Collectible, Chapter 2

 [Standard Content Warning: This is an ABDL story blog, that means stories on this page contain diapers, diaper usage (like, lots of it), infantilism and the like! In addition, mental and physical manipulation, bondage and nonconsensual or dubiously consensual employment of all of the above themes and many others may also apply. Viewer discretion is advised.] 

[This is chapter 2 of a story written based off a prompt from omutsuryuu! If you'd like to submit prompts for potential short stories, check out the short story post on Bluesky!]

Day ???:

“Mmph.”

You let out a squeaky noise. There’s no contest this time. It’s not the condition of your sheets or the clock or anything else. The first thing that gets your notice when you awaken is the squishy feeling underneath your bottom. You pull up your sheets and look down at your.

Nightgown?

You pull up the nightgown and don’t see your pajama pants or even the soiled underthings you’re expecting but a pair of white, poofy bloomers. You tug the front waistband of those and — yes. Underneath those are your sodden and full-seated pull-ups.

You look around and see - this isn’t your room. This isn’t even your bed. The covers are white and pink, with floral patterns on them. The bed itself is bigger, with four posters propping up a large wooden canopy and a white curtain draping around the bed. You pull the curtain back and get out of bed, squeaking again as you feel the mess in your seat shift. You have to go get cleaned up now.

That thought lasts all of a few seconds as you look around at your room. The room? Your room? This isn’t your room in your home, it’s something very different. You walk over to a window. You’re several stories in the air, staring down at a picturesque lake, surrounded by an equally picturesque forest. You poke your head out the window and you can only see so much, but the building you’re in appears to be massive, an estate of some kind the covers a lot of ground.

Half in a daze, you wander away from the window and see a vanity with a mirror up against the wall. You pass it, only briefly glancing at the mirror, before you stop and feel a chill run down your spine. You shoot back in front of the mirror.

You swallow. You bring your hands up and touch your face. You poke yourself a couple of times. You pinch yourself. Yeah. Yeah, that’s you you’re staring at.

You’ve gotten shorter. Your complexion is paler. Your hair is a lot longer, going down past your shoulders and it’s stark white. Your eyes are red.

You don’t need to say who you resemble now. Because your reflection suddenly changes expressions, putting a hand on her (your?) face and glowering at you.

“You had it,” your reflection says. “You were about to sell me. Why did you stop?” You suck in a breath. This is all a little too much for you to parse out. But you know the answer to the question pretty quickly, at least.

“…I didn’t want to hurt anybody else,” you say simply. You expect the reflection to get angry with you, but she just looks down and lets out a weary sigh.

“I understand,” she says quietly and without judgment. Silence hangs between the two of you for a moment.

“What’s happened?” You ask eventually. She heaves a sigh and you instantly understand whatever she’s about to say is probably gonna be really complicated and hard to explain.

“It’s very technical, but the short version is, we’ve been merging ever since you came into possession of me. On midnight of the third day, the curse fully vested and both of our souls merged into a combination of my doll body and your human body.” You listen to all of that and, well, there’s no point in denying that there’s magic afoot anymore, so you believe all of it quite easily. One thing does kind of stick in your craw, though.

“Well, if this is both of our bodies, I’m not seeing much of mine, here!” You say, looking yourself over. “And I’ve never had problems with…” You trail off. Both of you blush. You’re pretty sure she can feel the squishiness in your seat at this moment too.

“My soul is much older than yours. It has a way of…overpowering things.” She lets out another sigh. “I’ve tried to make it not. I’ve tried to make it so my doll doesn’t spread the curse. I’ve tried to make it so people who come into possession of my doll don’t suffer from my…. …” She looks away, avoiding eye contact. “Condition. But I don’t have access to the resources I once did.”

You’re really not sure what to make of this, but it sounds like she’s been trying to fix this for a long time without much success, and it sounds like she’s been dealing with wet pants for a lot longer than you have, so you really can’t bring yourself to lay into her over it. Heck, she made a last ditch effort to get you out of this situation entirely and it was your conscience that refused to comply.

….but you’re still not sure that was the wrong decision. This person you’re staring at - a princess? A soul trapped inside a doll? Some kind of magic user? A combination of all three? Whatever she is, she seems like someone that’s been in a bad situation for a long time and needs some help.

