Copyright (c) 1995 by Babydoc.
Doug Easton paused, as he often did, as he entered the drugstore. Did he really want to do this? He was twenty-eight years old, and had a lot to lose if he was caught. After several years of working on Wall Street after college, he'd decided that he wanted to switch gears totally and get into a basic science graduate program, get his Ph.D. and teach or do research or something interesting and not so stressful. He'd come to this mid-sized town on the eastern seaboard because it had such an excellent program. He'd taken the pre-req's and gotten a job in the lab where he wanted to work as a grad student, as a way of networking his way into a position in the program. It was now October, and he'd worked for several months now. It looked very promising. He simply had to take the GRE's on Saturday, a week from today, and do well enough not to embarrass himself, and the odds were that he would be accepted for the following year. He had a lot riding on getting in, since he'd sacrificed so much to get to this point. It would be horrible to screw it up now.
But he'd shopped for diapers to satisfy his part-time fetish for so many years now, he knew he had little to fear. No one yet had bothered him or asked him to explain his purchases. He'd never run into anyone important. When he'd started buying disposable diapers several years ago, he'd always been sure to have a good story on hand in case the cashier got curious. He could never decide whether to use the one about having a sick grandparent or the riskier and more embarrassing one about having an intermittant medical problem. But he'd never had to use a story: no one had ever asked *why* he was buying the diapers. This always disappointed him in a way, as part of the fun of buying the diapers was the implied humiliating nature of the purchase. Later, as he got bolder, he would heighten his excitement by shopping for diapers or pads while wearing one, and he was careful to make it not so obvious that anyone would notice (he thought) but that if given a clue (eg. shopping in the incontinence section) another shopper or a clerk might put the crinkly sound together with the bulge and the slight waddle. And *still* no one ever commented or even looked at him strangely, so he'd long since assumed that people were simply too self-absorbed and not observant enough. Some of the thrill of the purchase had departed for him; today he hadn't even bothered with wearing a diaper.
He put any nervousness he had aside and stepped further into the store. What he saw amazed him. The incontinence section was larger than any Doug had ever seen. Instead of being set off by itself in a little corner of the store, it was smack in the middle. As he cautiously approached it, he could see shelves of large, plump plastic bags awaiting him, and he felt that familiar excitement. The aisles were wide, and the intervening shelves fairly short, so as he entered the first aisle he was acutely aware of how visible he was. He was in plain view of the rest of the store, and felt a little more vulnerable than he liked. He looked around, though, and no one else seemed to be around, not even sales people. He wondered briefly how such a large store could stay in business.
He shook off his nerves, and went about his routine of cataloguing the store's inventory in his head. In most stores this was easy--no more than two brands of diapers, and usually the same two everywhere. But here, the supply was vast, with many brands of which he had never even heard. He was disoriented, and, in the end, completely startled when his reverie was interrupted by a female voice behind him.
"Can I help you?"
He whirled around, and saw a lady in her late fifties with a kind-looking face and a helpful expression. "What?" he stammered.
"I said, can I help you, young man?" she repeated.
"Oh," he said, too threatened to think clearly. "No. Thank you. I'm, uh, fine."
But she was persistent, to his surprise and dismay. "Is there anything I can help you find?"
"No, no," he said, trying to be nonchalant. "I'm just...looking around." He only realized after he said it how ridiculous that sounded in an incontinence section. He blushed a bright red.
But she smiled warmly, as if she'd heard this before. She stepped closer to him and lowered her voice, though the store was still empty. "Sir, there are only two reasons why anyone ever shops in this section. One, they are looking for a specific item, or two, they have a specific problem they need to solve.. Okay? Now, you look a little embarrassed to be here and perhaps anxious to get out in a hurry. Am I right?"
He nodded as if in a trance. This had never happened before, he was dazed, and he had no idea where this was all headed.
She smiled in response and touched his arm. "Alright, well, I can help you do either thing faster and more efficiently, so that you can leave sooner," she said conspiratorily. "If you need to find a certain item, I can show you quickly where it is, so you can make your purchase and get out. Do you know exactly what you need?" He realized that she wanted the specific brand name of a product. He wasn't sure, of course, what they had, or even what he wanted to walk out of here with. So he said, truthfully, "Not really."
She then smiled another smile, one that was intended to give him moral support for whatever problem she figured he'd just discovered he had. "In that case, I can be of even more help. I can show you what we have, tell you what the differences are, and we can decide together what product will best suit your needs. Now, I don't have to tell you how important a custom fit is when it comes to wetting: I know you want a product that will always keep you dry. I guess we both know that accidents are even more embarrassing than shopping for diapers. Am I right?" she asked, nodding sympathetically.
He found himself nodding along with her, since that's what she clearly wanted him to do, even as he wondered how *she* knew what accidents were like, and even though he had never had an "accident" that wasn't on purpose. He was starting to feel many different and conflicting emotions: he was definitely curious how this encounter might turn out, but he was also petrified at the thought of admitting to anyone an interest in diapers. And under it all ran a strong current of sexual excitement and more than a little tinge of humiliation. But then, he reminded himself, that's why he was here. He decided to go with the flow and see where the tide took him. It was a decision he would later regret.
"So let me orient you to the different levels of protection we have. Then we can decide what level will be best for you and take it from there." This idea produced some anxiety, but he had never acted on his fantasy like this, and all he could think about was how this would provide him excellent fantasy fodder for weeks to come. He tried to settle himself down and act calm.
Turning, and indicating a smaller package, she said, "There are four levels, generally, of protection. By far, most folks fit in the first two, but there are two higher levels for the nursing home crowd. Most people with your...problem..." and here he blushed again, "find that the first level, pads like these, is all they need. It just tapes into your underpants, and you often can't even notice it's there." He smiled to himself and wondered what good that would do him! "But it can protect you against the little accidents a lot of people have. So you'd pick this if you just occasionally had the minor wetting problem that many people do have," she explained. "Is this the sort of product you might need?" she asked, nodding again, and clearly expecting him to again nod back.
And he was half tempted to say yes, because her references to his "little problem" were growing very embarrassing for him. But if he bailed out now, not only would he be wasting his money, but he wouldn't be able to return in the future to this beautiful store for what he really wanted. This older lady was clearly the keeper of the diapers, and if he wanted to shop here, he'd obviously have to do it in her company. He looked away, frowned, and shook his head slightly in some shame.
She was a little surprised, and was tempted to glance down at his shorts for evidence that he was wearing anything more substantial than pads. She knew what to look for, but hadn't yet with him because she'd assumed, since he looked young and healthy, that his problem was minimal. And maybe it still was. So instead of examining him with her practiced eye, she just went on.
"Okay...well...let's move on to the next higher level. Most companies call them either guards or shields, and they are just like the pads, but are thicker and therefore absorb more at a time. They're for people who have slightly larger accidents or who can't always change right away as is necessary for the pad. It also just tapes into your underpants; its larger size, however, means that you could probably feel it when you wear it, especially when it's wet. But at this level it's still completely invisible to others, and it certainly is not so bulky as to change the way you walk. You might pick this type of protection if you wet in moderate amounts or if you're a first time buyer who is maybe insecure about the protection offered by the pad..." she smiled at him pointedly, clearly believing this was he.
He cleared his throat and shifted his weight. This was more embarrassing than the last level. To ask to go further implied some major deficiency on his part. And again he couldn't look her in the eyes. "Could you, um, tell me about the next level?"
This time he saw her instinctively glance at his shorts, obviously looking for a signs of a diaper under his clothes. Not seeing any bulge, she went on, a bit perplexed. This guy was very probably insecure, and didn't need the next levels. But perhaps by describing them to him, she could steer him away from wearing something that was too bulky and visible.
"Well, of course. But the next level takes a step up in both size and bulk. It's called an undergarment, and it's usually big enough to require straps that go around your hips to keep it on, and bulky enough to be fairly visible under your pants. It's not as bad as a diaper, and won't usually make you waddle, but you'll be more self-conscious about what you wear so the undergarment doesn't show. It's very absorbant, and usually these are for the elderly or occasional medical patients." She paused and looked at him, wanting him to get the point. "You see what I mean? It's a big step up, and probably more than you need. As I said, the vast majority of wetters just need a pad or guard. Want to try one of those?"
He felt the weight of her pressure, but he was too close now. His mind whirled with what she might infer, though he actually had no idea what the implications would, in fact, be. "No, actually, could you go over the fourth level?" he nearly whispered to the floor.
She allowed a concerned look to cross her face, and she wondered how this could be happening again, with another young man. In a tone tinged with the frustration of not understanding how he could possibly be interested in diapers if he were not so dependent as to wear them all the time, she said,
"Well, the fourth level is the brief, or the adult diaper. And they are for invalids, mostly. They are taped on with refastenable tapes and worn just like a baby diaper." As she said this she realized how much she wanted this obviously functional man to buy something else. "They usually have a strip to tell people if you're wet or dry, just like for babies, and the legs have elastic gathers to stop leaks. I'll admit that they are the only product that offers *total* protection, either for heavy, continuous wetting or for bowel control problems. But as you can see, these "briefs" are really reserved for someone who is completely diaper-dependent, and not for someone with an apparently good quality of life."
She took a breath. She was wound up. She had to give this guy good advice. If he was a regular diaper-wearer, well, that would be different, but this healthy young man shouldn't need the kind of help she gave to them. "You see, they are almost always visible under your clothing. Diaper-wearers are simply unable to conceal them well enough. Some people may tell you differently, but I'm here to tell you I can always spot 'em. Plus, you'd have to waddle a little with any of the diapers I'd sell you, and other people can always pick out a diaper-wearer by his waddle. And then there's the give-away sound; even in relatively loud areas, nothing sounds like a diaper."
She paused again. Maybe she'd gone too far, but she did feel strongly about it. She composed herself, and went on, "So you see, you are looking for the least bulky product that will still do the job. I'll tell you, I can judge by looking at you that you need a pad or a guard. Which will it be, so we can get you out of here?"
He had endured that onslaught with patience and actually a bit of excitement. Maybe people really had been able to tell he was wearing diapers. He'd have to think about that. But meanwhile, he had to burst her bubble (and, in the process, doom himself to a fate he had never really considered). He glanced at her quickly and forced out the words he'd been destined to say. "I think I, uh, probably need to, um, get the briefs." He stared very hard at the floor.
She blinked and shook her head for a moment, then her manner changed. She said in a stern voice, like a disappointed second-grade teacher, "No, now, you haven't paid attention. Briefs are the *fourth* level. Most people either pick level one or level two, pads or guards. Briefs are the *diapers*, and you only wear them if you have bowel control problems or very bad bladder control problems.
"You see, I can tell you don't need briefs, because if you really did need them, you'd have to wear them all the time, and I can see that you are not wearing a brief right now," she explained with a pointed look toward his crotch that made him blush. "So let's go over it again, and try to listen this time: you might start with the pads, then try guards or shields, then undergarments, and then, only as a last resort, briefs. Okay? Understand?" He nodded. "So which would you like to try?"
He coughed. This was getting more and more embarrassing. "I really think I need the briefs."
There was a long pause as she tried to divine what was going through his mind. He seemed not to need the extra protection, since he was clearly not wearing a brief now, but he wanted it anyway. He must simply be insecure about leakage with the less absorbant products. "Is this, um, problem a relatively recent one?" she asked.
He nodded hesitantly. He didn't know where she was leading, and was unsure of what his "story" should be.
"So you haven't tried a lot of these products, have you?" she said, thinking she was beginning to understand.
He nodded again, deciding that that fit in well with the story he'd always imagined telling. It would explain why he didn't know what he wanted.
"No, I thought not," she said, smiling and with compassion. "I understand your anxiety about leakage, and I think it's smart to get the item that will protect you appropriately. No one likes to have accidents. But you must believe me when I tell you that most of these smaller products will take care of all but a few incontinence problems, and I hate to see a young, attractive guy like you wear a diaper if he doesn't need to. Because people *do* notice the diapers, as I mentioned. It's impossible not to notice," she said shaking her head sadly. "Some people absolutely have to, but because of the social stigma, I like to encourage most folks walking around with your average wetting problem to try the lower levels of protection. I can almost promise you that you won't wet your pants. Trust me, okay, sweetie?"
This was really getting old. He was tired of this game, especially since it wasn't getting him anywhere. I've been here ten minutes and this lady wouldn't give me any diapers, he thought. Okay, I'll try one more time. "No, I really think I need the briefs," he said as firmly as he could without being downright rude.
Another long pause as she tried to figure out why she couldn't get through to this person. Perhaps she'd misjudged his intelligence. So when she spoke again, it was as though she was talking to a four-year-old. "Okay. I guess maybe I was using too many big words. Let me try again with words you might understand. A bladder control problem is when you can't help wetting your pants. Now," she said, wanting to pin this boy's problem down a little better, "do *you* wet your pants?" She was using the same tone you might use to ask a preschooler if an apple is red.
This treatment was more embarrassing than anything else he'd ever been through. Their communication gap had apparently convinced her that he was an idiot, and that was more humiliation than he had bargained for. But he couldn't just walk out, or he'd never be able to come back. This store's selection was too great for him to burn this bridge. So he just nodded, with quite a bit of shame.
Seeing this, and happy that he finally seemed to understand, she decided to continue in this vein, saying, "Okay, that's alright. It's very common, and I sort of figured as much, for otherwise you wouldn't be here. But now let's talk about bowel control problems, which are much less common. That means you can't help, well, pooping in your pants. Most people don't have a problem with this, and those that do are often very sick or old. *They* are the ones who have to wear diapers, since nothing else can control this problem. So, do *you* poop in your pants? Do you mess your pants?"
The silence hung heavy. This was obviously the acid test, what he would have to admit to in order to qualify for buying diapers from this woman. So, as embarrassed as he was, he stared at the floor and nodded. A grown man, admitting that he messed his pants. He felt all of two years old.
And not surprisingly, there was a long silence afterward, as she tried to judge whether or not to believe him. That would certainly be serious if true. "Oh, well, everyone has an occasional accident," she said nonchalantly, "especially when they're sick. Is that what you meant?"
Oh, please, he thought. Why are you dragging this out? He cleared his throat in embarrassment and shook his head. He still couldn't look at her.
"Oh," she said in a moment. "Well, do you poop in your pants often?" He nodded. "Everyday?" Again. "And you also wet your pants everyday?" Yes. "Um, do you have any control over whether you pee or poop?" He shook his head, staring at the floor.
Silence. This was far worse than she expected. "Have you seen a doctor?" she asked with concern.
"Yes," he said, having to clear his throat first. He still couldn't look at her. "He, um, said it would take a couple months until we, um, got it all worked out, so he sent me here."
"Oh," she said, seeing this in a much different light. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" This boy did need some serious protection. "Sorry to ask you all these personal questions, but it helps me tremendously to know what I'm treating, and sometimes we just need to hear words we understand." She continued to assume he wasn't very smart, although it was now clear that he'd understood her the whole time. She just seemed to have it stuck in her head that he needed to be treated like a young child. She was assessing his needs right now. "Hmmmm. Are you wearing anything right now under your pants?"
