At first, she came for the last shred of decency left to the Brat’s body.

Jordan screamed, in top of the lung, throat tearing fear as his one and only layer of defense was removed. The region below, that could not be named or acknowledged, was open to the air. He breathed in, holding his breath trying to escape into his mental palace, escape the world and everything in it.

But he could feel the Brat’s body. He always could, but he’d never thought of it. Like how you didn’t think of the feeling of clothes on your skin. But now without said clothing… he couldn’t not feel it.

He fell out of his mental time-out, the ordeal nothing more than a waste of breath.

Breaking apart inside, he tried to lash out, but the Brat’s limbs were bound tight by the invisible, reflective trap. In a moment that would traumatize him for eternity, the mirrors spun around, multiplying in the large open space left for them, until he was surrounded on all sides.

It was her. The Brat. He wanted to close her eyes, block her out, but instead… he stared with a horrid sense of fascination. This was her. This was his prison.He saw her now, in all her ‘glory.’

A scar, fading as though months after it was inflicted, rested on her chest. Jordan could only guess at her age, but she was undoubtedly pre-pubescent. She was begging pathetically, trying desperately to break free with her thin, little limbs, pale in the light with their unimpressive dull flesh palette. She was so… small.

Everything about this moment felt wrong. Everything about her seemed detestable. Stupid. Worthless! The damn little Brat who had dragged him into her hell. And she was so. Damn. Small!

The Brat’s eyes brimmed with tears, tainted with his rage, as the prowling jazzy beast loomed around him, twisting her body with inhuman flexibility to run a finger down the Brat’s pectoral region, examining the scar in detail.

“It’s unfortunate.” She said, “A scar like this will take years to truly fade.”

Jordan was… taken aback by the sound of genuine sincerity in her tone. Had he… misjudged her? Maybe she and the Brat actually had been—

“Its path along your chest means we’ll be sticking to high tops for the foreseeable future. A shame as I’ve been looking forward to you blooming, but since you Freyhells find Illusionary effects so distasteful, we’ll have to keep you covered. My poor little flower, so green and already marred. Don’t worry though, your Usiu will still make you shine…” she purred in Jordan’s ear.

Yeah, nope. She’s full of shit.

Usiu leaned down, cupping the Brat’s cheeks in her hands as Jordan glared at her blankly. Her eyes were alight with madness, filled with a possessive, longing, wrongness to them. Was… was she some sort of yandere? Not that Jordan would admit to even knowing that term—to claim such was slander! He wasn’t a weeaboo, or whatever!

“HARLOT’S HORDE!” Her voice bellowed, pressing against Jordan’s face that was still inches away. The Brat’s ears popped.

A drawn out sigh came from beyond the mirrors. “Yes Usiu?”

“Get me… the Flaxen Sheet of Crimson Scorn!”

Jordan heard a second, long sigh. “You mean the scrubber?”

“YES!” If her earlier shout had been bellowing, that one was thunderous. Thankfully, the demon threw her head back to unleash her passionate cry and didn’t blow out the Brat’s eardrums.

But the distance lasted only a second, and then she was back to being nose to nose with Jordan. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, my Aure. I will make you shine. Shine! SHINE!”

And shine he would.

The ‘scrubber’ as Jordan decided to also call it, was no more than a softly glowing pinkish rag, paired with a golden chalice filled with an opaque, strong smelling liquid. It reminded him of detergent, but as Jordan was held up like a cat by its scruff, the Demon proceeded to scrub the Brat’s body with the dry cloth.

A quick breath saw him dash into his mental time out zone, but it once again fell apart after moments. It seemed his ‘cheat’ power couldn’t hold up while under intense stimulus. It really is just a worthless Time-Out power, isn’t it?

If it’d only been a second cleaning of the day, then Jordan might have survived relatively intact. However, the cloth she used felt like sandpaper, rough and coarse tearing shouts of pain out of him, especially when she finally began dipping it into the pungent liquids, proceeding to paint him head to toe. He recoiled at the sounds of the splashing liquids, which twisted at his guts like a knife. The cloth spread the foul smelling concoction like acid on his skin.

But everywhere it touched? Shone.