“Hey, uhm. Can we still talk if I’m not in front of this mirror?” The reflection looks up at you.

“Yes. We’re two souls in the same body so we can communicate whenever we want. The mirror is just useful for visualization.”

“Okay.” You step away from the mirror. “Let’s, uh. Let’s get cleaned up first, and then keep talking.” You continue looking around the room. “Thanks for…trying to get me out of this. Sorry that I. Y’know. Screwed it up.”

“…don’t apologize,” she says. “You could’ve passed me onto another stranger. Then I would’ve tried to convince them to pass me onto a different stranger. And on and on. I’ve been doing it for a very long time, just barely sliding under a very short deadline over and over but upturning people’s lives wherever I go. You…made a choice to stop that, and avoid risking somebody else. That was very noble.”

You can’t help but blush again. It’s not lost on you that a princess is calling you noble. It’s just hard to feel particularly noble about the act when what it boils down to is the two of you sharing a sodden, soiled pull-up so somebody else didn’t have to.

“So what happened to you, anyway?” You ask, trying a door, hoping it’s a bathroom. It’s a big walk-in closet full of dresses and other clothes. You let out a small ‘wow’ and close it again and keep looking. “I thought…the doll I bought - well, I thought I was buying a copy,” you say with a huff. “But I thought that the original doll. Belonged to a princess in France? So you’re…”

“I am both. I was once a princess. A princess who delved into the magic arts and became obsessed with the idea of eternal youth. As a result of my obsession, I became a doll. Gifted with the eternal life I desired and with many other unintended consequences.”

“So you tried to become immortal and it turned you into a doll?” You grimace. That’s the kind of ironic fate that seems pretty predictable from your experience, but in fairness, you have about a hundred years of movies about poor shmucks trying to get immortality and it blowing up in their face to pull from that didn’t exist in her time. Plus, she doesn’t seem to be lacking in hindsight perspective. “And you’ve just been. Bouncing around, trying to avoid cursing people three days at a time for a hundred years?”

“It’s not always three days. The curse takes a shorter amount of time to fully vest the more times I manage to escape its effects. I’d…had a particularly long streak of avoiding it before I wound up in your possession.”

“Still. That sounds really lonely. Maybe it’s…for the best that you wound up with me when you did? Maybe we can figure out a way to fix this, so you don’t have to spend all your energy bouncing around like this, at least.” You try another door. It opens out into a hallway. You left out a huff.

“….mmn.”

Her response is short. She doesn’t sound particularly enthusiastic. You try not to let it get you down - she’s probably heard this before. She’s been doing this for a century, you can’t be the first overly selfless overly optimistic jackass she’s run into. You also try not to dwell on it because you’re having a really hard time not dwelling on the mess in your seat at this point - you really need to get cleaned up, this is so uncomfortable.

“Hey - do you know your way around. Wherever this is? Where’s a bathroom?”

“The third door on the right is a washroom,” she says. You immediately head down the hall that way.

“So. You know this place? This is your…home?” You ask.

“It’s….a shade. Of my old home. Recreated from the memories within my soul. When I am unable to stop the curse from fully vesting and my soul merges with someone else, this is always where it comes first.” Her tone is a mixture of nostalgia and sadness. You can imagine why. If this is just a recreation of her old home, that means it’s not the real thing. Which…duh. Her old home is some ancient estate in France, right? It either belongs to somebody else who’s not even related to her, or it’s been turned into an exhibit or just destroyed and replaced with a parking lot or something.

You reach the third door on the right and open it up. You’re relieved to see the washroom you were looking for, with a shower and everything. You’re trying to think of something comforting to say as you start to step in, when she speaks up again, unprompted.

“You must understand. I tried to keep us from returning here, but. They have too strong of a pull on me.”

You blink once. Something suddenly occurs to you. Something you’d kind of forgotten until right now. Back in your home, when you were dreaming. She’d mentioned something. She said something about “them”.

You feel a hand on your shoulder.

“Good morning, princess,” the voice, sweet and husky, coos down at you. “I see you’re up and about early this morning. We were just on our way to wake you up.”

