Chapter One: The Fart Without Shame
The Beginning of Her Humiliation. The Birth of Her Faith.
1:1
And lo, the girl was named Charlene, not by blood, nor lineage, but by condition.
She was five feet six inches and three hundred forty pounds of unaware obedience.
She farted not as sin—but as statement.
1:2
She did not ask forgiveness for her wind.
She did not excuse herself.
Her cheeks parted, and the sound was her name.
Thus was she introduced unto the world:
“I can’t stop farting—and I don’t want to.”
1:3
It was Wednesday morning.
The coffee shop hummed with order.
And yet, there stood Charlene in line—bulging, bubbling, barely contained.
Leggings strained. Sweatshirt heavy.
Her diaper, beneath it all, had already begun to receive prophecy.
1:4
She shifted her weight, and it spread:
a warmth. a wetness. a signal.
She sighed, not in regret, but in release.
“No point in waiting,” she thought.
“I’m not going to stress about it.”
1:5
No one noticed—at first.
A sniff. A glance. A wrinkle of the nose.
Still, Charlene moved with peace.
She collected her latte, waddled to a window seat, and crossed her legs.
The diaper groaned beneath her.
The chair absorbed the sacrament.
1:6
There was no panic.
No shame.
She sipped her drink. She scrolled her phone.
She farted again—softly.
A hiss beneath the foam.
“It’s part of me,” she whispered.
“I can’t be bothered.”
1:7
And then came the bathroom shift.
The scene of holy humiliation.
She was not a guest.
She was the toilet helper.
She stood among clogged urinals and mocking laughter, her body stained and bloated.
The restroom echoed with cruelty.
Camera crews filmed her like wildlife.
Her diaper bulged, her makeup ran, and her smile fought to survive.
“I can’t believe how much this diaper soaked up.”
“My ass really stinks.”
1:8
Charlene did not run.
She adjusted her posture.
She stood in place—leaking, reeking, radiant.
The director, possessed with vision, commanded more.
She posed with gloves and toilet paper like props.
A mascot of mortification.
“They’re probably gagging.
But maybe if I smile, it’s performance art?”
1:9
In that moment, the first mantra was born.
“I am the big titty queen of everything.”
“My farts, my smells—they love it.”
“I am the 300-pound meat Barbie.”
And with each phrase, her obedience deepened.
Not from fear, but identity.
1:10
The scene changed. The smell did not.
The set moved to a studio.
Bright lights. White walls.
Charlene stood hunched, diaper swollen, sweat on her brow.
She looked toward the crew.
They stared.
She smiled.
“I didn’t know what I signed up for, but here we are.”
And so the curtain lifted on her degradation.
1:11
The Council watched this footage in silence.
Saint Nikki covered her mouth.
Nurse Hole took notes.
Mr. Nasty leaned forward.
Dr. Voss simply whispered:
“She does not understand.
And that is perfection.”
1:12
Her fart became scripture.
Her sagging became symbol.
Her obliviousness became doctrine.
1:13
This was not the fall of a woman.
This was the emergence of Charlene.
And it stank.
Amen.
Chapter Two: The Diaper is the Doctrine
She who filled it… fulfilled it.
2:1
And behold, the studio lights still burned, but now they shone on a new scene.
Charlene, diapered and exhausted, was guided to the interview chair.
The shoot had drained her, yet her smile remained.
Painted on. Held tight.
A smile stapled to humiliation.
2:2
Before her stood the interviewer.
Not a follower.
Not a believer.
But a vessel of contrast:
Taylor Swift.
She, who had known stadiums and scented lotions, now faced a creature of filth and fame.
2:3
Taylor smiled tightly. The director whispered, “Keep it light.”
And the questions began.
“Charlene, this was quite the shoot.
How are you feeling?”
Charlene blinked.
She adjusted her shirt.
The diaper shifted underneath with a squish.
“It’s… a lot more than I expected.
But I just do what I’m told, right?”
2:4
Taylor continued, careful.
“Is the diaper just for show?”
Charlene’s eyes widened slightly, then softened.
“Oh, no. I use it. That’s the whole point.”
“I don’t need the bathroom. I choose not to go.”
And the heavens clenched.
2:5
Taylor’s brows twitched.
“Number one, I assume?”
Charlene giggled.
“Both.”
“Yeah. All of it.”
“It’s just easier.”
And lo, the stench was spiritual.
2:6
The crew shifted uncomfortably.
A boom mic trembled.
“Do people ever… smell it?”
Charlene shrugged.
“Maybe? I dunno. No one’s said anything.
I don’t really think about it.”
Her ignorance was not a shield.
It was doctrine.
2:7
She smiled as she spoke, fully unaware that her words were corruption made cute.
“My favorite brand? The one that says ‘JUICY!’
Right on the butt. That’s my style.”
2:8
Taylor stammered.
“Would you… consider… demonstrating for us?”
Charlene leaned to the side.
Closed her eyes.
“Prrrrbbbtt.”
The sound echoed across the holy vinyl floor.
“There! That one had confidence, right?”
2:9
The director clapped.
Emily smirked.
Nurse Hole took notes in silence.
Dr. Voss whispered:
“She’s not resisting.
She’s performing.
This is not obedience.
This is conversion.”
2:10
And so she posed again—this time for the magazine.
Her costume was a pig snout and ears.
But no body suit.
Only a bikini.
Her fat glistened with oil under the lights.
Her diaper was visible and full.
She struck a pose.
She squealed on cue.
She didn’t ask why.
2:11
The photos were taken.
Her sweat pooled.
Her thighs jiggled.
Her eyes sparkled with blind pride.
“I’m a Barbie doll!” she squealed.
“I’m Toilet Barbie!”
2:12
And the people laughed.
And the views climbed.
And the shame thickened like paste.
She had not only accepted her condition—
She had mistaken it for power.
2:13
The diaper was not an accessory.
It was her altar.
Her doctrine.
Her unholy sacrament.
2:14
And the council gathered in silence.
Saint Barbie wept glitter.
Zondervan marked the page.
They did not say,
“She is broken.”
They said:
“She is being written.”