PeculiarChangeling
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Symbiotic Submission: Episode 1, Striking Favors
🕑 Added 2023-09-03 21:16:53 +0000 UTCThis is a continuation/soft sequel to one of my old stories, 'Symbiotic Submission'. I've finally settled on a narrative direction for this piece, and so I'm bringing it back in full force for a bit of an interlude before starting my next long work!
...
The alien had ruined my life and given me purpose, and I didn’t know whether to love them or hate them for it.
Haven owned me, and relished demonstrating that ownership. Pushing me to humiliate myself, delighting as I was forced to ruin diapers for their amusement and the public’s disgust. I’d managed to wrestle back only the tiniest amount of control, and even that leverage was tenuous, only available to me because I’d agreed to play Haven’s game–I couldn’t win, not really, but I could forfeit and spoil their fun. So long as I had my trump card, I could fight to at least bargain for bits of autonomy.
I was a thing to them, a source of food and entertainment.
But in exchange, they’d given me a power I could never have dreamed of. Superhuman, that was the only word for it. In the right place, at the right time, I could be incredible.
Emphasis on ‘could’. Two days of waiting for trouble had left me restless, and though I couldn’t say I was bored, the only excitement came from Haven finding new ways to play with my body while we killed time at the hotel.
(Haven,) I’d thought to myself, wincing at the strain on my elbows. (This isn’t working.)
(I think it is–you’re at just the level of discomfort I prefer. Do you think you’ll be able to hold out as long as I’ve demanded?)
The enema sloshing inside my system made it hard to stay focused, but that was just the start. Haven’s inky, nebulous body could form itself into most any shape so long as they had the mass to stretch, and they’d taken to forming elaborate bondage contraptions around me. At the moment, they had grabbed onto the ceiling and wrapped around my wrists, suspending my arms over my head and pulling me up so high that I could just barely stand on tiptoe. It was positively sadistic, but the distraction of a practical conversation helped me resist the bondage. (I don’t mean this, I mean this. Trying to fight crime.)
(You do what I say in exchange for power,) they’d replied. (You’re doing what I say just fine–have I not provided the power?)
(Only in theory–there’s nothing here for me to do. This town just doesn’t have enough danger for your strength to be useful.) I winced again, wishing I didn’t have so much weight on the tips of my toes and my wrists.
I’d been instructed to hold my enema for at least thirty minutes, or else risk punishment–twenty had gone by, but I was struggling. If I held it, I’d get to sleep in a clean diaper, relaxed in my bed. If I lost control, I’d be bound and gagged through the night.
(Then let’s go elsewhere. A city. That’s where other vigilantes work, isn’t it?)
(What, to Central City? I don’t think I could even afford a shoebox there, let alone a place to live, and my bike doesn’t make for much of a commute.)
(Hmm.)
(What?)
(Perhaps there’s a way to solve this problem. Last time we put you on the internet–)
I shuddered. That had been one of Haven’s most devilish ideas–leaving my humiliations to be decided by horny strangers who enjoyed watching me debase myself.
(–there were plenty of people commenting in shock that your performance was free.)
Swallowing, I saw where Haven was going with this. Given the fairly extreme nature of what they made me do, it could potentially be a very lucrative source of cash. How much would people be willing to pay in exchange for total control over me?
Hell, Haven gave me the ability to go beyond what anyone else could do–sustaining more masochistic punishment than might otherwise be safe, because they gave me durability and could heal my injuries in hours rather than weeks. I didn’t need to worry about rashes or infections, and, well–fears about having my face exposed were a bit moot, given that I’d done this once before.
Haven certainly paid well enough, even if they did so with strength rather than cash. Surely the market had to exist.
(So, what are you suggesting? Cam girl by day, hero by night?)
(Something like that. Stay put.)
(You know I can’t move–when did you get a sense of humor?)
Slithering away, Haven kept my wrists bound but extended part of their body to my computer bag, working like an inky production assistant. The computer was whisked onto my desk, and Haven had no trouble logging in–with access to my thoughts, they also had access to all my passwords.
It took them only a minute to queue up the cam site I’d used before, and in that time, I was left to my own devices. All my attention rested on controlling my bowels, keeping the heavy, sloshy enema from pouring out into my diaper, preserving the little bit of reward I had managed to earn.
(Same rules as before,) Haven instructed me. (Anything they tell you to do, you do. Only this time, the instructions all have a price, one that I’ve set. I’ve typed it all out, so don’t worry–you don’t need to explain anything to anyone.)
The stream went live.
(Here’s a question,) Haven considered, body shimmering to more closely resemble ropes, so that their presence as my bondage would not be noticed by anyone watching. (Do you suppose anyone will tell you to fill your diaper in the next seven minutes?)
(But–) I started to think, before forcing a smile as I saw the first comments pour in.
(That would be unfortunate, wouldn’t it? If you had the control to avoid a punishment, but were instructed to fail anyways?)
Trying to nip it in the bud, I faced the screen, doing my best porn-worthy voice, fake sultry tones but authentic desperation. "Oh, god, I really need to go, but I bet the longer I hold it, the worse it'll be–I just want to go right now, won't someone please let me?"
A donation appeared on screen, the text large enough that I could just read the instructions from my bound position. I blinked, surprised at the number attached.
‘You want to go so bad, beg for it.'
(Fuck me that's like three hours at my old job–)
(You have a performance to give, my plaything.)
(Right.)
"Please, please," I babbled. "Let me poop my diaper–I just love having a full, smelly diaper, just let me go, please–"
Another donation, for a positively eye popping amount.
'Let’s see you use your diaper, and tell us how much you like it’.
That was as far as my reverse psychology got me, then. I'd bought ten seconds, then been told it was time to bottom out my diaper anyways.
Cheeks flushing, it took me little effort to obey. All I had to do was let go and let nature take control, so I let the enema pour out into my diaper and knowing I’d just earned myself a punishment. The hot muck immediately made the seat sag, and in case it wasn’t obvious enough yet, I obeyed the second command.
“Th-thank you,” I stammered, “I was just waiting to poop in my diaper–I just love filling them up like this.”
More commands. Things I had to say, to do.
Haven was right–this was my ticket, my way to get to Central City. For the price of my dignity, I would get what I’d asked for, and at this point I doubted I had a choice in the matter.
And, finally, a particularly big donation: ‘Let’s get a spanking started–how hard can you hit?’