Every patch of the Brat’s skin began to shine. Not magically, he observed, but a natural radiance, pale like moon-lit silver. Like the underlying beauty was being drawn out, a diamond in the rough. It was enough to cause Jordan to break down, babbling for forgiveness. The cruel demon ignored his pleas, and cleaned at his face while cooing nonsense, laughing as she went. When the cloth traveled lower along the Brat’s body, Jordan blacked out as his mind worked to immediately scrub his memory of the events.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. He repeated in his mind like a mantra. He hyperventelated, jumping in and out of his mind palace, turning into a disco ball dancing to her jazzy torture.

He woke up when the demon had him take a mouthful of mysterious liquid, which Jordan was sure was bleach based on the smell… and the taste did nothing to assuage his assumptions.

“Now, don’t pull a Harlot here and swallow, okay? I’d hate to have to waste time cleansing your stomach—just swish that around for a bit and then you can spit it out.”

Jordan weighed the odds of her bluffing about being able to pump his stomach. Sadly, he concluded it wasn’t worth the risk. Instead, he tried to just spit it out unexpectedly in the demon’s face, but she saw him comin’ a mile away. She laughed, tsking at him ‘playfully’ as she covered his mouth until he was done, and then her reflections twisted his head to spit in a basin provided. The liquid had been overall unpleasant, but left his mouth feeling very… clean. Like superpowered Listerine. Yay.

It took him a moment of mouthwash haze to realize that he had an unobstructed view through the mirrors—the demonic torturer had disappeared and left a path? He tried to make a break for it, but the reflections were still present, and held him fast as he cursed.

“So it’s to be a court hearing then? They better not hurt my doll! Still I’ll make sure to pick out something appropriate. Do you know the Justiciar that will be presiding?”

“I believe it’s High Justiciar Sphrantzes.”

“He doesn’t happen to like…” She whispered something and the maid giggled. Usiu tsked sadly. “Shame, it’s not the one I remember then. Is this one new?”

“Yes. I think he took his position a couple decades ago.”

“Ugh, I hate how frequently they change about. Hate, hate, hate! Still, do we have any idea of his tastes?”

Jordan could barely hear the voices across the room, but he could swear he could hear the maid… breathing heavy?

“T-taste like? Oh Princes I wish I knew… just a little… taste…!”

A sound like a smack rang out, followed by a moaning whimper.

“No you idiot, I mean tastes as in fashion. Oh, whatever, just tell me what race he is and I’ll figure something out.”

A soft sniffling drifted over. “I think he’s a Flameborn?”

“A Flameborn? YES!” Jordan winced, as even across the room that was way too loud. “This is perfect! Most of my doll’s clothes fit the necessary style. We’re spoiled for choice! Oh, how many outfits shall I put on you, my precious…”

“Um…”

“What?” She snapped.

“I’m sorry Usiu, but we do need to have her ready soon.”

“What!? Grr… what if I let you stay and watch?”

There was an uncomfortably long silence punctuated only by the maid’s breathing.

“Dear Hells Harlot, when was the last time they fed you? Er, you know what never mind. We’ll go for a primarily red theme, something demure, he’s a member of the clergy after all. Something innocent, maybe a little daring… wait, no! Focus Usiu! Focus! Maybe… oh, this is perfect! YES!”

Somehow, Jordan had the distinct impression that it was not going to be perfect.

He continued to hang in the air, held by Usiu’s still present reflections, as the duo approached. Several mirrors swirled away to dance around them like her hair in her horns, and they came to him, arms full of gifts like wise men of old. Only there were two of them, instead of three, and these were female demons rather than godly male messengers.

At first, Jordan stared blankly as a small piece of cloth flew into the air, held aloft by one of the reflections. But then the Brat’s face twisted in a grimace a hundred times over in the mirrors as mortal fear gripped them all. The miscellaneous cloth dipped down and…

No. No, that… Oh God. God No. Noooo! His eyes bugged out as the light red pair of cute little pan…UNMENTIONABLES DeScEndED.

He had to stop this, he had to! THEY COULDN’T BE ON HIM. Every instinct in him went berserk as he began to flail like a wild animal. Power surged through him as his emotions exploded in a frenzy.

“Aure, what are yo—” The demon, surprised by Jordan’s desperate, renewed struggle, failed to hold him down and got a face full of Brat feet.

The maid snickered, “The Young Miss has been… feisty lately. Best of luck Usiu.” She turned away, leaving Jordan to the giant demon woman. She turned a slightly red face towards Jordan and…

Smiled.

“Very well. Let’s make this fun… shall we?” She hissed poisonously as she loomed over him like a starved animal, wings splayed with clawed fingers slicing the air.

“Oh no.” Jordan gulped as he trembled, taking a poor postured combat stance.

