s eyes swept over her slowly, knowingly. She didn’t need to ask what was wrong.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, her voice soft with feigned sympathy. “You’re trying so hard, aren’t you?”

Elara didn’t respond; she couldn’t. Her voice was buried somewhere beneath clenched teeth and trembling limbs.

“That won’t do,” Selena murmured, stepping closer. Her hand lifted into the air, fingers curling, and a faint pulse of green light shimmered across her palm. Elara’s eyes flicked to Selena’s fingers, and she saw it.

A ring.

Set into the center of Selena’s right hand was a large, polished emerald, glinting with enchanted veins of glowing script too small to read. The gemstone pulsed once, soft and warm, and Elara felt it immediately.

A heat bloomed in her stomach.

Soft at first, like the gentle radiance of sunlight pushing through a cloud bank. Then it deepened, spreading, curling inward like a warm hand pressing against her from the inside. Her eyes widened. “W-wait—what are you—?”

“Shhh,” Selena cooed, watching her with unblinking focus. “No need to be afraid, baby. Mommy knows just how to help you relieve that little problem.”

Elara shook her head, panic rushing back in a tide. “No—no, wait—don’t—”

But it was already happening.

Her body shifted, not under her will, but beneath Selena’s. The warmth in her belly grew suddenly hot, her muscles slackening without warning. Her legs jerked, a soft whimper breaking from her lips as her control slipped, not slowly, but all at once. Her body obeyed the command she hadn’t given, and before she could so much as reach for the rails, the pressure gave way.

Her body let go—not with her permission, but in spite of it. Her abdomen fluttered with an involuntary spasm, and the pressure that had haunted her all night broke like a dam. Elara whimpered, her face contorting in a mix of horror and helpless relief as she felt her bowels empty into the thick padding of her diaper. The sensation was like nothing she’d ever imagined—hot, thick, spreading slowly beneath her, squishing outward with every shallow breath and twitch of her hips. The onesie did nothing to hide the act—it held it close, cradled it against her skin. There was no escape, no hiding. Just the awful, all-consuming awareness of what she was doing… and what she now was.

The mess settled against her bottom, sticky and warm, the smell rising almost immediately, faint at first, then unmistakable. It clung to her, seeped into the soft cotton of the onesie, wrapping her in the evidence of her failure. Her legs trembled. Her stomach churned. She wanted to scream, to cry, to disappear—but her voice had vanished into the pillow, lost in the shallow, humiliated gasps of a girl who had just soiled herself in front of a smiling, patient woman who called herself Mommy.

Across the room, the door creaked open again.

Elara barely registered it at first. She was too lost in the mortifying heat that still clung to her body, her mind reeling from the shock of what she’d done. But then a second voice floated through the haze—deep, warm, with a paternal lilt.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Elara twisted her head just enough to see through the crib bars. Quinn’s CG had entered—tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the same stylized uniform as Selena but with a silver pendant hanging from his neck. His name was… Daniel? No—Darian. Yes. That was what Quinn had said last night. He had a kind face. Strong hands. And as he approached Quinn’s crib, his voice was so casual, so full of delight, it made Elara’s shame ache even deeper.

“Well, now… look at that,” Darian said, crouching beside Quinn’s crib. “Someone had a nice, soggy night.”

Quinn groaned, hiding her face in the crook of her arm.

“You did so well, sweet pea,” Darian cooed, brushing a strand of hair from Quinn’s flushed face. “Such a good girl, using her diapers like she’s supposed to.”

Elara blinked, stunned. He was praising her.

Quinn didn’t answer, but Elara could see the pink in her cheeks deepen. She squirmed slightly in her crib, her onesie bulging faintly at the waistline—wet, as Darian had said, though not messy like Elara’s. Still, the shame was there. Mutual. Elara could see it in the way Quinn’s eyes refused to meet his.

But Darian didn’t shame her. He praised her. Rewarding her like a toddler who had taken her first step.

And in her crib, Elara still lay in her mess, her diaper warm and bloated beneath her, the onesie tugging tighter now that her bottom was no longer flat. Her fingers gripped the mattress, and her eyes welled up again—not just from embarrassment, but from the creeping realization that this was what her life had become.

Elara barely moved when Selena leaned over her crib, her onesie bulging slightly, the sticky warmth beneath it now clammy and suffocating. She kept her face turned toward the bars, cheeks burning, eyes dull with exhaustion and something deeper—something brittle. Shame had sunk into her bones, thick and quiet.

“Time for a change, stinky girl,” Selena said sweetly, the same sing-song tone one might use on a toddler after a nap. The railings of the crib shimmered and descended at her touch, revealing Elara to the morning in full—her swollen diaper squishing audibly as she sat up, forced to swing her legs over the side like she wasn’t coated in her mess. Selena didn’t hesitate. She lifted Elara effortlessly, the girl too tired to resist, and carried her to the changing table.

Selena laid her down gently, unzipping the lavender onesie with a flick of her fingers. Elara’s hands clenched into fists as the air hit her diaper, as it sagged and peeled away from her body with a squelch. Her knees were lifted without comment. Her bottom was wiped with care. Cream spread in practiced motions. A new diaper—fresh, thick, and white with blue moons—slid beneath her and was taped up with a final pat that sent a shiver down her spine.

“There,” Selena said, pulling the onesie back into place, smoothing the fabric over the fresh padding. “Doesn’t that feel better, baby girl?”

Elara didn’t answer. But her eyes smoldered.

Across the room, Quinn was undergoing the same treatment. Darian was far gentler in tone but no less thorough, wiping and rediapering the girl with soft encouragement and praise. Quinn looked half-dead from embarrassment but accepted it without protest. When her onesie was zipped up again, she kept her head down, shoulders hunched.