He froze, realizing that his not wearing a brief now seemed stupid. But best be honest, he thought: I bet this lady could tell. "Nothing right now," he said, trying to think quickly. "That's why I came: because I ran out."
She clucked at him reprovingly. This boy indeed wasn't too bright. First the big words, and now an apparent inability to care effectively for his problem. Perhaps, she thought, I'd better do the thinking for both of us. Well, if that's what it takes to get control of this boy's incontinence. It seemed as though she was finding herself being more and more aggressive taking care of the needs of her incontinent customers, especially the younger men who wandered into her shop. But that was fine: she knew how to take care of them, and if she couldn't, she knew someone who certainly could.
This boy clearly needed some direction. "Okay, well, we'll get you all squared away, but first things first. With a problem like yours, we'll need to get you into something right now so you don't have an accident while we're deciding, or on your ride home." She paused to check his reaction. He looked a little uncomfortable with her apparently taking charge, but he didn't say anything. And since this was really *not* the time to discuss who should make the decisions (she didn't want to deal with an accident here), she went right on, in a tone of voice she would have used for a toddler:
"The reason, of course, is that someone who pees and poops in his pants needs to wear a diaper all the time. All the time," she repeated with emphasis. "Otherwise, you could have an accident right now, which would be embarrassing and harder to clean up than a wet or messy diaper. So we need to put one on right now, without arguing. If you're a good boy and put a diaper on, then we can talk afterward and decide what you'd like to wear in the future."
She watched him closely for signs of resistance. He was still looking uncomfortable, shifting his weight nervously, but he was quiet and looked like he had understood. She made a mental note to keep treating him like a young child, as it seemed to be very effective. She went on.
"Luckily, I always keep a couple samples in the back, for emergencies like this. You can use the storeroom to change." Without waiting for a reply, she smiled, took his hand, and led him quickly to a door marked "Employees Only." He looked a little alarmed but was being compliant.
In fact, though, Doug wasn't sure he'd be able to keep his composure. Somehow he'd convinced this lady that he was an imbecile and that she needed to get a diaper on him. This was so much more than he'd ever actually dreamed could happen that he didn't know what to feel. Excited, of course, but frightened. Would she diaper him? Was there anyone else in the back room? What was he getting himself into? No, he thought, that's ridiculous. This is just an odd business transaction by a grandmotherly lady who is being misled. It's funny and thrilling, but hardly dangerous. As he would later find, this was completely false. Some might argue that he could at this point still have escaped what was to happen to him, but this is probably not true. Nor is it even relevant. He had no inkling that with every complacent step he was getting closer and closer to fearful prospect of having his lifelong fantasy become a lifelong reality.
He needn't have worried about one thing, though. She wasn't planning on diapering him. As she walked him down a back hall to a doorway marked "CLEAN SUPPLIES," she said, "Now do you put your own diapers on at home? You do? Okay, well, why don't you try to put the brief on yourself, then, and see how you do." She opened the door with one of many keys she had dangling from a large keychain, and led the way into the room. It was partially full with many crates and boxes such as you'd expect in a drugstore.
She walked over to a shelf with several plastic packages it and rummaged through them until she found one marked, "BRIEF, LARGE--ADULT DIAPERS," from which she pulled a large plastic disposible. She also picked up a container of baby powder and brought both over to him. As he tentatively accepted them, she said, "Now I'll just wait outside while you put it on. I don't know what you do at home, but I recommend lots of powder. It's hot out, and you'll appreciate it later. When you're done, just open the door, and I'll come in and check to make sure it's on correctly. That's very important, you know. So come get me before you pull your pants up, okay?"
She quickly stepped out and closed the door, leaving him alone with a diaper and powder in hand. Once again he questioned himself about whether he wasn't already in too deep. But it almost doesn't matter, he thought to himself. She probably won't even let me out of here now without a diaper. Boy, this is great. I'm way too good at lying for my own good.
He sighed, and was about to unbuckle his pants when there was a sharp knock on the door followed by the lady poking her head in, and seeing him still dressed and holding the diaper, said, "Are you okay? Need help?"
He shook his head firmly. She frowned slightly, and said, "Okay, but hurry it up. We can't waste time with you not in diapers. I'll check back in another minute or two, and if you're not done, I'll give you a hand." She shut the door again.
So now, of course, he hurried. He definitely wasn't psychologically prepared today to be diapered by someone else. It was too sudden. He unfolded the diaper and set it down on the cold cement floor. He couldn't put it on standing up; this he knew from experience. So he unbuckled his pants and pulled them down around his ankles, and, glancing needlessly around, did the same to his underpants. He sprinkled the diaper with powder and then gingerly sat down on it. He pulled the diaper up between his legs, and quickly taped it rather haphazardly. It wasn't a good job, but he wanted to be dressed again by the time the lady came back. He stood up and pulled up his underpants and pants over the diaper. The diaper fit well, and it was fairly bulky, though he'd made thicker ones for himself on occasion using pads for stuffers. As he was rebuckling his pants, she burst through the door unannounced.
She appraised the new bulk between his legs, then strode over to him, saying, cheerfully, "Whoa! Slow down, cowboy! Let's just check the job you did before you buckle up." She reached toward his pants with purpose, brushing aside his hands, which had moved protectively toward his groin in a meek attempt to intercede. Before he knew it his pants and underpants were back down around his ankles, and she was crouched in from of him examining his poor handiwork. He felt the blood drain from his head and began to feel dizzy. He felt like he should object, but he felt weak and sort of lost. He couldn't think of anything to say in a moment like this. So he stood there as she inspected his diaper.
"Hmmmm," she commented. "On straight, and not backwards, but the taping leaves a bit to be desired. Hold this," she said brusquely, as she undid the tapes on one side. She tightened and adjusted both sides, afterward slipping her fingers well inside the front and back of the diaper on both sides to check the fit. He couldn't help squirming a little, and had to be told to stand still.
Finally she was satisfied, and showed him what she had done so he could do it better the next time. She doubted it would help, though. Sometimes these slower kids just needed a lot of practice, she thought.
She was about to pull his pants back up for him when she saw his underpants, white briefs, around his ankles. She laughed.
"Well, you hardly need *those* on now, do you? Let's get those off so they don't get all stretched out over the diaper, okay?" And without waiting for a response, she untied his shoes, had him slip them off, and pulled the pants and underpants off, then replaced the pants and shoes, even tying them for him. "You said your wetting and soiling problem is only temporary, right? Well, then, we'll let you have these back for several months down the line." Humiliated as he'd never been before, he took his underpants from her and balled them up in his hand. His shorts pockets were now too tight for him to tuck them in there. He'd have to carry them home in his hand. Could this get more embarrassing?
She didn't notice his distress, however, for she was nearly out the storeroom door. "Come on," she called. "Time to get you something for later."
He tried to follow at her speed, but found the usual difficulty walking. He had to waddle slightly, but he didn't think it was that noticeable. When she got to the door back to the main store, though, she turned and watched him as she waited. He was pretty cute, she thought. Actually, she thought they were all cute the way they had to waddle like babies. And to be honest, she had to admit that part of her liked babying them: she loved the diapers, the powder and lotions, the smells, the mothering. But that was not why she did it, and it was not why she'd set up the ICPs with Mrs. Warren. Anyway, she knew he'd be self-conscious, so she tried not to smile at his obvious struggle to walk normally.
He reached her in a moment, and as they returned to the store, he glanced around nervously to see if anyone was there to notice the newly-diapered boy waddle in with his old underpants in hand. There was only an older man clear at the other end of the store; he probably couldn't see this far. But then he noticed a tall brunette in the corner back and to the right, near the pharmacy. She looked like she was in her orties, was strongly built, and she appeared to be watching him very closely. He thought he saw the older lady he was with catching the tall lady's eye for a moment, and maybe even nod at her, but he couldn't really tell, and he told himself he was just being too self-conscious and paranoid. He took one last look at the lady before he turned down the diaper aisle, and noticed a curl of a smile at one end of her mouth, as if she were amused. He turned away and focused his attention to the shelf his guide was presenting to him.
This was where he had longed to be from the moment he had walked in the store. He longed to be left alone here to read the packages and look at pictures. But she was here, and very much in control of his shopping.
"Okay, this shouldn't be hard," she said. "The most important thing is, is cost very important to you?"
He nodded with conviction. He was basically a student living on a student's budget.
She nodded back thoughtfully. "Well, then I think we'll try you with a package of those generics you're wearing. I thought the fit was good. Are they comfortable?"
He nodded stiffly. He wasn't used to discussing his diaper comfort with others.
"Good. They are good diapers, just as good as the name brands, in my opinion. Try those, and see how they do for you." She picked out a huge package of the generics--again he noticed the label, "BRIEF, LARGE--ADULT DIAPERS" in large block lettering on the side. That would be fun to carry to his car and inside his apartment. He took it from her, and followed her up to the cash register at the front of the store.
He set the package on the counter as she rang it up, setting his underpants next to it on the counter for a moment, while he pulled out his wallet, careful to hunt for and pay with cash so that he wouldn't leave a paper trail. She watched him find the correct change from the little change compartment in his wallet. He gave her the money, and she handed him a receipt. Then she leaned over the counter and said to him in that condescending tone again,
"I think this will get easier for you with time. Now, I think these diapers will help you with your problem, but you've got to wear them all the time for them to help. You hear me?" She looked at him sternly. "All the time. See how you like them, and when you only have a few left--BEFORE you run out, come back in and we'll get you some more. Now don't come back in here without a diaper on, or I'll do more to your bottom in that back storeroom than just put it in a diaper. Okay?"
He nodded. Whatever, he thought. Just get me out of here. I've had way too much "fun" for one day. Time for my get-away.
"Okay. See you in a couple days."
He grabbed his hard-won purchase and underpants and left the store, only noticing once he was outside that she hadn't even offered him a bag.
As he walked away, he let out a deep breath. That had to have been the most amazing fantasy ever. And he'd navigated his way through it perfectly, coming away unscathed, with a bag of diapers to boot! Pretty good, he thought, for his first time. For his ONLY time, he thought to himself. He'd not do that again. It was just too anxiety-provoking. But he'd done it today, and now he was safe. He did feel sorry for the lady whom he had deceived so perfectly, however. But only briefly.
As she watched him waddle away from her, out to his car and climb in, Mrs. Sheffield reflected on the odd number of totally incontinent young men she had as clients. She'd noticed a preponderance of men as soon as Mrs. Warren had convinced her to stock more of the briefs, and it seemed that as they continued to expand their product offerings, more and more came in. Most were fairly resistent to her intrusion, but she didn't care. She was actually a very nice, compassionate older lady who always felt sorry, first and foremost, for her clients. But her experiences with a "late-blooming" son years before had convinced her that incontinence was a problem that needed to be treated.
Her son had had several fairly public accidents in elementary school that had led to other kids making fun of him. She hadn't wanted to diaper him, thinking that would make things worse, but as he grew and the teasing continued well past the time when he never wet his pants anymore, she began to blame herself for his being socially ostracized. She'd vowed to herself, though she hadn't seen the implications for her drugstore business at the time, that if she ever found an opportunity to step in and help an incontinent person again, she would. At any age, she thought, diapering was far more benign than even occasional accidents, and she had seen the damage firsthand and had to live with the guilt. Now, no incontinent boy left her sight without a diaper on, even if they objected. "They just don't know," she whispered to herself, "what the alternative is. Owning up to their need for diapers is the best thing they could do for themselves."
It was this attitude that made Mrs. Sheffield run her business the way she did. And it was this attitude, she couldn't know, which had doomed many young men to lives of unhappiness and even far worse social isolation than she could have anticipated. But, then, at least her intentions were good. It was actually Mrs. Warren who was much more to blame.
She looked down at the name and address she had copied down quickly as this latest boy had opened his wallet to pay her for what he thought was the last purchase he would make from her. He was wrong, of course, though he wouldn't know this for several days. Doug. Doug Easton. He'd seemed nice. She wrote a note for herself to make sure she followed up on him. Nice boy, but he needed her.
On Monday, about two days and four diapers later, Doug was watching TV before bed, undiapered. He'd just finished a day of reviewing for his test on Saturday. He was bright, and the studying wasn't too hard, so it actually left him with a lot of free time compared to his usual lab schedule. This was why he'd gone out for a new supply of diapers for this week: he had plenty of time to play. And though he didn't like to wear diapers constantly, he was enjoying wearing a one or two a day. His stressful trip to that drugstore had turned out to be worth it, he thought now. He'd just put his books away for the rest of the evening when his phone rang. He answered it.
"Is this Doug?" The woman's voice was vaguely familiar, but Doug couldn't place it. The other day's incident at the drugstore was the last thing on his mind. "This is Mrs. Sheffield, from the drugstore? I helped you with your incontinence products the several days ago, remember?"
He nearly dropped the phone. His mind went blank and his fingers started tingling. Even though he was seated, he felt faint. "Uh, yes, ma'am, I remember." His mind slowly started to crank out questions: how had she found him? Why could she be calling?
"Well, it's nice to talk to you again. I'm calling to find out how your briefs have been doing since Monday."
His mouth was dry, which made it difficult to speak. "Oh," he croaked. "Just fine." He was speaking on autopilot now, trying to figure out how he'd been so foolish as to leave his phone number with her. But he hadn't! He was sure. How had she tracked him down?
Mrs. Sheffield could hear the anxiety in his voice, and knew she'd have to calm him down if her approach was to work. "I hope you don't mind me calling. Ordinarily I ask before I contact clients at home, but I forgot this time. All I want to do, though, is a little product survey, if you don't mind. Your opinions regarding our products are very important to us, and will be used to modify our product lines and what we carry. So, I'm sorry for the intrusion but I just have a couple of questions, and the answers from you, in particular, will be very valuable."
A product survey? he thought. That sounded interesting, and didn't seem very threatening. In fact, he thought, as he began touching his stiffening penis through his pajamas, this could be fun. After all, he was tucked away safely in the privacy of his own home, far away from this scary lady. And this conversation again had tremendous fantasy potential for him. In addition, maybe he really could influence what diapers were made or carried. That alone was worth a little effort. But why him? This bothered him, so he asked.
"Well, actually," she replied, "you are important because of the nature of the problem you have. You see, we don't have too many totally incontinent clients out there who can talk and who are active." She was lying, she knew, but it was excusable because she was trying to help him. Then she thought: Oops! She'd forgotten and used the big words again. "What I mean is, we don't have too many customers who poop in their pants. Now, it's nothing to be ashamed of, of course, since you can't help it. But since it's not very common, we'd like to know how our diapers, I mean, our briefs, work for you. Maybe we can use this information to help other people."
He was only half listening by the end. He was too
fascinated by the opportunity he had been given. He'd always felt that adult diapers were woefully inadequate in many ways that were important to the adult baby: not bulky enough, not noisy enough, not absorbant enough, and pathetic at containing bowel movements. He knew that the majority of adult diaper-wearers didn't want these obtrusive, humiliating qualities in their diapers, but wouldn't it be great if there was at least ONE brand that was closer to the ideal? This might be the one chance he had to help all of adult babyhood attain what most thought was unattainable. He had to give a plug for a humiliating, babyish diaper.