She smiled like she’d waited her whole life for this moment.

“Oh, YES!”

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The reflections in the mirror did not hold Jordan still anymore. Instead, they protected their fragile surfaces, and occasionally jabbed or poked at his nude form. For his part, Jordan had picked up the stool, brandishing it like a lion tamer before the beast before him. The towering demoness lazily circled around him to the sounds of her reflections jeering at him with words like “precious,” “beautiful,” and “doll.” They cut at his psyche until with concentrated effort, he began to block them out.

He was a man, and he would not wear what she presented—not now, not ever! He’d spend his whole damn life as a nude wild child if he had to. Or at least until he could find some boxers and pants.

It’s not even historically accurate! Jordan glared at the vulgar cloth. He was no expert on the Victorian era, but he was sure pa—modern female unmentionables were a rather recent invention. The garment she dangled in front of him, mocking him with the knowledge of what she wished to shame him with, should have been more like spats or shorts. That’s what people wore back then! Right? Not that… lingerie looking crap! He stubbornly thought.

She feinted a lunge, and Jordan fell for it. The demoness was so incredibly fast it barely seemed to matter what he did. He planted a foot and spun, trying to pivot in time to interpose his only weapon, but the monster slipped past his opening with contemptuous ease, running a hand along his waist almost sensually before she grasped him, spinning them both in a twirl. Before he could react, or hurl, Jordan found himself tossed up into the air as the demon grabbed the Brat’s leg and sent him into a skyward cartwheel.

Upside down and airborne, Jordan watched as the demon’s other hand shot out, knocking the stool out of his hands, only to stop it mid-flight with her foot. It fell back onto its legs in one smooth motion. He continued his mid-air acrobatics, feet above his head briefly as the demoness leaned down, holding something open wide that Jordan failed to react fast enough to anticipate. As his feet came back towards the ground, the Brat’s body toppling slightly to his side, the cloth was presented to catch him like the world’s worst net.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

He breathed rapidly, doing anything he could to escape the moment.

No. No this can’t… this can’t be happening! I have—the smooth cloth slid up the Brat’s legs, both of the Brat’s feet fitting the holes perfectly—It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I was supposed to—the Brat’s eyes drifted away, looking upward, anywhere but—put my foot down, make them stop. I’m a man! They can’t do—the world was slow, but the Brat’s body was swimming through it sluggishly—can’t look at it. Look at something else, like—it hugged the Brat’s body perfectly like it was made for—There’s… there’s a chandelier in here too. And… and the ceiling is slightly vaulted and—past the Brat’s knees the cloth felt tighter, quickly running out of room to travel—like a beige or something, right? Off white color, was the bedroom the same? I should have—up against the unmentionable area as the Brat’s feet landed on the stool—IcanfeelitIcanfeelitIcanfeelit–he feared a wedgie but she was just—oh god. Oh god please god no please no. Please.

Something in Jordan’s brain clicked. Sadly, it was not the good ‘Eureka!’ kind of click. More like a timing belt coming loose and something in the car rubbing against another part it really shouldn’t have. The kind of noise that suggested you needed to pull over before it exploded. Jordan felt he should have spent more time on cars, his dad had tried to teach him, but he kept blowing it off to play games. Brains weren’t cars, and neither were supposed to make clicking noises, right? That wasn’t right.

The demoness filled his vision, and Jordan, dazed, raised his arms in a boxer’s guard before pressing his assault. He had no idea what he was doing, but a part of his brain had melted and shut off due to Panty Trauma Stress Disorder. But the ‘woman’ before him met every poorly thrown punch with a light slap knocking the Brat’s trembling fists aside, laughing merrily at the game they were playing. She then released a quick, unfair tickle from one of her invisible copies, causing Jordan to shriek in surprise as she draped a long white cloth over the Brat’s head when the arms had shot up with shock.

It was startling how precise she was, catching both the Brat’s arms upwards she easily aimed the holes in the shirt around them, and in one smooth motion Jordan found his body covered as she yanked the cloth down. While the melted part of his brain appreciated not seeing the Brat’s body reflected endlessly before him, it didn’t stop what was left of his manly pride from throwing a poorly executed knee at the now kneeling demon’s face. She caught it, not even looking as the cloth fluttered around him the Brat.