Once both girls were clean, the two caregivers led them into the hallway side by side, each girl’s hand held firmly but gently. Still in their onesies, the soft crinkle of padding beneath each step audible in the quiet corridor, they were paraded toward breakfast with the dignity of preschoolers heading to circle time.

And the hallway—gods, the hallway—was full.

Dozens of students milled about, older ones in proper uniforms, chatting and laughing with books under their arms. But interspersed among them were others like Elara and Quinn—babied, unmistakably so. Most wore onesies or shortalls, pacifiers clipped to their collars or bottles in hand. Their diapers, while slimmer and less cartoonish, were still diapers. Some looked resigned. Others… content. A few even walked hand-in-hand with their caregivers, chatting softly in hushed, humiliated tones.

Elara stared, eyes wide. It wasn’t just the first years. Whatever this was—this program, this breaking—it extended beyond initiation. The rules didn’t stop after orientation. They just… shifted.

They reached the dining hall, its grand domed ceiling glittering with softly swirling starlight, and were led not to the Ruby House tables but to a separate nook near the side wall—low seating, high chairs, padded benches with belts and trays. Elara balked. “You can’t be serious.”

Selena only hummed as she lifted Elara into the seat and buckled her in, lifting Elara’s tray into place before gently strapping her waist against the seat.

Quinn was seated beside her, her expression vacant.

Food appeared on the students' trays around them—steaming bread, glazed meats, fruit-stuffed pastries, and delicate cheeses, the aromas swirling like torment in the air. Selena took her seat across from Elara with a smile, lifting a fork to her plate—thick, buttered toast and perfectly scrambled eggs, steam still rising.

Elara’s mouth watered.

And then she saw her breakfast, a bottle.

Filled with a pale, off-white formula that glugged softly as Selena tipped it into her hand.

Elara balked at the idea of the bottle, motioning to another plate from the first year. “A bottle? Where’s my plate?” she asked.

“Solid food?” Selena said with mock surprise. “Oh no, baby girl. Not yet. Your tummy’s too sensitive.”

She pressed the bottle into Elara’s hands.

Elara stared at it, fury simmering. “This is insane. You can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious,” Selena said, biting delicately into her toast. “Now open up, or do I need to feed you myself?”

Elara’s fingers tightened around the bottle. “I’m not a baby.”

Selena didn’t even blink. She chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and dabbed the corner of her lips with a linen napkin. “And yet,” she said calmly, “you wet and pooped your diaper. That doesn’t seem like a big girl thing to do now, does it?”

The words landed like a slap. The first few first-years at the table went silent. Across the dining hall, other eyes were already watching, students older and taller and smug with the memory of their first weeks, some seated at tables with actual silverware, others still crinkling softly in their chairs but with pacifiers clipped to their robes instead of bibs. Elara’s stomach twisted—not from hunger this time, but from the sting of exposure.

“I didn’t mean to,” she hissed, the words cutting low, her voice tight with shame. “You made me.”

Selena was already standing.

Elara tried to recoil, but she had nowhere to go. The highchair’s strap held her snug around the waist, and before she could so much as lift her arms in protest, Selena had unfastened it and lifted her body from the seat. The motion was swift, fluid, like a mother retrieving a fussy toddler who had simply forgotten their place. Elara gasped as she found herself cradled tightly against Selena’s chest.

The room pulsed with muffled laughter and scattered whispers.

“Let me go!” Elara said, squirming, her cheeks blazing, her hands pressing uselessly against Selena’s shoulder.

“Oh, baby,” Selena cooed, settling down on a padded bench nearby and adjusting Elara until she was tucked against her, head tilted back, arms pinned gently. “You’re clearly just too little to feed yourself this morning. That’s okay. Mommy knows what’s best.”

The bottle appeared in her peripheral vision again, the nipple glistening slightly. Elara tried to turn her head, but Selena’s hand caught her cheek and guided it firmly, patiently. “Open up, sweetie.”

“I—”

The nipple pressed between her lips.

Her instincts fought, but her body betrayed her. The moment the teat entered her mouth, her tongue reflexively curled, her lips closed around it, and her throat accepted the warm, slightly sweet liquid that trickled in. It wasn’t unpleasant. That made it worse. It was faintly vanilla-flavored, with a creamy consistency that masked something just slightly off—an aftertaste that was bitter and unfamiliar, but not enough to stop the slow pull of her mouth.

“That’s it,” Selena praised softly, stroking Elara’s hair as she continued nursing. “Such a good girl. See? Doesn’t that feel better?”

Elara whimpered but kept drinking. She didn’t want to, but her body was exhausted. Her hunger, humiliating as it was, took over.

Minutes passed. The bottle emptied slowly. Elara’s cheeks burned hotter with each swallow, her eyes locked on a knot in the far wall so that she wouldn’t have to look at anyone. And when the final dregs of formula passed her lips and the bottle was pulled away with a soft pop, she lay there in Selena’s arms, dazed, sore, and full.

Then her stomach grumbled.

It twisted with a slow, ominous churn that spoke of more than digestion. Elara blinked, her lips parting, confusion blooming into something close to dread. She shifted and felt the slow, building pressure in her abdomen like a coil winding.

Selena giggled.

“Oh, baby,” she said brightly, brushing her knuckles across Elara’s cheek. “I forgot to mention that Mommy added a little something to your bottle this morning.”

Elara froze.

“A little laxative,” Selena continued, far too cheerfully. “Just to make sure you don’t have any more… potty troubles today. Isn’t that thoughtful?”

Elara stared up at her, eyes wide with dawning horror. Every part of her was frozen as the awful realization took root and bloomed with helpless clarity.