But he couldn't make it sound too ludicrous. His mind was working overtime trying to anticipate questions and phrase his answers with subtlety and skill. She was just finishing some comment: "So, do you think you could just answer a few questions for me?"
"Of course I could," he answered confidently, but not wanting to sound too eager. "I'd be glad to help if I can."
She heard the change in his voice and wondered briefly what it meant. But it didn't matter to her. He was obviously willing to cooperate, which meant her job here would be that much easier. She was sorry she had to mislead him here, but, after all, it was for his benefit, and they would indeed use the information he gave her! "Oh, that's wonderful," she said out loud. "Could you start by telling me how many dia-, uh, briefs, you use in a day?" Time to check compliance.
Fine, he thought, a usage question. He expected that. But he had to guess, since he was certainly not a full-time user! He didn't want to be; part-time fantasy was enough. "About seven, I'd say."
That sounded right, but any idiot could guess. She'd slip in a couple more compliance questions later. "Okay, and of those, how many are messy and not just wet?"
That was probably easy to estimate. "Well, one or two, I suppose."
Still okay, but these were the easy questions. "Uh-huh, fine. Now, I've seen how these diapers fit: pretty well, I think, but how do they feel? Are they comfortable? Scratchy? Sticky even when fresh? Do they chaff?"
He actually hadn't had a complaint over the perhaps six hours he'd worn them over two days. "Oh, they're very comfortable. No problems."
"That's good to hear. Do you have anyone at home to help change you?"
That would be great! he thought wistfully, though only halfheartedly. He didn't really think he wanted diapers to become that central to his life. "No, I live alone," he said out loud.
Good, Mrs. Sheffield thought. That simplifies things considerably. "Okay, well, let's talk about wetness. How absorbant do they seem? Do you have problems with leaking with very wet diapers?" She didn't even notice she was using the "d" word.
He didn't either. He was too involved in the "survey." "Oh, yes, all the time, " he replied honestly. "I have trouble with that with nearly every diaper. That's a serious problem for me." He was finding it difficult not to rub his hard penis. This was really turning him on. He had to keep it going.
"Oh, dear," she said. "That's a shame. Of course, it probably comes from all your activity, compared to my older clients. How long after you wet do you change yourself into a dry diaper?"
OK, now try to make this believable. "Well, I don't like changing, and it's often very inconvenient, so I try to make each diaper last as long as possible. So I guess I wait at least two hours after wetting before a change."
"Oh, my," she exclaimed. "Isn't that uncomfortable?"
"No, not at all," he said, trying to sound reasonable. "Until they're VERY wet, I can't tell they're damp without looking. By the time I can feel it, I've usually leaked."
"Well, I'm not sure any other brand would have more capacity..." she mused to herself. "Usually it's adequate, but you are more active. The best option for you may be to add one or more pads inside the diaper, but we don't like to do that because that makes the diaper even more bulky and noticeable than it already is."
Whoa! he thought. This is his big chance. He snorted derisively. "I'd rather have bulky than leaky."
"Really? But you don't think they are already too bulky between your legs?"
"No, not really," he said, hoping she believed him. "I mean, I hardly even know they're there. I don't have to walk funny like you said. I'm sure I wouldn't even notice another pad, or even two." He was lying now, and thoroughly enjoying it. This could be the perfect infantilist diaper!
"Well, but it certainly must be obvious to other people."
"Gosh, I don't think so. It's certainly not a problem now. I wear baggy clothes, and I don't think anyone at all has noticed. I don't see why they should."
This was excellent news for Mrs. Sheffield. He didn't care about bulk, and wasn't aware of others' reactions to him, which she was sure must be occurring despite his ignorance. Well, that was good. Often, this seemed to be a stumbling block with potential clients; without it, he should fit easily into the program.
Doug noticed her pause and assumed she was having a little trouble believing that he wanted MORE bulk. He said a silent apology to all diaper-wearers who DIDN'T want people to notice, but he really hoped his cry for thicker, more babyish diapers was getting though. As if in answer, he heard her say,
"OK, more bulky and absorbant so you don't have to change as often and won't leak. Now, are the diapers too noisy for you, or are they okay? Do people notice?"
"Nah, they're fine," he answered gleefully. She was buying the whole thing. For a moment, though, a frightening thought flew through his mind. How truly terrifying and humiliating it would be to be stuck in diapers like the ones he was imagining. What if he were doomed to this fantasy he had always played out in his head and was now having fun pretending was real? To be locked, for instance, in huge, noisy, bulky diapers in public, to be noticed by everyone: it would suck to HAVE to wear what he was telling her he thought diapers should be. But that was what fantasy was all about, he told himself. Reality wasn't relevant, he thought.
"Well, that's very enlightening," Mrs. Sheffield was saying. "Most people's are actually asking for less obtrusive, quieter diapers, but perhaps we should rethink creating a different line of products... Anyway, if you don't mind, let's move on to bowel movement control. I'm sorry, I mean, messy diapers. Have you had any problems with leakage from your messy diapers?"
"I'll say. Even worse than with the wet ones," he said, fully within his fantasy and not feeling any embarrassment. "And, obviously, that's a worse problem."
"Obviously," she agreed. "And do you always wear messy diapers for two hours before changing?"
"Not always," he answered, "but sometimes I can't help it. Messy diapers are much more difficult to change, especially in public. I have to wait until I get home, and sometimes that takes a while."
"I see. So once again, your lifestyle conflicts with your diaper needs. Now, you do seem to be out and around a lot. Is this true? Are you out of your home most days?"
"Well, usually, though this week I'm actually spending at home studying all day..." he started before he realized he'd crossed over into reality. He didn't really want her to know anything about him. Was she probing?
"So you ARE very active," she said, and he relaxed. It had just been an innocent question, he thought incorrectly. "Well, the only suggestion I have is to wear some sort of incontinent plastic training panty over your diaper. Do you have any of those?"
Surprised, he answered honestly. "Yes, two or three." And then he remembered he was supposed to be new to this "incontinence." How could he explain why he had plastic panties? "The, uh, doctor gave them to me to try, but I thought they were just for cloth diapers."
"In general they are, but in your case, it sounds like you could use the extra protection."
"Sounds like a good idea," he said, not really caring. It didn't matter what he did or didn't promise to do.
She asked several more quesitons he found less interesting, regarding tapes and other mundane aspects of the diapers. Finally, she asked him about the wetness indicator, another of her compliance questions.
He said he liked it and that he used it often, since he wasn't always aware of when he peed.
"Hmmm," she said. "We're doing some research on how many little stripes an indicator should have. I've fogotten: how many stripes does your diaper's indicator have? Could you look down at your diaper and tell me?"
He felt a brief moment of panic. He, of course, was not wearing a diaper, which he thought she must not know. And he couldn't really remember how many stripes there were, since he'd tried many different types of diapers, and each of them seemed to have a different number. But he relaxed as he realized that if she'd forgotten, it didn't matter what he said, as long as it was reasonable.
"Um, it looks like four," he said, going with the number he thought was most common.
"Four? Okay, that's exactly what I thought," Mrs. Sheffield said with a definite air of satisfaction. Doug was happy he'd guessed right. In fact, he'd guessed wrong, and this mistake was the one Mrs. Sheffield had been looking for. It tole her Doug wasn't really wearing his diapers like he should and was therefore a definite compliance risk. That sealed it. She would definitely put him in the program. He clearly needed the little push that Mrs. Sheffield's friend Mrs. Warren could give. Otherwise he risked having accidents.
"Okay, Doug, just a few more questions. You've been extremely helpful. I think I know about all I need to know. But tell me, is cost an issue for you? Do you think the disposables on the market are too expensive?"
What a great question. Did he EVER. He had trouble buying diapers even occasionally, and he shuddered to think what it must cost to keep someone in them full-time. On the other hand, he wasn't really as turned on by the cloth diapers, so for him it was worth it. To her, he said, "Yes, ma'am, especially on a student's budget." Whoops. Another slight slip, mentioning something personal. But again, she seemed not to notice or care.
"That's what I thought. What if I offered you products that would cost a lot less? I've calculated your approximate cost as about $250 per month right now. What if I could offer you the same diapers for about $80 per month? Would you be interested?"
That was great! He was excited, for his comments really seemed to be getting somewhere! He was striking a blow for infantilists everywhere! "Wow! Of course! That would be a lot better. But can you do that?"
"Well, this is just hypothetical, of course, but, yes. Now, how many briefs do you have left?"
He paused. How many SHOULD he have left? Quick arithmetic gave him his answer. "About five, I think."
"Uh-huh. So when can I expect you into the store to restock?"
Whoa. Here's where he got off the fantasy train. He couldn't make a commitment, he knew, or this could escalate to something he couldn't afford or keep up with. "Well, I don't know..."
"Sounds like you'd better get in here tommorow, or you'll be right where you were before, trying to get by with your underpants and a prayer. Right?"
"Well, uh, yes, but..." He tried to think of how to get out of this easily. She was making it tough.
Mrs. Sheffield decided it was time to come clean and reel him in. She knew what she needed to know. "Doug, you had no plans to come in, did you?"
"...Not really, no." It felt better to tell the truth. And she seemed like that might be okay with her.
"And you're not wearing a diaper now, are you?"
Yikes! She was sharper than he'd given her credit for. "Well, I, um..." He was shocked, but he didn't want to admit that he wasn't wearing a diaper now. She might not use his survey information. He didn't know it, but he had a more important issue he should have been worrying about.
"That's what I thought. By the way, when you do look at your diaper, you'll notice three indicator stripes." She took a deep breath. "Now, you need to listen to me. I may have told you that I was in the business of assessing and providing for my clients needs. Well, it goes a little bit beyond just helping them find a product on the shelf."
Doug didn't like the sound of this at all. She was no longer surveying. And she didn't know it was only a fantasy.
"What I actually do is run a business for people like you who are incontinent. Sorry, who pee and poop in their pants. I help them find what they need, and make sure they use it, by organizing ICP's, which stands for Incontinence Control Programs, for them. I have a lot of clients like you who don't seem to be able to look after themselves like they should. I worry that they'll end up having accidents, and then lots of things in your life can go wrong."
Doug's stomach had started churning. He had started to realize that perhaps he'd sold his story too well.
"I've decided that you need some help with your diapers. I think we'll need to enroll you into our program so that you can get the help you need. I work with another woman, Mrs. Warren, who actually runs the day-to-day end of things, and we'll help keep you supplied, keep you wearing the diapers, and keep you well-behaved. And it's all for that price I was telling you about. What do you think?"
Doug knew what he thought. He thought he'd better do some confessing, or he'd find himself in far deeper than he'd thought possible. He didn't know that it was already way too late.
His silence didn't really slow her down. "Now, I know you weren't expecting this, and I'm sorry to spring it on you, but in the end you'll thank me, you really will. Let me explain for you why I think you need our help.
"There are four parts to any successful ICP. First, affordable cost. Second, choosing the appropriate product for your personal wetting and soiling needs. Third, accessibility: you need to be getting your diapers. Fourth, compliance. All the diapers in the world won't keep your pants clean and dry if you're not wearing them.
"You may not have noticed, but we just completed an assessment of the ICP you had prescribed for yourself. That is, your plan of buying the diapers yourself any old time and bringing them home and wearing them occasionally. What I found out during my assessment is that this isn't working, regarding each of the four parts. Too expensive, too leaky, you won't come in to buy them, and once you do, you're just not wearing them like a good boy.
"Doug, you need to face the fact that you are totally incontinent. Probably, well, hopefully, temporarily. But you desperately need a much better and structured ICP for the foreseeable future, and so the bottom line is that I'll be supplying it for you. Believe me, this is a very good thing for you. You'll eventually appreciate the complete protection we can offer, and we'll also lay the groundwork for your eventual attempt at re-potty-training, if that becomes a possiblity."
Doug sat listening in shock. He didn't know what to think or feel. A tiny bit of him was intrigued and turned on by what sounded like a forced return to babyhood, or at least to diapers. But most of him was horrified at the thought of his fantasy getting out of control and effectively running the rest of his life. It didn't sound like he'd be in control, and he knew himself: he ALWAYS had to be in control. He couldn't even begin to process her words, for they seemed impossible, foreign, absurd. But she went on.
"So after considering your needs and problems with compliance, I've decided to enroll you in a special diaper delivery program we offer, where I can decide the best ICP for you, and all you have to do is follow some very simple rules. You'll pay twenty dollars each week for us to deliver a week's worth of diapers to you, as well as the extra pads we talked about, and you'll wear them and use them. Mrs. Warren will check on you and make sure you are following the rules and using your diapers appropriately, and she has some very helpful disciplinary tricks to help you be obedient, which I'm sure you'll appreciate. Then you'll return the used diapers at the end of the week for us to count and examine, so we know you used them all week. So you see, this program is much better with regard to cost, availability, leak protection, and especially behavior control. Doesn't it sound wonderful?"
Doug felt speechless, but knew he had to speak. "Mrs., uh, Sheffield? I really appreciate your concern, but, um, well, I don't actually think I need your help here...."
"Oh, but we just talked about that and decided you did. Remember?"
He remembered HER talking and deciding, but he'd been left out. "Yes, but I think there has been a terrible mistake here. You see..."
She interrupted again. "Don't you worry. There's no mistake. I'm going to help you, and you will never have to wet your pants again. Doesn't that sound nice?"
"No. I mean, yes. I mean, I don't want your help here because..."
"Doug," Mrs. Sheffield said earnestly, "I'm sure you're used to handling your problem on your own, but the fact is, you're just not doing a very good job. I'm afraid you misunderstand what's going on here. I don't mean to be rude, but I'm really not asking you whether you'd like to participate. I'm TELLING you about the ICP that you will begin tomorrow. I'm sorry we couldn't ask for your opinion, but by not wearing your diaper you showed me that you are not reliable enough to make these decisions for yourself.
"And you'll have to trust me here that this is not a bad thing. When you're incontinent, there are only two things that could happen. One is, you'll have accidents with wetting and soiling your pants, which is horrible. The other is much better: all you have to do is wear your diaper. And in this program, believe me, you *will* wear your diaper. Now, do you have any specific questions about your ICP that I can answer for you?"
Doug was starting to panic, because she wasn't listening to him. She was treating him like a child, which hadn't happened to him for nearly twenty years. It was frustrating not to have control! But he had to stop this now. As embarrassing as it was, he couldn't think of anything else but to tell her the truth.
"Mrs. Sheffield, there really has been a mistake. You see, I'm actually not..."
Her voice turned cold. "No, Doug, we're not going to argue about this. This isn't the time for that. I was asking you if you had any questions about your ICP."
"Yes, but I need to tell you that I don't need..."
"Okay, that's enough," said Mrs. Sheffield sternly. "If you don't have any questions, I'll just tell you what's going to happen next. Mrs. Warren will be taking over your care from now on, and she told me to tell you that she'll be over tomorrow at about ten in the morning with your first week of diapers and other supplies. At that time she'll explain all of the rules she has, and what you are to do, and she'll get you into a diaper for good.
