Premium Story #2: How Long Can You Hold It? (Part I: A Conspiracy of Curses)

Premium Story #2: How Long Can You Hold It? (Part I: A Conspiracy of Curses) (Content Tags: Supernatural/magical elements and setting, public humiliation, diapers, messing, revenge) Sweat beaded at his forehead, his breath was ragged and unsteady, and his body felt tense. Try as he might, there was no running from what was about to happen; there would be no stopping this train once it started chugging along. It was a loaf not yet pinched, trapped in the twilight zone between his bowels and the diaper below; a straggler that clung midway, parsed between his buttcheeks, like a prairie dog popping out of the ground. He was desperate to keep the steamer from dropping, but it felt as though the situation was already too far gone to salvage. Any major movement would shake things loose, would break the posture that allowed him to keep the log so precariously in place. It'd be borderline impossible to make his way to a toilet, without causing enough disruption to result in failure. So what was he supposed to do? Just awkwardly stand in place for the rest of his life? To hope that he could somehow retract the mushy mass that sought a daring escape? It felt inevitable, and if that was the case, then the life-changing consequence would also be inevitable. All he could do was to remain in this limbo, free from consciously making any choice that would result in his own desecration. No prayer would aid him, no savior waited in the wings. The array would be completed, just as he'd witnessed happened to the others, and then his sense of self would be forever altered. How had it come to this? Where something as simple as an errant BM could cause such massive destruction? It'd started a week before, when he and his fellow victims had taken it upon themselves to haze the new guy. Or rather, the new pipsqueak. That has been the biggest point of contention at the time, whenever the advanced academy had seen its first prodigy. The school was supposed to be a place of higher learning, for young adults who were skilled enough to continue their studies of the arcane, and it was the first time in the academy's history that they'd let in someone so... diminutive. Vim Cloverleaf was the boy's name, and he looked puny as though he should be rubbing elbows with the sticky-handed whelps of the elementary halls; even in his pronounced youth, he'd shown enough wit and natural talent to skip all the away ahead to where the typical age was far ahead of what he could boast. He was a tiny thing, with wispy blond hair and amethyst eyes, and no part of him felt grand enough to evoke respect. The professors loved him, because he was such a knowledgeable and polite little thing, but the other students were far less smitten. Treyfus Dustool, an arrogant legacy admission, was the first to bully the little brat. It would start with harmless enough words, taunts really, but Treyfus wouldn't be satisfied with such minimalism; it was an affront to the young man's pride, for a no-name runt to be sharing the same prestige as someone from a family of fame. Several others would follow suit, doing what they must have felt would soothe their ego, and secondarily, what they hoped would push the boy to flee with his tail between his legs. Nobody felt such behavior was unwarranted, because nobody felt as though Vim should be allowed to remain rubbing elbows with those so much grander than him, those with so much more life experience. This would escalate all the way to the 'incident' that triggered the rebuttal. The incident in question was a step too far; it was a conspiracy of three, where the goal was to push Vim right over the edge. It was expected to shame him deeply enough, to cause a deep enough cut, that he never returned. The trio was comprised of Treyfus, Gaol, and Drimlit. Three top students who had been summarily shown up by a lad who likely still read comic books and soaked his sheets. The nature of curses was a core component of arcane studies in the academy; while spells were meant to be quick and temporary, a curse was something that was intended to be meticulous and lengthy. Curses undoubtedly contained far more power than any spell, and their scope was unilaterally offensive in nature; however, they were also typically far more complex to learn and difficult to cast. That was why it would take three skilled students to lay a single curse on one small brat. Now, it wasn't something meant to hurt him, at least not in a traditional way. It was a curse meant to humiliate him, to upset him enough to get rid of him. It felt like a perfectly fitting fate to lay upon the lad, a proper sendoff back to the nursery school they assumed he'd crawled out of. It would take place in the alchemy lab, while Vim was busy showing off his knowledge of ingredient use-cases to Professor Tymewissle. The three components of the curse were as follows: First, Gaol would use a transmogrifying curse to remotely change Vim's underpants into a thick nappy that couldn't be removed by his own hands. Second, Treyfus would launch a biological curse that would force an immediate evacuation of the bowels, as well as provoking the bowels to more frequently need emptying. And then third, Drimlit would cast a curse of the mind, to cause an erasure of one particular line of knowledge: pottytraining. Each one of these curses were considered to be advanced, regardless of the immature nature of their being. While their usage was petty and ill-conceived, that didn't take away from the fact that their concoction and execution displayed a true mastery over the coursework they'd long invested themselves in; the same may not be true if they were