The Crimson Crown

The hours after lunch stretched on endlessly, the monotony of scrubbing floors consuming everything around us. The hallways remained eerily quiet, the castle itself seeming to mourn alongside its people. My body moved mechanically, the ache in my arms and knees a constant reminder of the labor we had endured all day. The only sound was the rhythmic scrape of brushes against stone and the occasional slosh of water as we dipped our sponges into the murky buckets.

The padding between my legs had grown heavy, the warmth from earlier wettings long gone, replaced by the swollen bulk of the soaked diaper pressing against me with every movement. I tried to ignore it, focusing on my work, but the squish of the padding was impossible to tune out completely, a constant reminder of my humiliation.

It was Clara, however, who drew my attention. She was quieter than usual, her movements stiff and uneven as she scrubbed at the stones beside me. Every few minutes, she shifted uncomfortably, her knees shuffling as though trying to find a position that didn’t bother her.

I glanced at her from the corner of my eye, noting the slight tension in her shoulders and the way her brush strokes had grown more erratic. She paused for a moment, her hand gripping the edge of the bucket as she took a slow, deliberate breath, her face pale and drawn.

"Clara?" I ventured softly, my voice barely above a whisper. She didn’t look at me, her jaw tightening as she resumed scrubbing with renewed vigor.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, her tone clipped, though the sharpness didn’t quite mask the strain behind it.

It took me a moment to piece it together, but when I did, a flush of secondhand embarrassment crept up my neck. The fidgeting, the stiffness, the way her knees pressed together whenever she paused—it was painfully clear what she was fighting.

She didn’t want to poop her diaper.

I felt a pang of sympathy mixed with my sense of humiliation. I’d been there, the shame and discomfort of accepting the inevitable weighing heavily on my pride. Clara, so used to her independence, was fighting a battle she couldn’t win, and the struggle was written all over her face.

“Clara,” I said gently, setting my brush aside for a moment. “You can’t hold it all day.”

Her head snapped up, her glare sharp despite the flush that colored her cheeks. “I know that,” she hissed, her voice low but tense. “But I’m not... I’m not doing that unless I absolutely have to.”

I bit my lip, unsure what to say. Part of me wanted to offer comfort, to reassure her that the humiliation would pass, that it wasn’t as bad as she thought. But the other part of me—the part still wrestling with my shame—knew that no words would make it easier for her.

“We’ll be done soon,” I said finally, though I wasn’t sure if it was true. “Maybe we’ll make it back to the room before—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted sharply, her face twisted in frustration. “Just... don’t.”

I nodded, falling silent as we returned to our work. The tension between us was palpable, the quiet punctuated by Clara’s occasional shifting and the faint, muffled sound of my diaper crinkling with each movement. The hours dragged on, the weight of the day pressing down on both of us, but I couldn’t help glancing at Clara, the strain in her posture growing more obvious with every passing minute.

Her resolve was admirable, but I knew how this ended. I’d been there. And as much as I wanted to spare her the inevitable, there was nothing I could do but scrub the floor beside her and hope she could endure the shame with the same quiet strength she had shown me earlier.

Clara’s whimper cut through the quiet like a knife, and my brush stilled in my hand as I turned to look at her. Her shoulders were hunched, her head bowed low, her hair falling in a curtain around her face as though to shield her from what was happening. The sound was barely audible at first, a soft, broken whine, but it was enough to make my chest tighten with sympathy.

Her body tensed, her knees pressing together as she shifted uncomfortably, the fight she had been waging all day finally slipping from her grasp. The first muffled sound of her diaper filling reached my ears, and I saw her shoulders tremble, her hands clenching into fists against the stone floor.

“No... no...” she whispered, her voice cracking as tears began to streak her flushed cheeks. Her whimpers turned into soft sobs, her entire frame shaking as she gave in, her body betraying her pride and dignity in the most humiliating way possible.

I sat back on my heels, unsure of what to do, unsure if anything I could say would make it better. Her quiet cries filled the hallway, her shame so palpable it made my chest ache. I wanted to reach out, to comfort her somehow, but I knew how deeply the humiliation must have cut.

“It’s... it’s okay,” I managed weakly, though I wasn’t sure if I was trying to reassure her or myself. My voice sounded hollow, the words falling flat in the heavy air between us.

Clara shook her head sharply, her tears falling faster now as her sobs grew louder. “No, it’s not,” she choked out, her voice raw with shame. “It’s not okay. This isn’t okay.”

Her words struck me, each one a painful reminder of how far we’d both fallen. This wasn’t just about the indignity of her soiled diaper or the shame of losing control—it was about everything. The loss of our freedom, our dignity, our very selves. And now, Clara, so strong and sure, had been reduced to this.