You turn around. Then you crane your head up. And up. Aaaaand still further up.

You see five women in front of you, all…significantly taller and larger than you. All wearing black uniforms with white aprons and matching headdresses.

“H….hi,” you say a little sheepishly. “I was just. About to take a shower.”

“Oh, of course, princess,” the maid says with a hand over her mouth, giving you a…somewhat suspicious look. You kind of want to just step away and into the washroom rather than continue this conversation. But when you turn around you see two of the five maids have moved in between you and the door.

They’re surrounding you, now. And the one who had her hand on your shoulder is now pulling up your nightgown with one hand and pulling back your bloomers with another.

“H-hey, hey!” You squeak, trying to pull your clothes out of her grip. Another maid easily helps her, pulling down your bloomers until they’re around your knees and then reaching their arms under yours and lifting you into the air. With you high up in the air, your waist pretty much at eye-level with all of them, one of the maids takes a testing sniff of the back of your pull-up and lets out a huff, instantly recognizing what she finds.

“Mmhm, as I suspected,” the maid says. “Our princess has poopy bloomers,” she then announces to the other four, who all exchange confirmations that they knew it and tsk-tsk-tsks in your direction.

“And she was trying to hide it from us!” Another says, faux-hurt by your obvious betrayal.

“Wh-what?! No!” You exclaim. “I was just trying to get cleaned up! And I don’t have - l-look, it’s not my —” You sputter uselessly. You got another wave of tsks and this-won’t-dos as you’re at least taken down from being elevated above everybody’s head so they can stare at your underwear. But you are, notably, not put down on the ground and are still being held against the maid’s hip.

“Now, princess, you know the rules,” another maid scolds you with about as much harshness as cotton candy fluff, stroking your head as she does so. “We have to check you every morning to make sure you haven’t had any accidents!”

“And If you wake up with poopy bloomers, you know what has to happen, right?” Another asks. You stare at the floor, biting the inside of your lip.

“I - it’s not like I meant to - it wasn’t on purpose, I—“ You say, trying to come up with a way to explain why it wasn’t your fault that you, sigh, pooped your bloomers. It’s not like you can blame it on the princess, because, well, you and the princess are one, now. The only thing that you can think to do is tell the truth.

“Don’t mention the curse,” you hear in the back of your head. Too late, the words spill

“It was because of the curse!” You exclaim. The maids exchange a series of looks and murmur amongst each other.

“You were right,” one of them sighs to the one holding you.

“Right on time,” another says with a nod. Their demeanor changes, there appears to be more concern on their faces as they start holding their hands to your forehead, cheeks and neck, checking you for fever.

“Mmmhm,” the maid holding you says as she bounces you on her hip a bit. “I had a feeling our princess’ condition was due for another flare-up. Come along, everyone, we’d best act quickly, then,” she says and all of the maids move as one, which right now includes carrying you just a bit further down the hallway to another door. One of the maids opens the door for the one carrying you to file in, followed by the rest.

“W-wait a sec…” You murmur as you’re carried inside. Up to this point, you’ve been trying to roll with the punches. Being cursed to wet your bed. Being merged with a doll and turning into a princess. Waking up in a princess’ bedroom. All of that was weird and the part where you messed yourself was very embarrassing and very uncomfortable, but given the extraordinary circumstances, you were trying to tolerate it all and focus on more important things.

This is just a full-fledged nursery. You see a big crib in one corner that’s basically an infantile equivalent of the bed you woke up in, with a curtain drawn around it. You see a big wooden changing table in another corner and that’s where you’re being carried. Two of the maids follow the one carrying you while the other two split off to another part of the room.

“H-hey, hey, what’s this…” You murmur. “What’s wrong with the bathroom? Why can’t I just take a shower?” You ask.

“Don’t worry, my princess,” the maid carrying you says and kisses you on the forehead before she lays you down on the soft mattress atop the changing table. “We’ll take care of getting you cleaned up and everything. You just relax and let us handle it.”

“B-but I can…” You start to whine out.

“Shhh shhh shhh. Let your maids clean you up, princess,” another maid encourages, stroking your head. One pulls your legs up so another can pull off your bloomers, followed by your pull-up — brief — whatever. The underwear that you ruined slide down your legs and wind up discarded.