mere spells, since then they would have been infirm, impotent, and short-lived, but as curses? They were fine specimens as curses. Any one of these curses would have been devastating on their own; any one of them might have been enough to scare Vim off from 'big boy college' for good, but with all three firing subsequently, seemingly untraceable in origin, they hoped to completely destroy him and his credibility. The first curse would pop off, a silent missile of malice in the classroom, and it would aim itself directly at Vim's midsection; the underpants underneath his robe would instantly begin to transform themselves, morphing in terms of material, and expanding outward with newfound bulk. The fly would fade, replaced by taut tapes that held a magical lock to keep clasped against the boy's intervention; the thin cotton bulked up by several inches all around, becoming a crinkly, rustling amalgam of plastic and cloth, that hugged against his backside and groin; the elastic waistband and legbands would become frilled as they transitioned into leak-guards. The robe had already been short, a style favored generally by the elementary students who were around Vim's size, as they were typically less coordinated in traversing around with the longer cloaks that seniority brought, and while Vim's undergarments had never become visible except for perhaps an unfortunate upskirt moment during levitation or broomstick practice, the new nature of his puffy 'underwear' could not so easily hide. The transition was too quick for Vim to fully notice; the subtlety of the curse's impact keeping him from shifting his focus from his classroom display to the peculiar girth of the garment between his legs. For those angled to see the thick shock of white drifting into view, they were left to ponder what the hell the lad had on. Before any of the other young adults in the room could come to a conclusion, the second curse was already in motion. Projected from a hidden glyph that Treyfus had etched onto a goblin bone, the remotely detonated affliction would strike like a biological weapon that was invisible to the naked eye. Biological curses were typically of a destructive nature, used as weapons of battle to sicken or atrophy the opponent's body, and while this one's purpose was hardly designed for combat, it would be just as potent. This second curse was the true climax of the trifold attack; the diaper was the rising action, and the erasure of pottytraining would be the denouement, but the public accident itself, that would be the primary action that burned itself into everyone's memory, especially Vim. The affliction fired into the boy's body like a toxic blow-dart, and much like a poison, it spread rapidly from its invisible impact point toward the targeted area of effect. It wouldn't result in a simple irritation of the bowels, where something slipped unceremoniously out into the welcoming padding, but it would force an evacuation that was both violent and resolute. Within seconds of the glyph glowing faintly in Treyfus' lap, obscured underneath his desk, the effects were taking place. Vim's haughty explanation of his alchemical process came to a sudden halt, just for a brief moment as he must have felt a peculiar pressure in his lower gut; it was a cryptic cramping, a harrowing heaviness, that must have given him a sense of pause. If Treyfus' curse was as well designed as he thought it was, then in that tiny moment, Vim must have had the sensation that was familiar to any person: It was the niggling knowledge of 'I need to visit a toilet soon.' Not an immediate concern for most people over the age of three, but a polite warning that the bowels were giving to the brain, as if to let him know that a potty break would be necessary after class. Because of the gentleness of the warning, Vim thought little of it, and the break in his speech only lasted a small handful of seconds. And then all hell would break loose. It began with gassy chaos; an explosion of uncontrollable flatulence that blasted the back of the new diaper with unrestrained ferocity, sputtering hard and fast like a boxer on a speed-bag. The force of it caught Vim by surprise, it catching him mid-sentence: "...And by using Curaga root, then you just--" BRAAAAPPPAPRRRAAAPA! PBBFFTTTRRRRTT! BLLLAAAAARRRT! The near terror on his face, mottled by shock and discomfort, would swiftly escalate to a nearly painful looking strain; his hands almost immediately flew back to grip the cushioned seat his butt was now veiled by, which would also finally inform him as to abomination his underpants had become. On a scale of sheer power, of velocity and acceleration that the toot-storm boasted, it sounded like the boy was trying to bore a hole right through the inches of plush padding that his gas was colliding with; it was a debilitating sort of eruption, a full-body effort, where his knees were already bending forward and his back starting to hunch, as though needing to reposition himself to stabilize the firing of a cannon. And then would come the cannonball. While the trumpeting ramped up its firing power, the burning bubbles in his gut would cause those little hands to migrate back around to his aching tummy, as if to ignorantly believe he could tamp down the apocalyptic conditions of his boiling belly. That allowed for the plumpness of his diapered bottom to more noticeably show itself to the classroom audience, and would leave the staging zone of the main attraction unobstructed from view. With rapid crackling to act as an official herald, the diaper rustled and crinkled loudly, once an immense solid began to crash full-speed with the white plains below his rump. The seat swelled instantly, with the split-second