"Now, you told me you'll be home tomorrow, and that you don't have any roommates, so I don't expect any trouble from you about this. Ten in the morning. If you want to argue, argue with Mrs. Warren. She *loves* to `discuss' things with clients, and I'm sure she'd be happy to talk with you about whether you need our diapers. So if you want to talk, save it until tomorrow. Does that sound alright?"
Doug felt defeated with this woman. She wouldn't even give him the time of day. Before, he'd been embarrassed when she treated him like an idiot. Now, it wasn't so cute. But perhaps this other lady would at least listen to him. He had to have better luck with someone else. At least he'd have time to think about how he'd explain himself. "Okay," he said. "But I'll just tell you, I'm not doing this program thing."
"I'll leave that for you and Mrs. Warren to work out. It's been nice talking to you, Doug, and I'm happy to have you in our program, even though it may take a while for you to adjust to it. Oh, by the way, make sure you behave yourself with Mrs. Warren tomorrow. Of course, she's very nice, but she doesn't tolerate little boys who aren't polite. Will you promise me to be polite?"
What else was there to say? "Yes, ma'am."
"That's a good boy. And promise me you'll wear your diaper tonight?"
Like hell. "Yes, ma'am."
"Okay, good. Take care until tomorrow, Doug, and please, for the sake of yourself and your underpants, wear your diaper."
As she hung up the phone, Mrs. Sheffield smiled. That had been done skillfully. She worried about cooperation with many of these boys, and so she'd adopted a strategy of getting as much info about them and their habits before breaking the news to them. (And all of them seemed really excited about the survey she been doing recently. She wondered why.) But none of them saw it coming, and while she felt guilty deceiving them, she felt proud to offer them the protection her son never had. If she wasn't a very good mother to him, at least these incontinent boys would benefit from her learning.
She did feel bad about one thing, though, and that was deferring Doug's questions to Mrs. Warren, who wasn't exactly the chatty type. She had an uneasy feeling that she was quite rough with these boys, especially the resistant or noncompliant ones. But the two women had an unspoken rule that Mrs. Warren's methods were not talked about between them. Mrs. Sheffield thought maybe Mrs. Warren spanked them, but wasn't sure. Mrs. Sheffield didn't opppose spanking in principle, but she worried that her partner might go a little overboard. She had to keep reminding herself that keeping these boys in the program and in diapers as long as they were incontinent was *the* most important goal. And since Mrs. Warren had been running the ICPs, Mrs. Sheffield had not heard of a single problem, either from the boys or from Mrs. Warren. All of them clearly wore their diapers, and this was the important thing. So, much as she might have worried, and probably should have worried, Mrs. Sheffield let the methods of Mrs. Warren remain a secret.
As she added Doug's name to the next day's diaper delivery list, a curious observation popped into her mind. Like Doug, all of these boys usually came into her store initially wanting to buy diapers for themselves for "temporary" incontinence. She put most of them in their ICPs just to tide them over until they regained their control. Oddly, though, in the three years since she had hired Mrs. Warren to run her business, not a single one of these temporary incontinents had graduated from their program. "Oh, I know," she lied to herself. "I bet they're just not honest with themselves at the beginning. I'm sure they all would like to believe it's temporary, but it makes sense that bladder and bowel incontinence doesn't just go away. Those poor boys, denying their problem. Well, as long as they're protected." The boys, of course, were not the only ones practicing denial; Mrs. Sheffield had apparently learned how to convince herself there was nothing odd about the program she officially ran but knew nothing about.
Mrs. Sheffield attended to the next order of business by picking up a phone and dialing the number of Mrs. Warren's cellular phone. She wanted to make up for the fact that she'd set Doug up to take the full brunt of Mrs. Warren's wrath tomorrow. He'd be full of excuses that she wouldn't want to hear, and though she had thought at first that a little run-in with Mrs. Warren tomorrow might not hurt this boy a bit, the more she thought about it, the more she realized it would almost certainly hurt. Quite a bit, in a tender, likely undiapered spot. So a little intercession on her part was appropriate. She smiled when she heard Mrs. Warren answer immediately. Tomorrow would be an eventful day for Doug.
Doug hung up the phone slowly and just stared out into space, trying to process what had just happened. He had just been deceived and manipulated into a position from which he was now dangerously close to being out of control. In fifteen minutes he had gone from being safe and happy and insulated from this frightening woman to being fooled, humiliated, and violated by her. And supposedly thrown into some program for delinquent diaper-wearers, where he obviously did not belong. Imagine! This lady had been so misled that she thought he really needed diapers! It would be laughable if it weren't so annoying and if it didn't seem to threaten his desire for privacy. He couldn't even enjoy the fantasies generated by the phone call, because now he needed to think about how to get himself out of this without anyone finding out about this, and if possible, without any more embarrassment.
Doug was pretty sure this adventure would end tomorrow, when he explained the reality of the situation to this Mrs. Warren. But he was most concerned about how he could end this without admitting he was a fetishist, which he knew was viewed by most people as perverted. If word of his perversion spread, his application for the graduate program could be in jeopardy and his job at the lab ended. How could he end this discretely?
He'd have to be prepared, more prepared and alert than he'd just been during that conversation with Mrs. Sheffield. What an idiot he'd been. She'd played him masterfully, and he'd fed right into her little quizzes. Curious, he went to his stash of diapers and checked them. Sure enough, the ones he'd just bought had only three stripes. Stupid. He wouldn't make that mistake again.
And, he chuckled, he nearly had walked straight into the nightmare he'd imagined of having given the desciption of the perfect infantilist diaper only to be sentenced to wear it constantly. That would really be miserable. But he would avoid that. No one would be sentencing him to anything. He was an adult, and he controlled his life.
The anxiety he had about tomorrow morning didn't stop him from getting that same thrill he always felt when he touched the plastic of a disposable diaper, but he packed it away in his bedroom closet as a symbolic gesture of his continued autonomy. She'd pushed him around pretty well over the phone, hadn't she? Wait until that other lady got here tomorrow. She'd meet the real Doug.
He tried to have a normal evening, but his anxiety continued, so he had a couple beers to calm himself down. He'd meant to figure out what he would say tomorrow to that diaper lady, but after the beer, he decided he could figure it out later...
Doug awoke the next morning fully clothed on the sofa, and was disoriented by the sunlight streaming in the window and what sounded like loud banging on his front door. He next noticed a strong message from his bladder, distended from the beer from last night. As he struggled to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom, he tried to reconstruct what had happened to him. He was midway through relieving himself before he realized that he must have fallen asleep on the sofa and overslept. So who could be so rude as to be pounding on the door?
"Oh my god!" he said out loud as he suddenly remembered Mrs. Warren. He jerked his hand up to look at his watch and only succeeded in peeing all over the bathroom floor, not to mention leaving a small spot on his jeans. But big deal: he finally got a good look at the time, and, sure enough, it was after 10am. He was now wide awake, and working hard to figure out what to say to this woman. He zipped and buckled his (now slightly wet) pants and went to the front window.
He couldn't see the door, or who was there, but he did catch a glimpse of a large van, colored in pastel pinks and blues, with the words "HOME DIAPER DELIVERY- -Get 'em, Wet 'em, and Forget 'em." He would have been embarrassed at his neighbors seeing this van, but he had more urgent concerns. He could always claim it had had the wrong address or something. But there could be no doubt who was banging on his front door. He briefly entertained the idea of not answering the door at all, but the banging was so insistent, he decided he had to confront this threat and get rid of it. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
He was suddenly and rudely pushed aside, and a large woman strode past him toward his living room area. He was sort of surprised by her assertiveness, and it took him a minute to recover, close the door, and follow her in. Entering the living room, he saw that she had her back turned to him, apparently already talking on the phone! But even from the back, he recognized her from the drugstore; she was the strong-looking woman who had watched him with such interest as he had waddled self-consciously out of the dressing room in the back of the store. Somehow he had known that it would be her.
He wanted to appologize to her for keeping her waiting at the door, to show her how reasonable and sensible he really was, but here she was, already on the phone. She was obviously kind of rude, but he didn't want to get off on the wrong foot, so he just stood there awkwardly and listened in to find out what was so urgent. What he heard surprised and worried him a little.
"Yes, Mary, I KNOW I promised not to spank him today, but he's practically been begging for it for the past twelve minutes."
Doug glanced at his watch. It was 10:12 now. Could they be talking about him?!
"Well, no, obviously not. But let me tell you what he did do. Deliberately kept me waiting outside for twelve minutes...Of course he was home...I'm SURE it was on purpose...Well, Mary, I just don't put UP with that kind of behavior...I KNOW what he needs, and I can give it to him with an open palm.....Yes...Yes, I know...Yeah, okay. Alright. But he just exhausted his grace period. No more warnings or excuses. Next time he so much as looks at me wrong, he goes over my knee. You know how I feel about disrespect...Okay, Mary...Okay. Bye."
Doug was now very anxious, as he watched her set the phone down. His face was burning with embarrassment, for he knew that as absurd as it sounded these women were discussing HIM. Whether HE, essentially a grown man, should get a spanking. He would have thought it comical if this lady hadn't seemed so serious and capable. He wasn't small, but because of her size, he'd have a hard time resisting her physically. He watched her now as she seemed to think for several seconds and then turned abruptly and brushed past him back toward the door without even acknowledging his presence. He stood there, uncertain how to handle this strange encounter with this lady. She helped him.
As she reached the door, she turned and for the first time, spoke to him. "The very least you could do would be to help me carry in your diapers. Come on!"
And she disappeared outside, leaving the door wide open.
It was another second before he realized that he'd better start explaining fast, or within about two minutes she'd probably expect him to be wearing one of the infantile gifts she'd brought. He rushed out the door and out to the pink and blue diaper van. She was around back, opening the rear doors.
As he reached her she was examining a clipboard and appearing to compare it to contents in the back of the truck. He looked inside and got distracted by her cargo. Her van was literally crammed full of packages of disposable and cloth diapers. In addition there were smaller packages of plastic and other (rubber?) panties, bottles of powder, oil, vaseline, lotion, and lots of other nondescipt items he thought must be pads and soakers. There were also many items he could not identify: jugs of liquid, assorted clothing. Half of him wanted to go through it all and see what he liked, but the rational half of him realized he'd find out all too soon if he didn't start talking now.
"Um, Mrs. Warren?" he started hesitantly. When she didn't answer or even look up, he just went on. "We REALLY need to talk."
She half snorted derisively in response but didn't otherwise say anything. He realized he'd better just spit out the essentials.
"There has been a huge, embarrassing mistake. You see, in real life, I don't NEED to wear diapers at all. I'm totally continent. This is all a big mixup because, um, well..." He stalled out, summoning the courage to tell someone the truth for the first time ever. "I, um, sometimes like to, you know, wear diapers, just as a kind of fantasy. But it's just a funny little thing, it has nothing to do with reality..." He was watching her face, which never changed expression. She just kept checking over her list. Finally, as he trailed off, unsure of what to say next, she smiled slightly, and though her eyes never left her clipboard, she murmured,"
"Well, your fantasy is about to become your reality, little boy."
That was NOT the response he expected. He started to panic a little. She wasn't listening or didn't get it. He grabbed her elbow frantically and said, "No, you don't understand. I DO NOT need diapers. I am completely continent."
THAT moved her eyes to him, and the fierceness with which she glared at him startled him. He let go of her elbow.
Her eyes narrowed, and after a long pause, she said slowly and distinctly, "I think I just heard you ask for a continence test."
He just stared blankly at her. The words made no sense to him.
"Is that true?" she demanded.
"I...I don't know," he stammered. "What is it?"
"Just what it sounds like. It's how we find out who can and can't control their bladder and bowels. Sounds like you're claiming to be continent. I can't accept that claim unless you can back it up by passing a continence test. That's only fair, right?"
He absorbed this. "You mean you want proof?"
She nodded, her eyes penetrating into his. "Better believe it. You wouldn't believe the number of my clients who try to avoid wearing the diapers they so obviously need. This test is simply a reliable way of telling who does and who doesn't need my...services. Now, I'm sure you would never try to mislead me," she said rather sarcastically, "so you can just consider this test as a formality."
"Well, I don't know. What would I have to do?" he asked uncertainly.
"Oh, it's easy," she replied, "If you're continent. Just keep your pants all clean and dry for three hours after you drink a glass of Gatorade."
That didn't sound so bad. "That's it?"
"That's it. But it's not so easy if you're at all incontinent. And judging by your pants, I don't know how you'd do."
He followed her gaze down to the spot on his crotch from the bathroom. He blushed heavily, cursing himself for his poor timing. Nice way to make an impression, he thought. "Oh, that's nothing, just an accident."
She smiled. "They all are." She went on: "But if you want to try to stay dry for three hours, that's fine. I'll give you an excellent chance to prove to me that you don't need to wear diapers. Otherwise, you can help me carry in your things now." She pointed to a pile of disposable diapers.
He stared at them, wishing he could have them and use them on his own terms, at his convenience. It was tragic to be confronted by this opportunity and not use it. But he couldn't. This situation was way too threatening.
"I guess I'll do the test." There didn't seem to be much of a choice. She wanted proof. He could certainly provide that, and three hours seemed like a worthwhile time investment if he could nip this whole diaper debacle in the bud. "What do I have to do again?"
She smiled. This would be fun. "As I mentioned, it's very easy. You drink a glass of Gatorade and sit in the bathtub for three hours."
"The bathtub?" Didn't sound too comfortable.
"Yep. It's easier to clean up puddles and messes that way. Also, in case you do have a problem, I'll have you wear older clothes. That should be fine," she said, indicating the jeans and old tennis shoes he was wearing from last night. Mrs. Warren slammed shut the rear doors of the van and went up to the front end, where she retrieved from the passenger side a small sack of heavy black cloth.
"Oh, yes," she said, smiling at him, "I ought to tell you, just so you won't be shocked when we get upstairs. Since I won't be there to watch you during your test, I need some way to secure you there in the tub so I know you didn't cheat. That's the reason for these." And she held up the bag for him to see the contents.
He peered in curiously and saw several well-worn leather straps and cuffs in a tangled bunch. A chill ran down his spine. "You mean you expect me to let you tie me up?" That didn't seem wise at all. She was a stranger, and a weird one at that. He'd heard stories about poeple who got themselves into S and M situations and never gotten out. "No offense, but I don't know you at all! Why should I trust you?" His imagination started working as he remembered how she wanted to spank him earlier, and his anxiety level jumped a notch. (Sure, he'd fantasized about spankings, but fantasies were pleasurable, and he'd always been unsure of how it would translate into reality. Maybe someday he'd try it, but now, with an angry stranger, was definitely not that time. Plus, there was a lot on the line here.)
But she shook her head. "Don't worry. I won't physically harm you. I know I could, but the purpose is just to make sure you don't use the toilet if I'm not there."
She pulled out a piece of paper that look like a legal document. "Here, look. This is a binding promise I'll sign stating that I will not physically abuse you while you're tied up. It will protect your rights, and you can hide it somewhere for use later if necessary. Or complain to the store. You're protected in a number of ways."