‘A-all this because I mentioned the curse?!’ You think to yourself.

“No,” the princess responds. You guess sharing a body also means the two of you can hear each other’s thoughts without you talking out loud. That checks out logically, you guess. “They would’ve done this anyway. They let me back into the bedroom sometimes, but they check me every morning and constantly throughout the day and I go straight back to the nursery if I ever have…” She trails off, heaves a sigh and forces out the last two words. “Poopy bloomers.”

‘Y…you really don’t have to call it that…!’ You insist.

“It’s what they like to call it. And…they’re the ones in charge, here,” she says in a discomforted, resigned tone.

‘These are the ‘them’ you were talking about? A bunch of maids?’ You ask, looking around. One of the maids is still cooing and stroking your hair. The second is holding up your legs while the third cleans you up. You wince and whimper a bit as you feel them rubbing your butt and between your legs with warm clothes. You really, really would’ve preferred to take a shower by yourself, but they’re thoroughly cleaning you up like, well, like it’s their job. ‘But can’t you tell them to stop?’

“Young princesses have to listen to their maids,” she says, her tone becoming increasingly subdued. “It’s best not to fight them. They’re in control here.” As if to punctuate that sentence, one of the maids flips her hand and sends away the cloths they were using to clean you up, then twirls her wrist, calling several new thick white and pink clothes to float into her hands.

She unfolds the cloths and slides them under your bottom, taking her time wrapping them around your waist. You should’ve guessed they weren’t bringing you into a nursery to put you in another pull-up, they brought you here to diaper you. You fidget a little, which gets you more cooing and a kiss on the forehead as a second, third and fourth layer of pink cloth are added to the first, before they’re finally pinned in place. Two of the maids put their hands on the batch of cloth and murmur a couple words. A pink light briefly surrounds it before it grows and just kind of puffs outwards. You feel padding not dissimilar to your pull-ups underneath your bottom and up against your front, except a lot thicker, forcing your legs apart and elevating your butt off of the changing table once it’s set back down. It had taken some effort to get used to the pull-ups. This was exponentially worse.

“There we go,” the maid who spent this entire time comforting you says. “Doesn’t that feel better?” She asks as another maid slides the bloomers back up your legs. They don’t make it all the way back up, the top of your diapers peeking out of the waistband.

“No…” You wanted it to come out as annoyed and grumpy as you’re feeling, but it comes out as more of a whimper. You don’t know how soul merging works, but you feel like the princesses’ subdued nature when it comes to her maid might be leaking over to you.

“Mmn, she’s a bit cranky, isn’t she?” One maid asks.

“Well, her condition is acting up. She probably didn’t get enough sleep and she hasn’t had breakfast,” another listed off matter-of-factly.

“Let’s get her something to eat and get her a nap,” the third says. They all agree right as the other two maids come back.

“Her bed is ready,” one mentions. They’re both carrying a stack of more folded up fabrics of some kind.

“I’ll go get her breakfast ready,” the maid that diapered you says and walks off. The other three (one is still cooing and comforting you, of course), start unfolding the fabrics - they’re blankets, you realize. Before you know it, you’re being lifted up and one of the blankets is being slid underneath you.

“H…hey…wait a sec…” You say as the blanket starts getting pulled up around your body from every end.

“Shhh shhh….” You get a kiss on the forehead and one on the cheek this time. “You’re about to have a nice snuggly nap, princess, isn’t that nice?” She asks as another blanket is wrapped around you. There’s still a lot more of them. You try to kick your legs and budge your arms. Any dents you make in their work are immediately fixed before they move onto the next one - there’s simply too many hands working on you at once.

‘Can you stop them somehow!?’ You insist urgently. Your struggles are beginning to make less and less of an impact. You kick one blanket out of place. The maid chuckles and takes all of two seconds to tuck it back into place before she slides another one underneath you. ‘If they keep this up, we won’t be able to move!’

“No,” the princess says, resigned. “I….I’m sorry. I made them like this. They just want to protect me. They just…want to take care of their young princess. Forever.”