I hesitated, then crawled closer to her, my own body aching from the long hours of work. Gently, I placed a hand on her shoulder, feeling the tension in her frame as she continued to cry softly.

“You’re not alone,” I said quietly, my voice trembling as I fought to keep my tears at bay. “I know it’s hard. I know it’s awful. But you’re not alone, Clara. We’ll get through this. Together.”

She didn’t respond, her sobs continuing unabated, but she didn’t pull away from my touch either. I stayed there beside her, offering what little comfort I could as the moments stretched on. Her tears eventually began to subside, her breathing evening out as the weight of her shame settled into a quieter, heavy silence.

I didn’t push her to speak, didn’t ask her if she was ready to keep going. For now, I just stayed by her side, letting her take the time she needed to piece herself back together. 

Clara wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, her breathing still uneven but steadier now. She sniffled softly, her cheeks still flushed as she pushed her hair out of her face, trying to regain a shred of composure. Her gaze flickered to me briefly before darting away, the humiliation in her expression sharp enough to cut.

“We... we have to finish,” she said quietly, her voice trembling but firm. “If we don’t, Mistress will make it worse.”

I nodded my own throat tight with sympathy. “You’re right,” I replied softly, picking up my brush again. “Let’s finish this.”

Clara hesitated, her hands lingering in her lap before she finally reached for her brush. Her movements were slower than usual, her shoulders still tense, but she forced herself to dip the brush into the soapy water and return to the task at hand. I could see it in her posture, in the tightness of her jaw—every movement was a struggle, not just because of the work but because of the mess caking her rear that she now had to endure.

As we resumed scrubbing, I caught glimpses of her out of the corner of my eye. Each time she shifted, a faint grimace crossed her face, her lips pressing into a thin line as the contents of her diaper squished uncomfortably against her. Her discomfort was palpable, her pride visibly wounded as she forced herself to keep working.

I wanted to say something, anything, to ease her humiliation, but the words caught in my throat. What could I possibly say that wouldn’t make it worse? So I kept my head down, focusing on the floor in front of me as the minutes dragged on, the air between us heavy with unspoken tension.

Clara’s breathing hitched now and then, a soft noise of discomfort escaping her lips as she adjusted her position. My chest tightened with sympathy, but I didn’t look up, didn’t risk meeting her eyes. She was trying so hard to push through it, to maintain what little dignity she could, and I knew the last thing she wanted was for me to acknowledge her struggle.

The rhythm of our scrubbing filled the hallway once more, the sound a dull, monotonous backdrop to the quiet shame that hung over us. The work was slow and tedious, but I could feel Clara’s determination in every brushstroke, her resolve to finish the task outweighing her mortification.

As much as I hated to see her like this, there was a strange sort of strength in her persistence. Even in her lowest moment, she kept going, refusing to let the humiliation define her. It was a lesson I didn’t fully understand yet, but I could feel it settling into the back of my mind, a quiet reminder of the resilience we both needed to survive this.

The final stroke of my brush felt heavier than it should have, my arms trembling from exhaustion as I leaned back on my heels, breathing hard. Clara sat back, too, her movements stiff, her face set in an expression of tight-lipped determination. Neither of us spoke as we gathered our buckets and sponges, the silence thick with the weight of the day.

We made our way through the castle’s dim corridors, the faint flicker of torchlight casting long shadows on the stone walls. My legs ached with every step, my soaked diaper squishing uncomfortably with each movement, but I kept my head down, willing myself to push through the humiliation. Clara walked beside me, her shoulders hunched, her eyes focused ahead as though avoiding her thoughts.

As we approached the dining hall, the familiar buzz of conversation reached my ears, subdued but present. My stomach growled faintly at the promise of food, though my appetite was dulled by exhaustion. We stepped inside, the warmth of the room a stark contrast to the cool corridors, and I felt a faint flicker of relief—until I saw her.

Mistress stood near the center of the hall, her piercing gaze sweeping over the assembled servants like a hawk surveying its prey. My heart sank, my steps faltering as her eyes landed on us, sharp and unrelenting.

“Stop,” she commanded, her voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward us as Mistress approached, her expression unreadable but undeniably firm.

Clara stiffened beside me, her knuckles whitening around the handle of her bucket. I forced myself to look away from Mistress’s gaze, my chest tight as she stopped in front of us, her presence imposing.

Her eyes swept over us, taking in our tired faces, our soiled aprons, and—inevitably—the faint bulge beneath our skirts. Her nostrils flared slightly, and a faint, knowing smirk curled at the corners of her lips.