expansion of an airbag during a car crash; just as the explosive nature of the farting would have suggested, it was truly a cannonball hitting the back of his diaper like it would hit a battalion in the heat of war. If the tapes of the diaper hadn't been sealed by magic, then the opposing force of the broad, weighty expulsion may have been enough to tear them right off their hinges, but they held the line valiantly, working to retain Vim's modesty, though not his dignity. The firm, steaming honeydew of a load settled in the diaper; its bulge undeniable, its heft proven by the sag it created, but it wasn't a done deal. With another riptide of thunderous gas-bombs, the boy's face would scrunch up even more pitifully, and a firehose of molten mush would start to blast the back of the diaper without mercy. The splattering was unforgiving, unrestrained, unabashed, and the gurgling of the gooey geyser filled the room with the crudest of noises, as the pale undergarment filled out. In hindsight, the potency of the curse was undoubtedly too high; it was likely that Treyfus had been running calculations for a fully grown man, not a bean sprout with a smirk, and thus a notable soiling would become a legendary razing of a once proud kingdom of fluff and polymers. The last death throes of the bowel movement would see Vim whimpering and shuddering, while his gut wrenched with spasms, and remnant toots led smaller lumps to the promised land of the muck-pit below, each one making a small 'plop' as they joined the collective filth that packed itself against his narrow tushy. Altogether, the incident had been less than thirty seconds long, but the violent force and unimaginable shame that it'd made in its wake, made Vim look as though he'd just returned from the fields of all-out war; his big bright eyes, having oscillated between wide with terror and squinted by strain, were wet with pooling tears of embarrassment and low-lidded with the exhaustion of what must have felt like going ten rounds in a ring with the heavyweight champion. It was in that time, using the total potty failure as cover, that the third curse had been spun against him; that had always been an important part of the conspiracy, to strike whenever Vim's mind was otherwise occupied by the occupation of his seat. When it came to a curse that targeted the mind, one that sought to alter the records and to banish specific patterns of thought, it could only work if the target was either feeble enough or distracted enough. The dull yet persistent hissing that would follow, like the fade-out of an orchestral piece that'd been heavy on brass and percussion, was a small hint that the final curse had been a success. It was easy to miss the droning noise, even while it picked up in power, because it was muffled by the bulky padding of the garment's frontside, but the devious trio could recognize it as the pathetic piddling of surrender. Vim surely noticed the swelling warmth between his thighs, and he would have a clear idea of what was causing that rapidly spreading dampness, but he would no longer have any clue as to how he should stop it, nor would he be fully cognizant of where else his tinkling was supposed to go, if not into his puffy babypants. The alchemy lab was in full revolt by the time everyone came to a full realization of what they had witnessed firsthand; the insufferable prodigy, for whom they'd had nothing but jealousy and contempt, had shown what they thought to be his true colors: brown and yellow. The laughter that would follow was impossible to stop, or to control, and the jeering comments were each like a dagger being run through the heart of the boy's pride. For all that he had done to prove that he belonged among the bigger wizards, to showcase his academic diligence and arcane superiority, it was being utterly unraveled by an infantile display that he'd been powerless to stop. In the commotion of the open mockery, with even the professor looking disappointed in the so-called scholar he'd been happily bolstering in the moments before, Vim muttered some tearful remark, an apology perhaps, and made a pitiable, wide-waddling exit out the door. Due to the nature of the first curse, he would end up needing to seek outside assistance to dispel the fuming turd-sack from his waist, and due to the nature of the third curse, he wouldn't be able to remember that he was supposed to be a bona fide toilet-user by this point. With the knowledge of toileting erased, the last available line of knowledge would default to using diapers, which would cause confusion all itself. At the time, the delinquent trio had patted themselves on the back for a job well done, and while they hadn't openly taken credit for slaying Vim's ego, they'd been at forefront of cracking wise about the event in the aftermath. They had honestly thought that they wouldn't see Vim again, as they assumed he would be too ashamed to stay in the university after such a public humiliation. At the very least, they hoped the severe lapse in continence would lead the headmaster to expedite an expulsion on the grounds of this being a place of higher learning, and not a daycare center for wayward tots. And so because of that, because of those events, they would never have thought any need to defend themselves afterwards. They wouldn't respect the deduction skills of a half-pint, nor would they assume he had the backbone to retaliate. The big three of the conspiracy, blinded by their own hubris, which was the same sin they'd accused Vim of bearing, wouldn't prepare for what would come next: They wouldn't foresee that they themselves would become prey. That they would end up as the hunted. (To be continued in Part II: The Hunt!)