If this is your first story by me, it is not indicative of my usual content. This is a co-written story between me and my mommy-type, Kachan. Kachan also enjoys writing but she doesn’t usually write in this fetish arena so it’s got a very different flavor to it.
This is NOT a fetish story.
This is NOT my usual smut.
This is NOT a Diaper Dimension story.
There may be some romance in it because I am incapable of writing a story without a romantic subplot (yes it’s lesbians, yes I realize I ruined the ‘may be’ already) but there isn’t going to be a lot of diaper grinding and moaning in this one. It’s not my usual stuff.
There isn’t even THAT much diaper content in the story, I’ll be honest.
Still with me? Good.
I believe that this is a good story. I believe that it’s worth reading and I hope you’ll join me on another chapter-a-day journey.
Sightlines is an Urban Fantasy set in a pretty bleak world. It’s a tale of struggle and pain and I’ve enjoyed writing it with Kachan.
If you’re reading to get off, go read Chapter None of “Breaking the Girl” again
But if you’re ready for a wild trip, here we go.
One more thing…
Warning: This story contains blood, gore, death, violence, and Witches. I am not going to put a trigger warning for every bit of violence in the story, but I’ll still give out trigger warnings for really heinous things. This whole story has a violence/blood/gore trigger warning. It’s not my usual sweet, kind, loving, romantic fare. It’s a dystopia.
The moon hung full and bloated above the city skyline. It was late August and the silvery light was washed out in the thick haze and noise and steady burn of the citylights, but Rachel didn’t need blackness or moonlight to finish her job. She was a consummate professional in that regard - get in, get it done, get out without a trace. She was a mystery, the boogeyman for monsters, and in her world the best way to banish monsters was to be a worse one.
Finally, movement in the window. Rachel shifted slightly, one eye pressed to her scope and chewed her lower lip in quiet contemplation. Sarah Trippoli had a schedule, a routine - stupid for a mob boss, but Sarah had grown decadent and lazy in her old age - one that Rachel had full intentions of taking advantage of. She’d drop her keys in the bowl by the door, kick off the Manolo Blahniks, shimmy out of her bra, and let her hair down. Literally. Her white hair would cascade over her shoulders, she’d breathe a visible sigh of relief, and the White Witch of Winchester would cross her penthouse to turn on her gas fireplace, flip on some jazz, and pour herself the first glass of sherry before ordering her nightly meal.
Rachel tensed all her muscles and then released them in order as Sarah moved through her routine. She slowed her heartbeat, relaxed as deeply as she could, and blinked slowly through her scope.
When her finger squeezed the trigger it was as it always was - Rachel wasn’t Rachel anymore, she was the infamous Witchhunter, and her job was nearly done.
When Sarah toppled, Rachel should have been up and out - breaking down her rifle and escaping. Strip off the mottled black clothing, stuff it into the garbage bag with her hat and shoes, ready to dump in the donation bin at the end of the alley. Beneath, she had a much more unassuming outfit, something a human who wasn’t part of the Resistance would wear - a slinky silver shirt and a red skirt that was currently rolled up around her waist above the skintight black pants like a belt. She’d drop it, slip on the sandals she had laying beside her on the tarpaper roof, and shake out her own red hair. She’d stash her gun at the drop point and vanish into the crowd. She’d walk casually, blending in with all the others who lived under the thumb of the Witches.
Like any other job. Like every other job.
Except she hesitated for a bare second longer than normal, her eye pressed to the scope. The Witch dropped. Fine. Dandy. Normal.
But then a flash, a light turning on. Two windows over. Sarah had the penthouse and she lived alone.
Oh shit, is there someone there?! A maid? Fuck!
Witches broke apart about two hours after death. All that was ever left was ash and grease. Rachel was always extremely careful about timing her jobs so that the Witch in question was alone and would be for the rest of the night. Otherwise everyone and their Familiar would be scrambling over the body, trying to figure out what was going on, who did it, etc.
Messy, in other words.
“Fuck,” Rachel breathed, holding a hand to her forehead as she watched. Oh god, I fucked up bad. Bad-bad-super-bad.
Faye was confused by the sound in the other room - it was a bang and a thump. Something in the back of her mind, what was left of her mind, told her that it was a bad sound, a scary sound, that she should run… but the thought was fuzzy and distant. The red glow that held her leash to the wall had disappeared, letting the thin chain drop to the ground the same way it did when she was released. She waddled over to the door, the crinkle of every step destroying the silence of the empty room as she pushed the switch up the same way the white-haired woman did.
The lights came on with the same magic they always did, filling the room with the brightness of daylight even though the sun had long set. Faye remembered the sun vaguely, that it made her skin feel warm just by being in its light, not the same as the magic light of this place. Her leash made a soft scratching sound as it dragged on the floor, the rings on her cuffs tinkling as she pushed the door open.
“Owner?” she called softly. “Mommy?” She wasn’t sure which word she was supposed to use here, the rules were all so confusing. There was a draft in the room, a chill, and the hairs on her arms stood up as her nipples grew pointy and hard. It was uncomfortable but she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do about it. The woman whose face occupied nearly every memory she had lay lifeless on the ground, blood seeping from a hole in her forehead.