“Well,” Mistress said, her tone cold but laced with something almost amused. “It seems my little servants have had a rather... humbling day.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, my face burning with shame as she took a deliberate step closer, her eyes narrowing as she studied us. “I can see it in your faces, your posture,” she continued, her voice low and deliberate. “How submissive it’s made you. How compliant. Yes... this is good. Very good.”

Clara shifted beside me, her breathing uneven as Mistress’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer. The faintest flicker of defiance crossed Clara’s features, but it was quickly snuffed out as Mistress’s smirk widened.

“But,” Mistress added sharply, her tone turning colder, “even submission must come with perfection. And I expect my servants to be immaculate at all times.”

She straightened, her hands clasping behind her back as she regarded us with an air of superiority. “After dinner, you will both return to your room. I will stop by shortly to ensure you are both clean and presentable once more. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Clara and I murmured in unison, our voices barely above whispers.

Mistress gave a curt nod, her smirk still firmly in place as she turned and strode away, her heels clicking sharply against the stone floor. The dining hall buzzed back to life as the other servants returned to their meals, but the weight of her presence lingered, pressing down on me like a heavy cloak.

Clara exhaled shakily beside me, her grip on her bucket relaxing slightly. She didn’t say anything, and neither did I, as we made our way to the closest, returning our buckets and then heading to the serving line for dinner. The humiliation of the day had reached its peak, but somehow, we had to endure. Dinner was only a brief reprieve before the next ordeal, and we both knew it.

Clara moved stiffly as we shuffled through the serving line, her face a mask of discomfort and barely contained frustration. Her hands trembled faintly as she scooped the bland porridge into her bowl, her movements slow and deliberate as though trying to buy herself time. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, her discomfort so palpable it made my chest tighten.

As we found a seat at the edge of the hall, Clara hesitated, her gaze darting to the bench as though it were a trap. She carefully placed her bowl on the table before sinking onto her knees instead of sitting. Her face burned with embarrassment, but she kept her head down, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

I didn’t say anything, knowing how humiliating the day had already been for her. Instead, I sat quietly, my discomfort a constant reminder of our shared predicament as I stirred the porridge in my bowl without much appetite.

Clara tried to focus on her meal, spooning small bites of the porridge into her mouth as her posture remained stiff and awkward. But we weren’t alone for long.

Mistress’s sharp heels clicked against the stone floor, her imposing presence cutting through the low hum of conversation in the hall. I stiffened, my spoon hovering midair as she approached. Clara’s eyes widened, her spoon clattering against her bowl as Mistress stopped beside our table, her gaze narrowing as she took in the sight before her.

“Clara,” Mistress said smoothly, her voice dripping with feigned sweetness. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Clara’s breath hitched, her hands tightening into fists in her lap as she looked up at Mistress, her face pale and stricken. “I... I was just...”

“Just what?” Mistress interrupted, her tone icy as she leaned in slightly. Her sharp gaze flicked to the bench before returning to Clara. “It seems to me as though you’re deliberately disobeying my rules. Is that correct?”

Clara’s lips parted, but no sound came out. She glanced at me briefly, her eyes wide with panic, before looking down at the table.

“No, Mistress,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mistress’s smirk widened, her eyes glinting with something far too close to amusement. “Then sit properly,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Clara hesitated, her shoulders trembling as she slowly unfolded her legs. She glanced at me once more, her cheeks burning, before reluctantly lowering herself onto the bench. The moment her bottom met the hard surface, her expression twisted in discomfort, a faint, muffled squish audible even over the low chatter of the hall.

Mistress chuckled softly, her grin widening as she watched Clara squirm. “There we go,” she said, her voice dripping with mock approval. “Much better. See how quickly my little girls learn when they’re given proper guidance?”

Clara’s hands clenched tightly around her spoon, her jaw taut as she stared at her bowl, refusing to meet Mistress’s gaze. I could feel the humiliation radiating off her, her normally sharp demeanor crumbling under Mistress’s scrutiny.

“And how sweet,” Mistress continued, her tone almost syrupy as she straightened, glancing between us. “It seems a little discomfort has reminded you both of your place. Perhaps I should make this a more permanent arrangement.”

Her words hung in the air as she turned and walked away, her sharp heels clicking against the stone once more. The tension at our table was suffocating, Clara’s breathing shallow and uneven as she fought to regain her composure. I wanted to say something, anything, to comfort her, but the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, I focused on my bowl, forcing a small bite of porridge past the lump in my throat as the weight of Mistress’s presence lingered heavily over us. It was a cruel reminder of how far we had fallen and how much further we still had to endure.