This "promise" was a scam she'd only recently started, and it seemed to work well. She had to be careful of the promises she made, but of course most of it was true. She wouldn't actively harm the boy, but she would use the situation that developed to her advantage. Anyway, the form was bogus. It just looked good, and most people didn't know the difference. It was simply useful to reassure her brand new clients that they would be safe. And they would: in several hours, they'd be safely in a nice, clean diaper.
She had other ruses to use if this didn't work, but this boy seemed relieved when he saw the "document," so she didn't go any further. He was sadly naive, this one. That made it easier, but no less fun. Mrs. Warren made a big show of signing the document, giving it to him, and telling him to hide it somewhere safe.
Then she told him to go upstairs and sit on the edge of the bathtub and wait for her. She saw him swallow hard, nod, and turn to go inside.
She smiled again. He would be fun.
When Doug went back inside and slowly climbed the stairs that led up to his bedroom and bathroom, he was still more than a little uneasy about putting himself in the Mrs. Warren's hands so completely. On the other hand, he couldn't figure out how she could take advantage of him. I mean, I have the contract, he thought. And the test is so straightforward. A better test would be to sit in the tub for SIX hours, he thought. Three hours is almost too easy. I guess she could try to cheat by just leaving me there or something, but in that case I simply wouldn't agree to join the program. This sets me up for getting something if I win, with no chance to lose.
Three hours, he thought. I could do that with a QUART of Gatorade. And she admitted that anyone who was continent wouldn't have a problem. Well, he figured, I'm as close to being perfectly continent as anyone. I haven't had an accident since I was three or four. Never wet the bed. In fact, I've always wondered why I was turned on by diapers; I don't even recall ever having been in them...oh, well, whatever. After today, in any case, I don't know that I'll ever go out and buy or wear them any more. Too risky.
Doug hid the contract away under his mattress, for lack of a better place. Then he went into his bathroom and sat down on the edge of the tub. His bladder and bowels were feeling great and totally empty. His only worry was whether Mrs. Warren would keep her promise and leave him alone after he passed this "test." But so far she'd seemed rational; surely she'd admit she was wrong after he proved himself to her. Overall, he was starting to feel very confident: things had looked bleak several minutes before with all that spanking talk, but now it looked like this would just be a three-hour wrinkle in an apparently normal day.
After about two minutes, he heard some noise down in the kitchen, and another minute or two later Mrs. Warren joined him in the bathroom. She had her bag of restraints and a glass from his cupboard filled with what looked to him like Gatorade. She cheerfully instructed him to sit down in the tub, facing away from the drain. He found this slightly uncomfortable because he couldn't lean back without pressing the hard faucet into his back. She told him not to worry, that she'd take care of that. In the meantime, she put a leather cuff on each wrist and then one on the shower head above him. These were all locked with small padlocks. She then attached a small, long chain to one cuff, ran it up through the cuff on the shower head, and attached it to the cuff on the other hand. This brought his hands up to about a foot above his head. He found he couldn't bring his hands down even to rest on his head.
Mrs. Warren also took a short cord and ran it from a belt loop on the back of his jeans to the faucet behind him. He really couldn't move his body or his arms at all. The arrangement was simple and effective. She must have done this often, he realized. She disappeared for a second, returning with a small pillow to tuck behind his back so he wouldn't be so uncomfortable leaning back for three hours.
Finally she brought out a little clock, which she set on the toilet seat in plain view. "This is so you'll be able to see how you're doing. In a moment, I'll have you drink the glass over there, and then you'll have exactly three hours to sit here alone. At the end of three hours, I'll come back and see if you're wet or messy. If it's not obvious, we'll pull down your pants and check your underpants carefully. You are wearing white underpants, right? Good. ANY signs of wetness, or ANY brownish stains on your underpants, and you fail this test. Is that clear?"
He felt a little silly being told his underpants would be checked for brownish stains, but he had to admit it was a reasonable demand for a continence test. So far no surprises. It was beginning to seem like he could trust her.
"And if you fail, I don't want to hear any excuses or arguments about wearing diapers, okay? By taking this test, you implicitly agree to participate willingly in you ICP afterward if we prove your incontinence. Right?"
Again he nodded. Whatever. As if it mattered what happened if he lost.
"And I agree that if your underpants come out clean and dry, that I'll get back in my van, and I won't bother you ever again. Agreed?"
He nodded happily. Three hours until freedom. He didn't think he'd miss her. Spank him indeed! Diapers! Please.
She retrieved the full glass from the sink and asked if he was ready. When he nodded, she held the glass to his lips. He had to drink it down a little quicker than he would have liked, as she kept tipping it toward him a little too much for his comfort. But it wasn't bad tasting: not quite like Gatorade, maybe thicker and saltier, or something. But it was probably one of those new "sportsdrinks" he hadn't tried.
When he had finished the last drops, he looked up to see Mrs. Warren smiling an odd little smile, as if there was a joke he wasn't getting. The joke's on you, he thought. I'm not really incontinent. She wiped his lips in a maternal way, and said, "Okay, now, three hours exactly. I've got some deliveries to make in the meantime, but I'll be here promptly to check on you."
She turned to go, then turned back suddenly. "I almost forgot," she said, fishing out a small black object that looked like a little radio. "I don't think it's safe to have you here tied up alone, so this is a little microphone transmitter that I receive in my van. I'll just set it here, on the toilet seat, and if there's an emergency, just a yell will bring me back here in a hurry. Okay?"
He nodded, impressed. She was prepared. Good thing he wouldn't need to fight her in the future, for she'd be a difficult adversary. Luckily, all he had to do was play along briefly here, and he'd get this woman out of his life. She said goodbye, smiled that odd smile again, and left the bathroom. He heard her slam the door downstairs, start the van, and then heard it's engine fade away.
As Mrs. Warren drove away, she thought about the boy she'd just left in his bathtub, and almost felt a little sorry for him. He looked so earnest about the whole situation, so confident about staying dry, so hopeful about not wearing diapers. If only he knew the reality.
She'd seen it before, of course, dozens of times by now, with dozens of boys. Most were, like this guy, essentially continent, she knew. Or at least they were when she first met them. And most had accidently stumbled into her little web, from which they could not extract themselves. All had similar stories, interestingly, of liking to PRETEND to need diapers, or having sick relatives, or some similar garbage. Mrs. Sheffield, the dear lady, caught one every few weeks. And though the woman might be nice, with the best of intentions, she was too dense to realize that these boys were not ACTUALLY incontinent and did not really need her help. But she thought they did, so she referred them to her, Linda Warren, former nurse and current queen of the diaper boys.
The ironic thing was that as kind and dense as Mrs. Sheffield was, Mrs. Warren was just the opposite: insightful but self-serving. She knew damn well these boys didn't "need" her, but she needed them, so they were in her program. She needed them mostly for financial reasons, as this partnership with Mrs. Sheffield was her only income. The more boys she had, the more she was paid. And the longer they stayed in her program, the less work they demanded, so the more boys she could keep, so the more money she made...
And she was good, both at enlisting her boys and at keeping them. Now, after about three years, she had all the bugs worked out, so that once a boy was referred to her, he was pretty much hers for as long as she wanted. She could handle almost every curve thrown to her, and by now, had seen almost every variation. Her income was good, and since the boys never left the program, her job security was excellent as well. She now concentrated on the art of her craft, and now enjoyed simply seeing how the game would be played. This boy, for example, was being resistant, and understandably so, she thought. He was probably no more incontinent than she was. But she had all the cards (or would have them soon) and his decision to try to prove his continence doomed him to what she knew would be a miserable day.
For no one, she knew, had ever had a full glass of her "diaper juice" and had lasted more than two hours. Most lasted less than one. Even when she tested it on herself, she had been on a toilet within ninety minutes, and had stayed there for nearly three hours. It had taken her several weeks to find the appropriate doses of diuretic and laxative that would work quickly yet be able to be passed off as a normal drink. Using and mixing a therapeutic dose of furosemide wasn't a problem, but it had taken some experimentation before she found a suitable solvent for the double-strength mag citrate she used. It made her shudder to think about that: it was the fastest and most powerful laxative known, and even a quarter of what she used would probably be enough. But she didn't take chances. She wanted each and every boy that came her way; so far, she had a perfect record.
And this boy had no idea what he was in for. He believed it was Gatorade, and was soon going to get an unpleasant surprise. Then the rest of the game would fall into place.
Sometime later she heard the first curses come in over the receiver, and since she didn't really have any errands to run, she pulled the van over to do some paperwork and to listen, for this first "accident" for her little boys was always sort of poignant for her. She leaned back and enjoyed the growing sounds of Doug's distress.
During the first few minutes, Doug tried to get a little more comfortable. His hands being tied above his head was innately uncomfortable, and he faced an unenviable choice between trying to hold his arms up on his own, which, he found, led to muscle cramps within five minutes, or letting his hands stay limp, which rested his arm muscles a little but chaffed at his wrists and cut off his circulation. In addition, his arms being elevated put added weight on the bony part of the pelvis on which he was sitting, making this extremely uncomfortable against the unforgiving porcelain of the tub. He tried to shift his weight, but his jeans were tied to the faucet behind him, and this prevented him from moving enough to get really comfortable. The pillow in his back also wasn't doing a good enough job on his back; it was starting to ache already. This test would certainly challenge his endurance, he thought, though not in the way Mrs. Warren anticipated.
He was trying to distract himself by thinking of other things when, scarcely 25 minutes into his three hour incarceration, he felt his bladder twinge a little, indicating its apparent fullness. This mostly just disappointed him, because he knew it would be a while before he could relieve himself, and that meant two and a half hours of relative discomfort on top of what he was already feeling in his arms, rear end, and back. But he'd held out for far longer than that in the past, (on long trips, for example) so he wasn't worried about it, per se. Since he hadn't had a lot to drink this morning, it shouldn't get any worse.
Ten minutes later, though, it did get worse. He started to feel a lot of pressure, and tried to move again in an effort to make it less evident. But of course, he still couldn't move. Doug smiled, feeling chagrinned. It looked like it WOULD in fact be a little test to endure this kind of bladder discomfort for another two and a half hours. He tried to figure out why he was having so much trouble, and could only point to a combination of the beer he had had last night and the Gatorade this morning. Weird. Oh, well. He'd just have to put up with it.
But fifteen minutes later found Doug about ready to burst. He swore and groaned, confused about how the beer from last night could still be affecting him. He had to concentrate now not to relax his bladder's sphincter, which would be a disaster of epic proportion. He thought about how ironic it was that it was turning out to be so difficult to stay dry. This was certainly worse than any bladder fullness he'd ever experienced, and it was quite a shame it had to happen today.
As he hit one hour into his test, Doug was wondering how he'd find the strength to last the whole three hours. Suddenly he heard his abdomen gurgle. As he gritted his teeth against the tide of urine inside him, he attributed the grumbling to his lack of food today. Oh, well, he thought, too bad: his hunger would have to wait. Then he heard and felt more gurgles, which was followed by the abrupt onset of cramps. It took his breath away, and he fought to hold his bladder and withstand the pain at the same time. This wasn't hunger.
The pain subsided, but the gurgling continued and became nearly constant, and within two minutes, Doug was surprised by an overwhelming sensation of fullness in his rectum. It begged for immediate release, but Doug quickly clamped down with all his strength, and his sphincter survived the initial onslaught. He was, however, shocked at the abruptness of the urge, and at its strength, and as he tightened his bottom and bladder muscles as much as he could, he wondered what the hell was going on. He must be sick. Why did it have to happen now?
His bowel cramps went away for a moment but were soon back with a vengeance. He felt severe abdominal pain and heard the gurgling continue, and battled the strong urge he had to relieve himself. He was now sure he was sick with something, and as he attempted to resist the beckoning call of nature, he started to get a foreboding feeling that it wouldn't be possible to last another hour and forty-five minutes of this torture.
Doug considered the options he had. He thought about appealing to the little black box sitting on the toilet in front of him. Surely he wasn't suppposed to be sick for this test: that wasn't fair. Maybe Mrs. Warren would come back and let him out, and they could do this all over again some other time. But then he thought, how would he convince her he was really sick? As far as she knew, this impending inability to stay clean and dry might be typical for him, and this just represented an attempt to get out of wearing the diapers that she thought he needed. Anyway, she didn't seem like the kind of lady who would bargain with him or entertain excuses. So he reluctantly had to dismiss that option.
He groaned again and again as he applied all the energy he could to maintain his continence. He had two other options, one of which was unthinkable. Either he could try to hold out, or he could give in to the strongest urges he had ever experienced. As difficult as it would be, he HAD to try to hold on, because he couldn't imagine her coming back to find him wet and messy in this tub. The humiliation would be too great, not to mention the consequences...
And then it happened. It was at one hour, thirty-five minutes in. He was tiring of fighting, and the cramps had gone away briefly, so he had relaxed slightly, only to feel what he thought may have been a little squirt escape from his bottom and soak into his underpants. He wasn't sure, though. For that to have happened would simply be impossible, and the consequences too dire. It must have been a mistake. Just to check, he shifted weight to see if his underpants felt wet or squishy. As he did so, he felt another little squirt escape his anal sphincter, and then his underpants felt undeniably wet.
When he first felt that sensation, he caught his breath. In fact, his whole sense of time slowed down. His world froze as he focused all his attention on confirming the damp sensation between his legs. He didn't want to believe it, but even as he hoped he hadn't done what he thought he'd done, he felt more effluent emerging from his tortured bottom. He resumed breathing, this time more quickly, in a panic. This couldn't be happening. It was unthinkable. And yet his underpants were certainly wet, and now felt a little full as well. And then, in another moment, the smell from his actions caught up with his nose as well.
No doubt, now. For the first time since he was about three or four, he'd accidently soiled his pants. Not much, of course, but he could surmise the consequences of even the slightest accident. Surely his underpants were clearly stained, and Mrs. Warren would see, and say he was incontinent, and then.... For the first time, he began to ponder what failing this test might mean.
And he had to face the fact that he had failed it. Even now, as he continued to struggle against his bowels and bladder, even now it was over. It wasn't fair, of course, for this wasn't a representative three hours for him. He was sick, or still hung over, or something. It wasn't fair, and he ought to get another chance. But he bet he knew what Mrs. Warren would say. He'd taken his shot, and had somehow blown it. Somehow he had failed his "continence test." He repeated this inside his head as he groaned with the continuing pain. He couldn't believe it.
He glanced at the clock, which showed that he still had another hour and twenty minutes left. Now his choice of what to do seemed less clear. Why, if he had already failed the test, should he be tortured with this pain and discomfort for the rest of the time? Trying to limit the damage did nothing for his situation. And perhaps, he thought in the desperate musings of a man in severe pain, if he gave in and relieved himself fully, she would come back and see that it wasn't just a little leak, that he was in fact ill. Maybe that was his only chance.
Only another minute passed before he decided to spend the next hour and a half in relative comfort. It certainly wouldn't take much to make him feel better, just a little relaxation, and then she'd see it was all a mistake...