‘By wrapping her up until she can’t move? By…treating her like some kinda baby?!’ You exclaim.

“Yes,” she responds immediately. “I’m their young princess. And if I can’t move, they can take care of everything for me. So…it’s good if I can’t move.” For a second, you’re having trouble telling if she’s just explaining their logic or if she’s so cowed by her maids that she genuinely believes that.

While you were having this little argument, your maids swaddled you in more than a dozen blankets and have finished tucking and securing them together. Your little kicks and punches and wriggles are worthless at this point. All you can do is writhe back and forth a bit in your blankets, which you do, to no avail except exhausting yourself.

You’re lifted up and carried…not to the crib in the other corner of the room, but to something much smaller, a bassinet that starts lightly rocking back and forth once you’re placed in it. Between the blankets, the pillow your head lands on, the bassinet’s mattress and yes, the diapers around your waist, it’s all unbelievably soft.

All of the maids are adjusting the bassinet and you inside it. Making sure you’re in the right position, making sure you have enough pillows, trying to make you as comfortable as possible and of course, saying sweet things to you the entire time. You can’t blame the princess for being affected by it, because all of the attention is starting to overwhelm you too, to the point where you’re struggling to even think of how you could possibly get out of this.

“Here’s princesses breakfast,” the fifth maid says as she rejoins the group, holding a large white bottle of milk. She wastes no time pushing the nipple into your mouth. You want to indignantly deny being fed, with a bottle, while diapered and swaddled in a bassinet. You do no such thing. Your mouth starts suckling immediately and you feel warm milk going down your throat.

‘Mmph…I can’t stop. What’s going on?’ You ask, knowing it’s probably futile.

“I’m sorry,” the princess says again. “It’s…it’s going to be very overwhelming when all five of them are focusing on us like this. But…once you get used to it, the attention doesn’t feel bad?” She offers. She knows that’s a weak salve for everything that’s happening. But at the same time, you know that she probably knew exactly what you were in for, which is why she tried to convince you to get rid of her. If she had more time to warn you that this, specifically, was the fate that awaited the two of you, would you have just taken the risk and gotten rid of her, wishing her luck to keep the streak going as long as she could?

…

…you still don’t know. Even brought this low (and you have been brought very low), you think you’d feel worse knowing this might have happened to someone else.

A twinge in your stomach interrupts your train of thought.

Oh, come on. You wince and fidget. You try to force the bottle out of your mouth so you can talk. No dice. It goes right back in and you go right back to obediently gulping down its contents. That doesn’t seem to keep the maids from getting the point, though.

“Oh, is our princess having tummy trouble?” The one holding the bottle asks. Another immediately puts a hand on your swaddling. You feel a light touch on your stomach that starts to rub back and forth.

“That’s okay, princess,” one says softly. Another touch applies a bit more pressure.

“Your maids took care of everything with your pretty princess diapers,” a third voice. She’s back to stroking your hair.

“You can go ahead and make poopy bloomers as much as you want now,” the fifth encourages as a third touch makes little circles on your stomach.

You try to hold it in. You make it all of a few minutes before you feel your body start to give way. You whimper and whine into your bottle, but keep sucking as you push the first wave of mess into your waiting diapers. You immediately feel it squishing against your bottom. The encouragement, praise and love keeps coming. You think the princess was underselling it. All five of them focusing on you at once like this is like a fog that makes it impossible to think, muchless do anything.

‘I…is it like this all the time?’ You ask, fearing the answer. The princess hesitates. You get the feeling she wants to lie to you, try to soften the blow somehow, but you’re starting to think she’s been rendered pretty mentally exhausted by all of the attention as well.

“Yes,” she says eventually. She adds, “You…get used to it, eventually.”

You’re currently being fed with a bottle, while diapered and swaddled, in a bassinet, silently nursing away while you slowly poop your bloomers.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ you whimper. You whimper as another wave of mess comes out. You’re vaguely aware your eyes are starting to get heavy.

“I know,” the princess says. She doesn’t mention again that she’s sorry, but you know she is.

As you nurse from your bottle, mess yourself and drift away from consciousness, all at an equally languid pace, you try to convey that you don’t blame her.

You’re the one that bought the doll, after all.