Instead, she turned to meet his the Brat’s eyes, her facial expression wide with that venomous smile of hers. She looked as though she were about to say something, perhaps taunt him? But the Brat’s empty eyes gazed down at her with cold fury as Jordan commanded the body’s arms to raise, clasp hands, and drop an overhead smash.

The creature’s eyes, dark as night and lit by perdition, twinkled in mockery as she shot up, grabbing Jordan beneath the Brat’s arms and hurling him upward once more, spinning him as she did so. He immediately lost sight of her as he twisted in the air, spinning like a ballerina. He tried to do a spinning drop kick, desperate to use his vertical advantage to smite the demon. It might have been impressive… had she not been orchestrating his moves. His melted brain only now realized that this was a dance to her, and she knew every move he’d make. He was not the lead.

The socks that met the Brat’s drop kicking toes were as soft as clouds and twice as light. The Brat’s head turned at the sudden and unexpected sensation, but all Jordan saw as he fell was what he’d assumed was a shirt she’d put on him, was in fact a dress. It flared, its white cloth unadorned, devoid of decorations and plain, but as it flared into the skies it did nothing to protect and prevent the rushing sensation of cloying, gripping silk consuming the Brat’s feet, calves, and then thighs.

Jordan landed with a plop facing away from the Demoness, the stool now on two legs leaning opposite the side it had just been on—the creature had kicked it up slightly to catch him at his odd angle—and her arms outstretched to steady him. Jordan threw a backhanded elbow, but it bounced off her brazenly billowy bosom, his alliterative abandoned attention cracking under pressure.

He had failed to stop any of it. He was soiled now, in ways he couldn’t accept, and in a fashion that didn’t seem possible. Twirled about and played with like a… doll.

A doll. Him? It couldn’t—

Still dizzy from motion, rubbing away tears he the Brat kept shedding, Jordan tried to take solace with the fact that his ordeal was finally over. It was a good time to weep, distressing over his failings and torment, and he’d need to get it all out so he could prepare for what came next. At the moment, he knew it would take every ounce of willpower within him not to beg the judge for death. To release him from the hellish world he’d been trapped in.

From the cloth covered form that was becoming more and more difficult to reject as his own.

A whimper escaped his the Brat’s lips and Jordan saw the figures in the mirror shift to make room for the physical version of the demoness. She leaned over his the Brat’s shoulder; her chest larger than his the Brat’s head taking up most of his the Brat’s peripheral vision as her hair spilled down to obscure even more of it.

“This has been fun Aure. Really. Fun. But we’re running out of time, so I’m going to need to pick up the pace for the rest of it, okay?” She pouted at him.

“The… rest of it? T-there’s more?”

“Oh my precious doll, we’ve only just begun…” She whispered into his ears. T-the Brat’s ears.

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“YES!”

Jordan was spinning in place as the She-Devil placed another item across the Brat’s body. It hugged him disgustingly. His brain desperately attempted to dissociate itself from the Brat’s form, trying one last time to save what was Jordan before it was too late. Would he puke soon? He had hoped so, if just to spite her.

“Oh, I’ve wanted to put a training corset on you for so long Aure! I can’t wait to see what we shape that glorious figure of yours into… YES!” She set him still, and every hand of every reflection set themselves behind his sight. What were…?

Jordan’s breath shot out of his chest in an instant as every strand behind him was pulled taut. He’d thought she’d already tightened it, but he had been wrong. He was wrong about a lot of things lately.

There was an impossible sense of rushing motion in the stillness as Jordan’s whole world was snapped into place. The air it forced out came out as a squeak of protest as the Brat’s spine erected itself instantly, ram-rod straight. Jordan had a series of rapid conclusions after that.

First, Jordan had never felt that he had had bad posture. Sure, he spent lots of time sitting at a computer or vegging out, and that probably hadn’t helped him, but it couldn’t be that bad, right? He was wrong. Again. He had never had good posture, and he had been slacking back then.

But now? Now, the Brat’s spine was straight. Straight. Only the slightest, tiniest curve was allowed, a natural flow that caused Jordan to jut out the Brat’s chest despite his complete rejection of femininity. If the Brat had any assets, they’d be on display—an offering to the heavens. He wanted to die from the shame of it.

Second, after the She-Devil had tightened it, the corset had decided to up and finish what she started. Jordan stared as he saw the strings behind the Brat flying about on their own, tying themselves without the aid of the demon or her reflections.