He lifted himself up on one hip and relaxed his sphincter a little, only to be truly shocked at the force with which his bowels exploded. With nowhere to go, his watery bowel movement shot down his pants legs and up his back. It felt so good not to hold it any more that he started pushing when the flow slowed down. He pushed as hard as he could, and was gratified by how much better his bowels felt. When that discomfort had subsided, it made the pain from his bladder seem even worse, and he took a minute to think about whether there was any point to trying to fight that urge as well. After all, his poop was so watery, it had soaked his pants anyway: what could peeing hurt? She'd probably never know about that, for most would go down the drain or evaporate. So he relaxed his bladder as well, and a wonderful feeling of relief came over him. Unfortunately, somehow the way his penis happened to be positioned turned the onslaught of urine not down his crotch, but up into his lap, which had been the only dry spot remaining on his jeans. He looked down and realized there was no way he could pass off the dark stain in his lap as anything other than having wet himself.
He lowered himself back down to the tub surface and felt a warm squish envelope his bottom, crotch, and most of each leg. What a mess. It didn't feel particularly bad immediately, but over the next few minutes, as his mess cooled off, he realized that he wouldn't be nearly as comfortable as he'd thought. In fact, he wasn't sure that it wasn't worse now. He wiggled his legs helplessly. He wanted to change now. He'd traded one discomfort for another, and the bad part was, this discomfort would be way more embarrassing when Mrs. Warren returned. It felt horrible, it clearly looked bad, and it was beginning to smell pretty strongly, too.
But he'd done it, and now, he told himself, he had to sit in it. What was worse was that every few minutes he'd discover the need to expel more effluent into his pants. At this point, he didn't even think about it, though. He couldn't really make things worse. So every five minutes or so he eased himself up and pushed more poop and pee out into his wet, brown, full underpants.
And in between his repeated soilings and wettings he had plenty of time to consider how embarrassed he'd be when Mrs. Warren came back and saw him in this state. Before, when he had done it on purpose, no one ever saw him. How humiliating to have had any accident, but especially one of this magnitude! And as he sat there in his wet mess he became more sure that she'd never let him try again. She'd been right all along, she'd think: he clearly need diapers.
And as he grunted and relieved himself once more, he wondered briefly if she was right.
As the time dragged on, Doug became more uncomfortable than he could ever remember being. His arms burned, his hands were numb, his back was stiff, and his bottom and legs were cold, wet, and squishy. This isn't at all the way he thought things would turn out. He watched as his clock crept toward the three hour mark, indicating that his test was over, and at the exact instant it read three hours, he heard a key turn a lock in his front door downstairs. Damn, he thought, she's good.
He listened to the sounds of Mrs. Warren climbing the stairs, whistling to herself. He saw her enter the bathroom with her clipboard in her hand.
"Whew!" she commented. "Smells like there's a little boy who has some stinky pants that need changing."
He lowered his eyes in silence. Words couldn't describe how humiliated he felt as he sat tied up in his bathtup with very messy and wet pants. She made it worse by laughing when she looked closer at him.
"Well, I hope you don't mind my pronouncing judgment BEFORE we look at your underpants, but I think it's quite safe to say you didn't exactly pass this test." She chuckled again. "I mean, I've seen other little boys fail, but not with so much enthusiasm." She leaned over to inspect him. "You certainly did quite a number on those pants, and it's porbably a blessing that you won't be needing to wear those underpants again at any time in the near future. I don't even WANT to know what color they are now. Deal?" she asked cheerfully as she packed her timer and monitor into her little black bag.
He couldn't speak. He was simply mortified. That this could happen at all, that anyone would see him, that she would make fun of him. It was all so terrible.
She sat on the toilet lid to talk to him, then saw his expression and knew his feelings. "Oh, don't worry, little boy," she said, reaching over to stroke his hair maternally. "As I said, I've had lots of boys fail my test. You weren't the first. And likewise, you won't be the first to wear diapers for me, either. It doesn't have to be a big deal at all, if you just accept it. Life goes on, even if you have an accident, and even if you're wearing diapers."
"But..." Doug tried to speak for the first time. "But I really don't NEED to wear diapers," he insisted, nearly in tears. "I'm NOT incontinent."
"Uh, huh, of course you aren't," Mrs. Warren said with a patronizing lilt. "But your pants might want to argue with you. Maybe we don't understand what incontinent means," she suggested gently.
"No," he said acidly. "I know exactly what it means. I'm just saying that I had horrible luck today. I'm sick, I think, and I had a lot of beer last night. I...I never have accidents normally," he sputtered with exasperation.
"No, you're not sick," she replied. "Part of it was the diaper juice."
"The diaper juice," she repeated. This was always tricky. "It wasn't Gatorade you drank, though it is very similar. It had a touch of a mild laxative in it," she lied. Giving a hint of the truth often helped her credibility. But she found it best to keep him doubting his ability to stay clean and dry. He'll be easier in the short run if he wonders whether he actually needs the diapers.
"I like to call it diaper juice because it helps me decide who needs diapers. You see, it doesn't make everyone soil their pants, just those with some underlying incontinence. If your sphincters are a little weak anyway, this stuff will tip you over the edge, and you'll have an accident. Or two," she added, noting the wetness in his pants as well.
"My company has spent a lot of time testing this drink, and we've found that the vast majority of people are a little `challenged' by the test, but that they stay clean and dry with no real problems. Only those we know by other tests to be incontinent had a soiling problem. It turns out to be quite a valid test," she concluded. She had phrased that well. He ought to believe that story. "Of course, that doesn't reeally explain why you wet your pants as well. The diaper juice doesn't have anything in it to cause that. You did that on your own," she lied.
As Doug heard this, Mrs. Warren's words made his head spin. So, it had been a laxative, but he should have been able to hold it. But he didn't, so was he really incontinent? And he had peed in his pants, too, so that juice wasn't entirely to blame. He didn't know what to think. He had to admit, it sounded like he had legitimately failed this test. But...but he simply wasn't incontinent. He mumbled this again, since it was his only line of defense.
"That's simply denial," she responded easily. "And I don't blame you for using denial as a defense mechanism. Bladder and bowel control are some of our most elemental skills. It's embarrassing and a little scary when we discover somehow that we have lost it to some degree, even if it's just temporary. I know that you are scared and embarrassed. Now, I can't tell you why you are incontinent, only a doctor can. And Mrs. Sheffield says you've been to see a doctor already about it, so I'll take your word for it, and we don't need to address the reasons WHY you're incontinent. Our job is to deal with it."
Doug cursed himself for having mentioned a doctor in his made-up story about needing diapers last Saturday. But he never thought it would be used against him.
She went on. "But whether you choose to accept it or not, or whether you were aware of it or not, today we have proven that you have a problem with incontinence."
He still felt dizzy. She sounded so reasonable. "But if I AM incontinent, I should have known about it. Right?"
"And I'm sure you did, on some level, but you chose to ignore it, or not to believe it. Perhaps we can find some other earlier clues. Think back. I bet you can remember wetting your bed, or having daytime accidents when you were very little. Right?"
He nodded. He could. But couldn't everyone?
"Studies we have done have shown that our incontinent clients have specific memories like that more often than people with good control. And this makes sense. If you can remember such incidents, you were probably older than most people by the time you gained control, and late bloomers often have trouble throughout life with bladder and bowel control." This was a fabrication she had practiced many times, and it usually had the desired effect. It did here. She could see that it had made him think. Time to hit him with more lies.
"Here's another clue. Another subtle sign of an underlying incontinence problem is if after you pee (and I mean intentionally, in the toilet) you ever have a little problem dribbling into your underpants once you're finished. Normal people don't have this problem, but all of my other little boys do, and it's another pretty sensitive sign." Of course, Mrs. Warren chuckled to herself, how could this boy know that was a lie? Most men didn't examine other men in public restrooms. And indeed, Doug looked shocked. He had thought that a little dribbling was normal. Mrs. Warren smiled. Time to hit him with the big one.
"Finally, psychologists tell us that we sometimes deeply desire things we know we need but which we can't admit we need, out of embarrassment or fear. These desires appear in different ways, but one way incontinent people manifest the desire for additional bladder protection is a sexual attraction to diapers. You mentioned something earlier about this, so I'll bet that's the case with you, and I bet that from an early age you've had a fetish for diapers. It may seem perverted to you, or embarrassing, so you probably haven't told a lot of people. But the fact is that this is your unconscious telling you that you have a serious problem, and that if you aren't going to fix it consciously, your unconscious will help you fix it automatically. It's true, isn't it? You've secretly worn diapers before, haven't you?"
She was looking at him with such a knowing expression. Doug nodded slowly as she nodded with him. Yes, of course he'd worn diapers. Was this why he liked them?
Mrs. Warren smiled. That was one thing she could count on. All of these poor boys wanted to know why they liked diapers, and they tended to believe any credible reason you gave them.
"You see, you've always had this problem, and you've always wanted help, but have been too afraid or embarrassed to get it. Not anymore. From now on, you'll get the help you need, Doug. And to make it easier on your ego, I'm not going to give you a choice. Sometimes we can't admit what we need, but we still need it. You may not be able to tell me you need to wear diapers, but you have all the symptoms of incontinence, and we proved today that you have a problem.
"Now, it would be nice if you could admit you have a problem, so that we can work together to fix it. Working together is so much nicer than struggling with each other, and my experience is that it helps you more to admit your problem and cooperate with me. But I must tell you that it is hardly necessary for you to help me. It's far more pleasant for you if you cooperate, but one way or another you'll be wearing your diapers like a good little boy."
She reached into her black bag, drew out a camera, and before Doug could object, she took several pictures of him as he sat in his obviously wet and messy pants in the tub.
"What are you doing?" he cried. Evidence of his experience today was the last thing he wanted. He thought of his job, his grad program application.
"Now just relax," she cooed, replacing her camera. "These pictures won't find their way anywhere important if you behave yourself. They are more as an insurance policy for me. As I said, I'm not going to give you the option of not participating in this program. I know your tendency is to avoid the issue of your incontinence, but I'm very serious about forcing you to confront it, or at the very least, to control it. The pictures will just help me make sure you'll stay in my program."
That was bad news indeed. This woman was arming herself with more and more weapons, Doug saw. How could he avoid this catastrophe?
"Okay," Mrs. Warren said, noting that the pictures had the desired effect. She would take more pictures later, and they would be her trump card for this fellow. "The next order of business is signing a contract for your personal incontinence control program, or ICP. After we do that, we can get you a little more comfortable." With that, she showed him her clipboard, which had on it an official-looking document with a space to sign his name. Doug got a sudden feeling of panic. He couldn't sign. This was it, the last nail in his coffin. If he signed this, he'd never be able to get out of this program thing.
So he shook his head. "I'm not signing," he said defiantly.
Mrs. Warren took the clipboard back and shook her head. "Your choice," she clucked. "You don't have to sign now." Doug was relieved. Maybe there was some way out of this. "But I will tell you that you don't move from that tub until I have your John Hancock on this page. As long as you're comfortable, you don't have to sign. You want to sit for a while?"
Doug grimaced. He couldn't bear sitting here any more. But...
When he didn't answer immediately, Mrs. Warren stood. "Fine," she said. "I'll check back in a little while, after I've prepared your apartment. If you're not ready to sign by then, I can leave you until tomorrow morning. I've certainly got plenty of time, you won't starve before then, and you don't exactly need special bathroom facilities. And if you get thirsty, I've always got some Gatorade you could have." He heard her chuckling as she went downstairs.
When he was alone he lifted himself up a little and relieved himself once more into his pants. He had had cramps throughout that conversation but had held on until she left. That would have been way too embarrassing.
Now what could he do? She had him by the balls, he knew. She had blackmail material, and he couldn't sit here forever. He was so stiff and sore and generally uncomfortable that even a dry diaper sounded like a dream to him. This lady was too good, and right now she had him right where she wanted him. He had to sign the paper. There was no way around it. He dejectedly accepted this over the next few moments.
More disturbing was the thought she had planted in his head about actually being incontinent. It didn't sound possible, but she made it sound obvious. And if it was true, did he have any business objecting to this ICP thing?
But his bladder and bowel control was fine, he thought. He never had an accident. He'd never needed diapers before. And yet, why did he always want them? His head spun with the implications, and he was far too hungry and uncomfortable to sort it all out. He'd be best off if he signed the damn paper, got out of this tub, and got her out of his house. Then he could think about it all he needed to, and devise some way to get out of this whole mess. He couldn't think of any ways now, but there had to be some escape.
He listened to the sounds of the house while he waited for her to return. He heard the front door open and close several times, and Mrs. Warren made several trips up and down the stairs as well. He heard bags ripping, and the downstairs toilet flush. He had no idea what was going on. And honestly, he didn't care. His mind was set on getting out of here. So when Mrs. Warren finally reappeared in the bathroom and asked if he was interested in joined her ICP, Doug nodded vigorously.
"Good," she said, and held out her clipboard.
Mrs. Warren held out the clipboard for Doug to read, But Doug had no interest in reading the contract. It didn't matter what it said: he had to sign it, and with any luck he wouldn't have to honor it. It was immaterial what it said.
"I'll sign it. It doesn't matter. Just give me the pen, and let me out of here," he said irritably.
Mrs. Warren smiled, and found a pen in her purse. She'd had a couple of boys like this. She certainly didn't care whether they read the contract. For her it served as one of her backup weapons, in the unlikely event that her right to punish her boys as she saw fit was ever questioned. But in her three years at this job, through many hundreds of spankings and other punishments, she'd never had a boy seriously question her authority. Not after he understood about the pictures, and had thought through what making a formal complaint would mean. She knew that the police would have a hard time believing the story, and would likely end up harassing her client more than they would her. The newspapers, Mrs. Warren knew, would love to get a story like this one, and if they did, her career would be over, certainly, but so would the lives of her clients. Imagine an adult male allowing himself to be diapered and spanked repeatedly, allowing himself to be tied in his bathtub until he soiled his pants, allowing himself to be photographed in that state, even going shopping for diapers in the first place. Her clients had all considered the possibility, she was sure, and once they saw the absurdity of their case, and realized the implications of pressing charges, they swallowed their pride and behaved themselves like good little boys.
The contract was so that in the event that she enrolled a stupid or crazy client into her program (someone who *couldn't* comprehend how damaging "coming out" would be to their lives), she could protect herself legally when he made the insane choice to sue. And it was another tool for her to use in coercing her boys: "Yes, I think you WILL bend yourself over my knee. I've got a signed agreement which I could have enforced by law if I wanted. Would you like the police to help me spank you?" It was as vain a threat, of course, as her boys' threats to sue, for none of them, including Mrs. Warren, really wanted that much attention focused on their activities. But perhaps her boys didn't know that.
At any rate, she simply smiled as she held the clipboard and pen so that Doug, in his bound state, could sign, which he did without so much as glancing over the page.
"I knew you'd be a good boy eventually," Mrs. Warren said sweetly. "You will want to read that, perhaps after I've left. I will also leave a more detailed summary of the rules of the program with you so you can start learning, and obeying, them tonight. I advise you to read through it carefully, as you will be held accountable for all the numerous rules of your ICP, and I will start punishing you even tonight if you break any of them."
Doug wasn't really listening. Just nod at her, he thought to himself. Pretend like you care, and then she'll leave, and you can figure out what to do to get out of this mess.