That wasn’t supposed to be there, she was sure of it. Faye felt her bladder release into the waiting padding taped around her. Her Owner liked that, praised her for it. Faye hoped that it would help her get up. The Whisper thrilled at her lack of control and she felt a wave of pleasure rush through her body as the diaper grew warm around her. She walked as best she could to her Mommy, falling to her knees beside her, nudging her gently.
This woman, her Owner, her Mommy, was her entire life. Every moment was either spent in the box, or the cage, or the dark room… except when she was with her Owner. Learning. Feeling.
“I exist only to serve you,” she said quietly, gently shaking her Owner. “How may I serve you?” Why was she asleep now?
She stuck to her allowed words, she had learned quickly that her Owner did not appreciate deviation. As she watched the blood creep across the floor, licking at her knees, she felt some of the woman’s magic let go… the muddled and murky memory of meeting her Owner for the first time came to her. She had been a servant of some kind, offering food… she had been wearing clothes then, so it was different than now, but she had apparently always been a servant. How she had come home with her Owner, though she couldn’t remember why, she just remembered that she had always been unable to refuse the woman.
She remembered the knife cutting away her clothes. Remembered her own blood being spilled as the magic took hold and hollowed out a place inside her soul, a place where the Whisper now lived, a part of her. Nothing existed before serving Mommy that night, and the memories that followed were a mix of intense, mind-bending pleasure and terrifying, agonizing pain. Pleasure when she pleased her Mommy, pain when she angered her Owner.
She knew she was stupid, her Owner had told her that so many times. But she knew that she was sweet, her Mommy had told her that just as many. The Whisper loved both the pleasure and the pain. Even in the agony, she felt its joy… but nothing made it - and thus her - feel as good as serving, following her Owner’s wishes, being her Owner’s toy.
“Owner,” she whispered to the rapidly cooling corpse, not understanding why she didn’t respond the way she always did, “I want to please you. How may I please you?”
Rachel looked around the scope, just to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her before looking through it again, watching the small blonde girl. She moved tentatively, timidly, but she walked straight for the White Witch’s corpse.
It didn’t make sense. Sarah had never had a familiar. Not in seventy years of torturing and killing, of kidnapping and abusing. But there she was, sure enough. A tiny blonde thing, wearing a collar and leash, cuffs, a diaper and nothing else.
Brand new, or she wouldn’t need the leash.
How did I fuck up this job so bad, she moaned inwardly.
Of course, it wasn’t entirely her fault - the Winchester Witch-bitch had been vocally disdainful of Familiars for decades. Any Witch who needed a Familiar was a lesser Witch - Sarah’s opinion had been well known. This, of course, ignored the fact that many Witches kidnapped or purchased Familiars for reasons other than power, but so far as the vicious mob boss had been concerned, power was the end-all, be-all.
Problem was… Familiars were helpless. Most of the time they were enslaved humans magically turned Little - it made them easier to control and abuse and hollow out. Others were natural born Littles - nobody was sure when Littles had first started appearing in the human population - they were mostly human, just smaller, more naturally docile. They had big eyes and big hearts and they rarely grew above four feet. A Little being born to a family was a bittersweet event - they almost never remained free through adulthood… more often than not they were sold to the Witches by the family. It could be seen as a blessing. Though Rachel didn’t see it that way.
On very rare occasion, Rachel had seen a Familiar from the Other Place - the incubi, the succubi, the cherubs and ishim - but they were expensive and difficult to control, few Witches could deal with it. They were powerful, sure - Rachel had a scar on her left leg from a fight with a succubus - but challenging for any but the most experienced of Mages. If the Familiar Rachel spied through her scope had been one of those she could’ve happily packed up and left, not giving the Familiar a second thought. A powerful Familiar would eventually figure out a way out of its own bondage without a Witch constantly checking in and keeping them in line.
A Little, however…
Groaning, Rachel rose to her knees and began breaking down her rifle. She’d have to figure out a way to sneak into the highest security building in the fucking city, get up to the penthouse without a key, somehow break open undoubtedly warded door, and then… steal the Familiar? Rescue her? And then what? Deliver her to Oliver and his crew - or someone else who could take care of her, Rachel supposed. There was hope for a rescued Familiar, depending on how bad the damage was. They could live normal-ish lives… in hiding. If this girl had been fully human once, there was no hope of undoing the transformation, but as long as she was still new…
The Familiar was kneeling over the dead body, a heartbreakingly confused expression on her face. Yep. Definitely new. Still new enough that she had some sense of self left, at least. A better Familiar - one who’d been ground into unthinking obedience already - wouldn’t have left their room. Wouldn’t have turned on a light. Wouldn’t have moved without the Witch’s say-so. Would’ve died of dehydration before shifting an iota. What the Witches did to those poor souls was unforgivable.
“Damn it all to hell,” Rachel cursed and shimmied her skirt down, dropping her “street” clothes into the donation bag rather than her stealth outfit. This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go. If she had any fucking sense she’d let the girl starve. Why in the fuck was she risking her neck to rescue…
No. She knew why.
“I’m an idiot,” Rachel sighed and finished changing. Oh well, if I get caught I had a good run, right? All I have to do is get past two dozen lesser Witches, goons, and assembled assholes and then figure out a way to kidnap a Familiar who may or may not be suicidal. Sure. No problem. Easy peasy.