That was… that was magic here? A self-tying corset? Really!? Jordan complained bitterly, before he had a brief moment of panic as he couldn’t breathe. It lasted only a second until glowing shapes on the garment steadied and he found air… rushed into the Brat’s lungs effortlessly. It was impossible, it had to be! But it was like he was suddenly sucking up air in greater volumes than before, hooked up to a damn hose or something. It also felt like the corset wasn’t even there. The feeling of puking he’d had vanished in an instant. That mostly just pissed Jordan off though. Vomiting on the She-Devil had been his only plan for resistance, and now it was gone? Just like that!?

Did she really anticipate everything from him!?

She smiled at him at that exact moment.

Oh no.

“YES!”

The She-Devil ran her hands possessively over Jordan’s… curves. Are tweens allowed to have curves? Sure, they weren’t much, but any hint of a girlish form was… unacceptable! He really did need to call Child Services! This was molestation! He was sure of it! Help! Send help! He needed an adult!

Succubus-maid returned, reluctant for some reason, with several large sheets, all with holes in them. More… dresses? Why? The Demon-pervert picked one she liked, and Jordan found his arms raising again, only this time he didn’t bother fighting it. The new sheet went up and over, a bright red that reflected off of the pupils of the two demons before him, as well as the smaller pale one that threatened his sanity in the reflections. It fell past the torso, resting loosely along the Brat’s hips covering the lower half of its form, until the Pervert-In-Chief ran her finger along the seams, and the whole thing shrunk, snuggling up flawlessly against the Brat’s frame.

Self-fitting clothes. Of course. Was it hot in here? Did anyone else taste static? Or was that lingering industrial mouthwash? Had he swallowed some? Would he die soon? Please?

Next came what looked like a spaghetti strap t-shirt. It covered the corset, and made the entire layer beneath it invisible. You couldn’t even see the indents from the corset’s clips! It was followed by a short black scarf that was draped across Jordan’s shoulders. He giggled. He couldn’t help it! He looked so silly! He looked just like a girl! Him! A GIRL! What a great joke! A long-sleeved, thin vest thing slid along the Brat’s his arms; the sleeves were a decorative black lace to accent well against the red petticoat.

Wait, he knew what a petticoat was? His below-stomach hurt. The pressure was too much. He felt like he was going to burst. They needed to stop! They were killing him! WHY WERE THERE SO MANY LAYERS!? They were so pretty~~ too!

It wasn’t done yet though, because of course it wasn’t.

Why would they care about his needs? He was their doll to play with! The Maid tied off a second skirt on top the first one as the She-Devil worked on smoothing out the upper layers and coaxing them to tighten into place. The newest, outermost layer was a darker red with black patterns. Thanks to it, Jordan would be more than a giant red blob. Wooo! It didn’t cover the entire lower half though, leaving the front of the—second layer? He had to guess—exposed.

Finally—or at least he fervently, desperately prayed with all his heart and soul was finally—one last piece was put on. Some kind of jacket that looked like it could button up along his front, though it didn’t look like the demons planned on doing so. It also didn’t stretch the full length of his arms, which allowed the lace beneath to show. The top was oddly shaped, and upon inspection Jordan realized that even if they did button it up that part would remain open. He suspected that was so you could see any of the ten thousand layers beneath it—or to show off certain assets he thankfully lacked.

The whole ensemble sealed itself up in one last magical sheen and subtle flash of light, and he was done. Right? Done? His poor stomach was near to bursting with anxious pressure.

Then the vultures descended on him. They hadn’t even started on his hair and makeup, after all.

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In Jordan’s mind, it felt like mere hours had passed since he’d arrived in this world. In truth, it was the morning of his third day. Three days to prepare himself. Three days to adapt himself. Three days to… well.

Three days was not long enough. If he had three years he still wouldn’t have been prepared.

Jordan stared dead eyed into a series of endless, rotating full-length mirrors orbiting him. His head swam with vertigo and his guts twisted with pressure from his torment. While his headache was gone, the pain in the Brat’s lower half only grew by the minute. He didn’t know if it was due to some unknown aftershocks of the cat-buns, or just stress.

Of course, it could have also been due to the demon that just tried to murder him. The one who had unmade him as a man.

Even now, she laughed, screaming in her unsettling way. She pleaded sweetly with him, but forced him, when he refused, to look upon her works—the reflections of lies that had grown to encompass his existence in the hell he’d been reborn into. She held the Brat’s eyes open and he drank in the meaning of despair.

How had he agreed to this? Why had he allowed this to happen?