"Now, I just need to go over a couple of things with you before we get you cleaned up and into a nice, fresh diaper. I've had a look around your apartment, so I'm pretty sure of my facts, but I always like to confirm them with new clients. You work in the grad school's lab in preparation for applying for their program next year. Is that right?"
Doug, as distracted as he was, was still shocked. This lady had been through his private things! He felt even more violated and vulnerable. What business was it of hers? Was there any limit to her intrusiveness?
Mrs. Warren *was* actually sure of her facts, and went through this presentation simply to scare her young charges. She wanted them to think that she knew everything and couldn't be fooled. The reality, actually, wasn't that much different. She took Doug's expression of disbelief as evidence that she was having the desired effect.
"And you grocery shop every Sunday at `The Grocery Place?'" Doug could only nod dumbly, wondering how she could possibly know so much about him. (In fact, Mrs. Warren always marveled at how much could be learned about a person who kept receipts, as Doug did...)
She went on to `check' with him about where he banked, rented videos, dry-cleaned. He simply nodded at each revelation, accepting this as evidence of how smart she was and how difficult getting out of this situation would be. He would have argued with her about her right to rifle through his apartment, but as he was still tightly bound, this wasn't really the time.
This, of course, was all information she needed in order to keep track of Doug during his initial probation period. She would require him to let her know where he was at all times when he left the house, and she was adept at arranging for surrogate "babysitters" to keep eyes on him all over town. She didn't need to ask about his drugstore, since he would now be shopping exclusively at The Drugstore, her employer.
And when she had gone over everything, she did finally release him. She undid his cuffs and removed the rope to the back beltloop of his jeans. Doug lowered his arms and just spent a moment savoring the feeling of blood in his hands again. Then he stood, and felt some not-quite-dry effluent slide down his pants leg and drop out onto the bathtub floor. Mrs. Warren made him remove his pants in the tub while she watched. Doug didn't care. He assumed she wanted to watch in order to embarrass him some more, but he was past being embarrassed today. So he was caught off guard when he glanced up after pulling his filthy jeans off and saw a flash go off. Mrs. Warren was recording this moment with a small automatic camera, and had captured him as he stood in his brown-stained underpants with semisolid brown goo caked on his legs, and with his soaked jeans at his feet. He cared a little more about this, but not enough. It was done. He just wanted to shower.
She kept watching and got several more pictures as he peeled off his disgusting underpants, soaked socks, and his relatively clean shirt. She had him put his underpants in one small clear plastic baggy, and all the rest of his clothes into another larger one. She told him the larger bag would be available to him if he wanted to wash the contents later. He would not, however, see his abused underpants again. He was told he wouldn't need to.
Then she observed his shower, and handed him a towel with which to dry himself. He felt much better, but still felt dazed as he followed Mrs. Warren into his bedroom, where he looked around as he stood there naked. He saw two large bags of disposable diapers and several other containers of what he took to be the stuffer pads. On his dresser were neatly stacked the contents of yet another bag of disposables, with shorter stacks of the stuffer pads next to them. His underwear drawer was slightly open, and he could see that it no longer contained his underwear, but was stuffed full of plastic panties. On his queen-sized bed was spread a large changing sheet, and a diaper and pad were already laid out on it, with lotion, vaseline, oil, and powder standing by and ready for his use. While he was still absorbing the transformation his room had undergone, Mrs. Warren instructed him to climb up on the changing pad and put on the diaper.
"I'll just watch to make sure you do a good job. We don't want leaks."
As he walked to the bed, his hands attempting to hide his genitalia, his felt his face turn red. This was obviously more embarrassing than with Mrs. Sheffield in the store, not only because he was being watched, but because the observer had seen him wet and soil himself, and knew he needed to be in the diaper. *He* knew that he didn't, or at least he thought he didn't. And putting this diaper on felt to him an awful lot like giving up, which his pride made it difficult to do. But his practical side started talking, too: Look, it said. You're not giving up. You're actually tricking her by making her THINK you're giving in. In fact you're just trying to get her to leave, so that you can think clearly enough to figure a way out of this mess. You'll win this game later, but to make it work, you've got to make her think you're a "good little boy" by gritting your teeth and putting on this diaper.
So Doug slowly walked over to the bed and gingerly crawled up onto the changing pad, next to the open diaper. He looked doubtfully at the arrangement of powders and lotions next to him.
"It's up to you," Mrs. Warren said, reading his mind. "You have to care for your own skin. These are just possibilities. The only thing I require is that you use powder. Because I like the smell. You'll appreciate it, too, once you get a little more experience with dirty diapers. So pile that on, but feel free to experiment with the rest of the stuff here."
Doug didn't want to use anything at all, but he obediently picked up the powder and sprinkled some on the open diaper, then set the bottle down next to it.
Mrs. Warren shook her head. "Nice try. Keep going with the powder. I want you to put it on yourself AND in the diaper, and I'll tell you when to stop."
Doug crinkled up his nose, but he obeyed. He shook out a lot of powder into his crotch, and onto his thighs, then onto the diaper. She made him rub it in, and add several more handfuls to his bottom and stomach. When he was covered in powder, and nearly choking from the sweet perfume, she told him to put the diaper on. He carefully slid it under himself. She showed him how to center it and then fasten it lying down, so it fit best. He stood up carefully and noted with dismay how bulky the diaper felt now. Mrs. Sheffield had been right: this was way too much diaper for him. He could hardly bring his legs together, and there was no doubt that it would show clearly under any of the clothes he presently owned. This could be very bad. He'd never be able to hide it. But he was chagrinned to recognize that he only had himself and his libido to blame.
Mrs. Warren, however, seemed pleased. She stuck fingers into his waist and legs, testing the fit, and patted him on the rump, pronouncing him well-diapered. "I knew you could do it yourself. You know, Mrs. Sheffield thinks you're something of an imbecile, or at least a little slow. She thought you'd need a lot of help." She winked at him. "But I know better. So I'm going to be watching you very carefully."
Doug got a chill down his spine. She was on to him. She knew he would be scheming. It was eerie the way she seemed to read his mind. He'd have to be very clever. Perhaps he'd even have to play along for longer than he'd thought before trying to escape, so that she'd let down her guard.
"Now, come downstairs and see what I've got for you." Mrs. Warren led him downstairs wearing only his diaper. In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator door, revealing a gallon jug of what looked like milk. She pulled it out and poured him a large glass.
"The diaper juice from before is very mild, but it is very long-lasting. It would ordinarily keep you rather...runny, for several days. So I want you to drink some special milk I have made to help slow your bowels down and to replace your electrolytes. The quicker you drink this milk, and the more of it you drink, the quicker your diarrhea will stop. So if the diarrhea gets worse, you need to drink more milk to fight it. Okay? I don't want you to be uncomfortable. If you can manage to drink this whole gallon by tomorrow, that ought to do the trick, and tomorrow you'll get back to normal. Some people, I should warn you, though, do take a little longer to readjust."
She set the glass in front of him. "Go ahead and drink this first glass now so I can make sure you at least get started."
Doug nodded wearily, and drank it quickly down. He was disappointed that the diarrhea would last a while, and he was willing to try anything that would help. If it would help, he'd try to drink the whole gallon before dinner. It didn't taste quite like milk; it was chalkier and slightly bitter. But since he had never had Milk of Magnesia, he didn't recognize the taste, and assumed it was the extra medicine and electrolytes that made it taste funny.
In fact, this additional concoction of Mrs. Warren was designed to keep him very loose, out of control, and essentially diaper-dependent for at least the next few days. It would help get him started on the right track, and it amused her to think of Doug drinking this stuff to get rid of the very diarrhea it was causing. The more he drank, the worse it would be, and the more he'd drink. She'd check on him to make sure he didn't really get dehydrated, and the game would stop after he was securely in the program and ran out of "milk."
After he'd drained the glass, Mrs. Warren handed Doug a copy of the contract he'd signed, and a longer list of rules he'd be expected to follow. Doug thought that perhaps he'd read them tonight or tomorrow, just to satisfy his curiosity, but her told himself that it didn't really matter.
Mrs. Warren then gave him his last minute instructions. "I'd advise you to use the rest of the day to explore your apartment and notice the changes I've made. Also, it would be wise to pore over those rules, because I'll be checking on you often. I'll definitely be back tomorrow, and I'll probably be back overnight. I had keys to your apartment made, so I can check on you while you're sleeping." Doug looked a little shocked. "Oh, it's perfectly standard. You told me I could do this in your contract. It's a good little contract; perhaps you should read it sometime. And read the rules. You have some homework to do before I see you tomorrow."
She winked at him as she was gathering her things to leave. "Promise me you'll be a good little boy for me."
"Okay," Doug said unconvincingly.
"Now be nice. I see we'll have to work on your manners. I'm trying to be kind, so you won't get too many spankings right here at the beginning. But my kindness, you'll find, only goes so far. So promise me you'll be good."
Doug swallowed. "Yes, Ma'am. I promise."
She patted his diapered bottom. "Yes, Doug. I'm sure you'll be a very good boy for me."
Then she left, and Doug waddled upstairs to his room, carrying his rules and contract with him. He collapsed on his bed, exhausted from the physical ordeal and from mental fatigue. He had a lot to think about, but it would have to wait.
Linda Warren speed-dialed Mrs. Sheffield's number on the van's cellular telephone as she turned out of Doug's apartment complex.
"No, of course not, Mary. No problems at all. He came around just like all of the others have," she told Mrs. Sheffield in response to her question.
"I hope you weren't too hard on him, Linda. He seems like a nice boy who just needed a little gentle guidance."
Mrs. Warren chuckled. "Well, that's just what I gave him. But I'm sure you really don't want the details, do you?"
"Oh, no, no, of course not," Mrs. Sheffield said hurriedly. "We made that agreement long ago. I know you have your special techniques, and although I'd like to be reassured that you aren't harming these boys in any way, I care more about the fact that they get involved in our program. It's such a horrible thing to be incontinent and to have those accidents. I just want to make sure they are protected from that sort of thing, you know."
"Yes, I know," Mrs. Warren said. She'd heard this hundreds of times. Mrs. Sheffield was so unlike her. So caring and nurturing, but also so naive. She thought that she was providing these boys with a critical service which they dearly needed. It would devastate her to find out that these boys were really perfectly normal, and that Mrs. Warren (with Mrs. Sheffield's unknowing help) had forced them into an essentially permanent infantile lifestyle. It would also shock her, Mrs. Warren thought, how little Mrs. Warren cared about the harm they were doing to these boys. Mrs. Sheffield was in it to help her "clients." Mrs. Warren just wanted to make money, and doing it with an artistic, sadistic flare was simply icing on her financial cake.
"The bottom line is that Doug Easton is now safely tucked away in diapers, and before too long, he won't even think about not wearing one," she told her innocent comrade.
"And by the way," she continued. "I know he told you that his `problem' is temporary, but I have a practiced eye, as you know, and I think I can safely say that he's going to need our help for a long, long time."
"Oh, dear, I was afraid you'd say that, Linda," Mrs. Sheffield said sympathetically. "What IS it about our boys? We haven't had a single one make it to the retraining phase. It saddens me to think that there are that many people walking around out there without any control."
Mrs. Warren smiled. This lady was too much. How long would she go before she started suspecting the fact that they weren't helping anybody? "Yes, I know," she said out loud. "And how many more are too scared to come in and let us help them? There are tons of these folks out there. I told you it this was a useful service for people. The problem of incontinence, especially among young people, is one where you just see the tip of the iceburg. We have a new client every two or three weeks, and the rate hasn't slowed down. I think there are more out there than even we suspect."
"I know you're right about that," came the trusting reply. "We must have about forty boys now, right? I don't understand it, but we must keep trying to help them if we can. I guess I'll just have to keep my eyes open in the store, and try not to let any of them slip through my fingers."
"Yes, that's right. Don't let any of them get away," Mrs. Warren said, perhaps a little too greedily. "I mean, it would be tragic to have them continue with their problems."
"Indeed. I'll never forgive myself for what my son went through. At least I can make up for that with these boys."
"Yes, ma'am," Mrs. Warren said curteously, and they hung up. Inside she was thinking: she really is a guilt-ridden, altruistic sap. But I won't complain. I have a very secure job, since these boys aren't going anywhere. It pays well, and gets better every day. And it's fun, which is more than most people can say about their jobs.
She thought back to when she had been a nurse, working long hours, for pathetic pay. She had always wanted to go into business for herself, but had never hit upon quite the right idea. It had been pure luck when one day, while paying for some cold medicine in The Drugstore, she had observed the young man in front of her in line purchasing some adult diapers from Mrs. Sheffield. Mrs. Sheffield, apparently out of curiosity, had asked the guy what they were for, and the man had blushed tremendously and murmured that they were for him, for some periodic medical problem. Mrs. Sheffield had pressed him about the details, which had seemed odd to Mrs. Warren until she later found out about Mrs. Sheffield's son. This young man was being grilled about how he managed his "problem" and whether he wore the diapers all the time. Mrs. Warren watched with interest as the boy grew confused and murmured something about wearing them only when he needed to. By this time he had received his change, and almost ran out of the store with his new purchase.
Mrs. Sheffield had confided in Mrs. Warren that she had several young, apparently healthy customers about whom she worried, and this is when she related the story about her son. At the time, Mrs. Warren had thought the whole thing interesting, but an inappropriate topic to be discussing with strangers like herself. She had paid for her medicine and gone straight home.
She didn't think about it until the next day, when she was watching a talk show, and there were some young men in diapers being interviewed about infantilistic fantasies. Mrs. Warren immediately realized why that young man had been in the store the day before, since she knew from her nursing job that there really any "temporary medical problems" that would periodically confine young healthy men to diapers. This fetish business made much more sense. One of the interviewees mentioned a fantasy he'd had about being forced to wear diapers, and soon a plan began to brew in Mrs. Warren's head.
All the pieces were already essentially in place. Mrs. Sheffield, the drugstore lady, who had capital but no way to "help" her diaper-wearing clients. The clients, who wanted to wear diapers but wanted, above all, anonymity. All they needed was the middle-man, or middle-person in this case. She could make the necessary deliveries. And what if her clients were too shy? Well, didn't they often share a fantasy of being forced to wear them? She could do that: blackmail, she was sure, was a powerful tool, one that would not only keep them purchasing her services, but would protect her from the law. These boys would be petrified of people finding out. They were just waiting for her to run their lives.
Mrs. Sheffield had been ecstatic, buying a van, hiring helpers (to inspect diapers), and essentially leaving all the details to her. Linda Warren had quit her nursing job, and devoted herself to running her new business. She had to make it look professional and well-intended to Mrs. Sheffield, so she conceived of ICP's and retraining plans, typing up rules and contracts, never intending any of her client to graduate from her program. And they didn't. Her program was wildly successful. She had been amazed at the numbers of infantilists who were drawn in by her lure, which was essentially an extra-large adult diaper section. It drew these guys in by the boatload, whereupon Mrs. Sheffield somehow got their names and Mrs. Warren forced them into paying her to enslave them.