He hadn’t thought it through, he hadn’t realized what was about to happen. If he had he would’ve run. He would’ve fought. He would’ve screamed, he would’ve begged. He would’ve done anything to avoid this. There were so many things he would have done.

But he knew the truth. There was nothing he could’ve done. Nothing. He’d ignored the signs. Ignored the obvious. The natural conclusion he should have foreseen. What had doomed him from the start.

What made going back impossible.

He should’ve known they would dress him like a girl.

“I missed being able to do this” The She-Devil released him from her clockwork orange hold. She mewed in satisfaction as she devoured the image of the Brat in her mirrors. Her eyes were wet with joy.

She looked so damn happy, and there was no doubt now—Jordan was making a list of people he hated in this world and she’d be number one. That damned smile, like a sideways half-moon crescent, so reminiscent of the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland, was the harbinger of his greatest defeat. It made his eyes itch. Or maybe that was the mascara? Who put that crap on a child!?

There was no fight left in him, it had been beaten out over the course of the fight. Fight? It was a slaughter! He’d put up nothing more than the most pitiful resistance. And now he was decorated, head to toe, a beautiful doll right at home in a manga or comic. It wasn’t quite gothic Lolita, though certainly the demonic eyes helped towards that, but…

There was something about staring at yourself that made it too real. The way a stranger wearing your soul in its eyes gazed at you.

It was the Brat’s body and all, but currently it felt… it felt like his own body. He’d been subjected to it. He’d felt it, through and through. There were no more secret, blushing places obscured from his knowledge. In fact, he knew this body better than his own.

Afterall, no one had ever lifted him up and twirled him like a toy while they covered every square inch of fleshy real-estate with unwholesome apparel after a full body scrubbing. Yet here he was.

For her part, the Brat in the mirror looked terribly uncomfortable. Close to tears really. She’d cried several times during the whole event, and a few splattering of tears could be seen on the mirrors. The She-bitch had turned him into a damn sprinkler, but thankfully the Brat had stopped crying. He… had stopped crying.

Even this body had limits, and water could only flow so much. It was a good thing, too, the way this stupid body he was trapped in could produce waterfalls was just… just…

W…waterfalls? Rushing… water? The… pain in his lower guts grew. The… pressure…?

The Brat’s eyes widened, opening larger than a cartoon character. Anime, or whatever.

Oh no.

No.

Nonononononono.

The Brat’s stomach hurt.

It hurt a lot, like a huge pressure that had been building this whole time but… out of sight out of mind?

It hurt. It…

“No… nonononon…. Please no….” The Brat practically whispered it out loud, but it was more than loud enough for the She-Bitch to notice. She turned, leaning down to look towards the Brat—because it couldn’t be Jordan, this was not happening to Jordan—and looked worried to see the contortion of pain reflecting on his the Brat’s face a thousand fold across the slowly dancing mirrors.

“Are… are you alright Aure? I didn’t hurt you, I’m sure of it. What’s wrong?”

The Brat’s his knees lost strength again and the whole damn body began tumbling down like a ragdoll. Usiu caught the Brat him easily, however, and looked back towards the maid questioningly.

The Harlot’s Horde sniffed at the air and cocked a head with equal inquisitiveness. They had had their fun, but now? Now they were genuinely worried. Had something gone wrong? Was the Young Miss’ heart… no, it couldn’t have been rejected. They’d both heard where it came from. What it had come from.

What was wrong then?

The Young Miss began to cry again. She’d been doing that a lot lately, but this time it was only a little cry. Just a small trickle of tears streaming down. She was in pain. Tremendous pain. It excited the Harlot a little to taste it in the air, but she had her orders. The duo tried to get her to answer them, but she was stoic in her suffering. Staring off, like she wasn’t even there.

Jordan was hurting more than he thought possible. It wasn’t his stomach that hurt though, nor was it the Magic-second-stomach either.

But it was close to that spot.

A swollen little pouch of pain he’d felt earlier but ignored. Like a balloon billowed out near the unmentionable location. He had overlooked it. He couldn’t face what it meant.

But of course it would happen eventually—it was natural.

Everyone had this happen to them; you couldn’t avoid it!

But wasn’t this supposed to be a fantasy world? This kind of thing didn’t happen in the fantasy world!. They didn’t happen in stories like this!

It hurt, but of course it would.

It was only natural after three days and so much tea. Actions had consequences. It was like Thanos. Inevitable.

“…I…. I-I need… to… pee.”

There would be no going back.

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