And nobody ever quit. Eventually the time and energy demanded by a client decreased, so that she could focus on the new ones, who took a lot of attention. But her client list, her nursery of baby boys, just kept growing and growing, and so her commission did as well. Now she had a profitable career built around infantilizing young men against their wills, and the beauty of it was that it was fun, looked legal, and was in no danger of ending. She had the perfect job.
Occasionally she felt a twinge of guilt about what she did to these guys. For example, Doug Easton had never asked specifically for this to happen. But he WAS made vulnerable by his unfortunate little fetish, and Mrs. Warren often rationalized it by quoting Darwin's natural selection theory. She was strong, they were weak. It was none of their faults, but that was the way it was. And anyway, they LIKED diapers, didn't they? Sure, maybe not like this, but she imagined that they didn't get many of their other fantasies filled, and beggars can't be choosers.
The only thing she really felt bad about was the one element of her "ICP" farce which was also pure genius, the aspect that essentially doomed these boys to stay with her forever. It was the rule forbidding masturbation, which must just about kill these boys, she thought. That really is cruel, to supply a fetish and then punish the excitement it breeds. Yet, it really extended the program. Eventually these guys got used to wearing the diapers, bowed to her desires, and stopped fighting. But she hadn't had one yet who could go more than a month without satisfying himself sexually. And then she could punish him and extend his probation indefinitely. Prohibiting sex was the one thing that made their ICPs permanent. It was the master stroke, so to speak, and therefore could not be eliminated, despite its cruelty. Anyway, she wasn't totally heartless: she didn't make them all wear chastity belts all the time. They DID get their little releases, but for that they paid a price, with their rear ends, and with their probation extensions.
She smiled. It was the perfect business. She just wished she could tell somebody.
No sooner had Doug flopped down on his bed than he fell asleep, exhausted from his ordeal. He awoke several hours later, during the early evening, and it was dark. Doug was disoriented. For the moment, he had forgotten what had happened earlier. His first sensation was a strong urge to release his bowels. He stood up in the darkness, and was surprised when he heard the crinkling of a disposable diaper. He wouldn't have expected this, since he didn't usually wear his diaper to bed (it excited him too much to allow sleep), but he was pleased, since he could just use the diaper to relieve himself. Drowsily, he relaxed his rectal sphincter and allowed what turned out to be a gush of fluid into his diaper. Somehow the diaper accepted the whole load without leaking, and, more comfortable, Doug sat down on the side of his bed to try to figure out what time it was. The clock said 7:30pm. That didn't quite make sense. He felt the warm squish of his messy diaper, and smiled. He loved that feeling. But why WAS he wearing this diaper? What had happened before his nap?
Then he remembered. "Oh, God." Could it all have been true? That had just been a couple of hours ago. No wonder he was wearing the diaper. But now that he'd remembered, he felt totally uncomfortable. There was something about the memory of his humiliation earlier, and the embarrassment of having been forced to wear this diaper, that now made him want to take it off immediately. He waddled into the bathroom and carefully removed the messy diaper, taking care not to drop any of the mess on the floor. Then he stepped into the shower to rinse himself off. He had no sooner finished drying himself off, however, when he once again felt an urgent call of nature. Would this diarrhea never stop? he asked himself.
He headed over to the toilet to relieve himself in a method more appropriate to his age, but saw for the first time that there was something wrong with it. There wasn't any water in it at all, or more accurately, there was water, but just a little bit, and it was colored blue. He tried to flush it: nothing happened. It was apparently turned off. Well, he knew how to fix that, he thought, as he gingerly bent over to adjust the water supply on the pipes under the tank. He had to be careful as he squatted, because the release of his bowels was imminent, and crouching was obviously sort of dangerous with this kind of diarrhea. When he squatted to look, however, he found that there was some sort of locking contraption attached to the pipes. He couldn't turn on the water!
Now he was in trouble. He refused to mess his pants twice in one day. He ran downstairs in a kind of panic to check on the other toilet, but it, too, was drained, with blue dye, and was rigged up the same way underneath. Now what could he do? He didn't have much time, certainly not enough to figure out this locking thing and fix the toilets. What other options did he have? He didn't want to get dressed and knock on his neighbor's door just to use his toilet; that was embarrassing, and also might take too long. He couldn't really imagine relieving himself in the tub or the sink; it was bad enough he washed himself off in there. He didn't want it to turn into a toilet, especially for this kind of excrement.
He had no choice, he knew. Not for now, not for tonight. He dashed back upstairs and, swallowing his pride, picked up the top diaper from the pile on his dresser. He quickly grabbed a pad and took them both over to his bed, where he spread out the changing pad, laid out the diaper and pad, and taped himself securely in. Still sitting on his changing pad, he eagerly released his bowels, fully soiling his diaper for the second time in ten minutes.
Wow, he thought. That diaper juice has some half-life. Then he remembered the milk Mrs. Warren had made for him to help. If ever he needed some help, it was tonight, with his toilets locked up. He gingerly got up, and when he saw that his full, messy diaper didn't leak, he waddled downstairs to the kitchen.
He poured himself a large glass of the "milk," and drank it quickly down; then, thinking it would help, poured yet another and drank that, too. That should help, he thought. Despite how Mrs. Warren had manipulated him earlier, getting him to submit to being tied up, making him wet and soil his pants, making him sign that contract thing, he still didn't suspect any further trickery. He certainly never suspected that this milk was, by now, the major cause of his bowel problems. He thought the whole goal had been to get him to sign the contract so he'd feel roped in to this program. He didn't understand the extent of her plans for him, and didn't know how important she thought it was to keep him constantly in diapers this night. After tomorrow, her techniques would change, but this first night she liked to have him diapering himself out of need, not out of fear. It was more amusing that way. But since Doug didn't know that Mrs. Warren enjoyed his suffering, he wasn't cynical enough to suspect the vast extent to which his actions were now being dictated by her. And in the end, his naivete would cost him dearly.
But for now, Doug just sighed when, fifteen minutes later, he pooped in his diapers again, which severely strained their capacity. He again cleaned himself up, showered, and thought he didn't like the idea, rediapered himself immediately afterward. He accepted the fact that he wouldn't be able to fix the toilets tonight, and that due to his upset stomach he might have to wear the diapers until tomorrow morning. But, he told himself, it wasn't just because this lady said he had to do it. It was his decision, because he was sick. And it was obviously just temporary.
He took a look around his room. It was well-stocked with diapers and other supplies. And all of his underwear was gone! She'd stolen his underwear. He'd have to buy more.
He suddenly realized he was starving. He hadn't eaten since last night! He went downstairs again, wearing just his diaper and a t-shirt. It didn't make any sense to wear pants, since he'd just have to change his diaper again soon anyway. He made himself some dinner, and thought about what to do tomorrow, when Mrs. Warren came back. He ought to accuse her of stealing, he realized. He ought to take some sort of legal action, because it really was absurd, the way she waltzed in here, tied him up, humiliated him, threatened him with blackmail, and stole his underwear. But what would the police say, he thought to himself. He'd let her in, allowed her (a perfect stranger!) to bind him in his own home, and then had signed a contract agreeing to all of this. Or at least he thought he had. He went upstairs and found it next to his bed. He brought it back down and read it while he finished dinner.
Well, this document would certainly be incriminating, he thought to himself as he finished reading. It gave her permission to do all of this to him, and more, apparently. He nearly choked when he read the part about abstaining from sex. I mean, I don't have a girlfriend, but I do have an active fantasy life, he thought. TOO active, he replied to himself. His spirits sank as he realized that this piece of paper, of which she had a copy, essentially gave him no legal leg to stand on. He didn't know much about the law, but it seemed to him that a signed document agreeing to wear diapers would look pretty voluntary to a judge. And, he had to admit to himself, he didn't relish admitting his fetish, let alone the day's humiliating activities, to ANYONE, and certainly not the general public. It would certainly cost him his position in such a small, tightly-knit program.
No, he thought to himself, I'm on my own here. I've got to find my own way out of this.
He put away his dishes and went back upstairs. He picked up the two soiled diapers he'd left on the bathroom floor, and put them, for lack of a better place, in the diaper pail that waited expectantly by his dresser. He sat down on his bed, noting the ever-present crinkling sound his diaper made. How could he get out of this?
He'd asked himself this only the night before, he realized, and tonight he didn't have too many more options. He could try to talk to her again, make her believe somehow that he wasn't really incontinent. A full confession of his fetish might be his best chance. He could explain why the whole thing wasn't appropriate for him and how the confusion had all happened. But if it hadn't worked today, why would it work tomorrow? Mrs. Warren didn't like excuses, he realized, and his failed continence test loomed large in the background. Besides, even the truth sounded hard to believe now. He'd WANTED to buy diapers, but didn't really need them? Who did that? And why would he have waited until now to protest?
Another alternative would be to stand up for himself and challenge her physically. He didn't want to fight, but maybe this was the best way to convince her how serious he was about not wanting to be in this program thing. He'd simply refuse and protect himself if she tried to force diapers on him. On the other hand, as he thought back to their encounter earlier, he began to remember her size and apparent strength. He wasn't small, but she really was very physically intimidating, and he began to wonder who would win a fight, if it came down to that. Yet anything was better than submitting to this nonsense. And if she tried to spank him (Spank him! That hadn't happened since he was six years old!), then he would have no choice but to protect himself and his pride.
His only other options were unthinkable. He could always go along with this little program for a while and wait for another idea to come to him, perhaps after a detailed analysis of the flaws in the program's rules. Or he could go along with this thing whole-heartedly, and try to "graduate" soon. But these options reeked of giving up, and were unthinkable. Submitting himself to such humiliating treatment daily was not something he could allow himself to do. He'd have to fall far lower to even consider it. It didn't matter that he'd fantasized about just such a situation before. BEING in this situation made him realize he enjoyed his freedom far too much. He had other areas of his life to enjoy as well, after all. He couldn't give all that up just for the opportunity to enjoy diapers a little more frequently. No, if he had infantile fantasies, he'd enjoy them on HIS terms.
Yet he had to admit that he was out of ideas tonight. He grimaced as he almost reflexively let another runny BM out into his diaper. He was tiring of this diarrhea, and of these diapers. But he was prepared to bear it through the night, if he could get things back to normal tomorrow.
Just to help things along, he waddled downstairs in his messy diaper and had two more large glasses of Mrs. Warren's special milk. It hasn't helped yet, he thought, but on the other hand, I'd hate to think what this diarrhea would be like without it.
Then Doug waddled back upstairs, showered yet again, and changed himself once more. He watched TV for two hours before returning to his bed to sleep for the night. He soiled three more diapers that evening, and yet another when he awoke during the night, but he was so tired that he slept well anyway.
So well, in fact, that he didn't notice when Mrs. Warren stopped by shortly after midnight to verify her new copy of his housekey and check on her new baby boy. She was pleased to see nearly all the milk gone, and seven blatently soiled diapers in his diaper pail. And as she peeked in on Doug, she was gratified to see him sleeping only in his diaper and t-shirt. As she completed her inspection of his apartment, she was happy to find the toilets as she had left them, but she clucked quietly when a quick survery of trash cans and the bathtub revealed no evidence of shaven pubic hair. She wondered if he hadn't shaved himself on purpose as a gesture of defiance, or had simply forgotten, or whether he'd even read the rules at all. It didn't really matter, since she'd get to spank him tomorrow regardless of the reason, but for the future it would be good to know so she'd know whether she could anticipate further compliance problems.
She drove away relatively disappointed that Doug was behaving himself so far by wearing and using his diapers, because midnight spankings were favorites of hers. She liked the element of surprise, and could often be inventive in whether or not she tied her naughty boys, and in how she woke them. But no matter; like all the others, this boy could certainly expect to receive his share of spankings in the future.
Doug awoke early and was distressed to feel his rectum already full of effluent eager to erupt into his still-clean diaper. He sighed and lifted his hips slightly to allow the putrid brown liquid to spill out of his bottom, completely filling and soiling his diaper. He then noticed his full bladder and turned over onto his tummy to relieve that as well. Then he carefully waddled into the bathroom and cleaned himself up, then powdered and rediapered himself wearily. This was gross, embarrassing, and infantile. He couldn't stand much more of this; he hoped Mrs. Warren got here soon. He wasn't quite sure what was going to happen, but she was certainly his only chance of getting out of this mess. It was clear that he had to show her who really ran his life.
But he was disappointed when Mrs. Warren didn't show up until after lunch, long after he'd finished his "milk," and after three more very dirty diapers. He was studying when she surprised him by letting herself in. He was confused about how she managed this until he remembered that little part of the contract. As she entered his dining area and seated herself calmly in one of his dinette chairs, facing him, he decided that he'd better set the tone for how he hoped this little meeting would go.
"Who gave you a key? And what makes you think I'll put up with those lock things on my toilet? This is my house."
Mrs. Warren did not say anything. She simply stared at Doug with her steely eyes for nearly a minute. It grew tense. He wasn't sure how she did it, but already she was making him feel powerless and small. As he felt her eyes bear down on him, he totally lost his train of thought. Shit, he thought to himself. Finally, she spoke, slowly and distinctly.
"Because you are new to your ICP, those comments will today lead only to a warning. But you will never, NEVER, speak to me like that again, unless you decide you *like* to spend time face down on my lap. And most little boys do not. Is that understood, young man?"
Doug did not know what to say. This interaction was not at all what he had planned.
"But this is *my* house, and..."
"No buts. I asked you if you understood me."
Long pause. Doug simply didn't know how to talk to this woman. She was acting just as if she were his mother, and he hadn't had to talk to someone like this for a very long time. Instinctively, before he could stop himself, he heard himself say, "Yes, ma'am."
"That's better. And to think that up until that moment I'd been impressed with your compliance. You've obviously been wearing your diapers like a good little boy, and I can see that you clearly have one on now under those sweats."
This shook him. Was the bulge that obvious? And could she really know that he'd worn diapers since she left?
As if reading his mind, she said, "Yes, I was here overnight, and yes, it's very obvious. Did you finish your milk?"
"Yes...yes, ma'am. But it didn't help."
"Oh," she said sympathetically. "Have you had a lot of messy diapers?"
He nodded, embarrassed.
"Well, look on the bright side. You won't have any trouble with your messy diaper quota this week. And don't worry: your little problem should be clearing up very shortly." That was good news, at least. But what was the quota she was talking about? He had forgotten to read the rules, and now he started to think that was unfortunate. He was also aware that he was inexplicably falling into a little boy role while talking to her. It was embarrassing, but she seemed to expect it, and he couldn't seem to help himself. Her personality was too strong.
She smiled at him. She wouldn't give him any more milk now. In a very short while he'd keep the diapers on voluntarily, and then, after some time, he wouldn't dare take them off. It made her almost giddy in anticipation. But for now there was even a more delicious task to address.
"So, you've been a good boy. I guess I just need to check your toilets and bathtub, and then we can take a look at you to see how you did shaving." She was sure he hadn't done it. And her spanking hand tingled with excitement.
"What?" he said. He hadn't heard anything about shaving, but he did have an ominous insight into what she might be referring to. And he didn't want to do it. No way. Shaving himself for her, to pretend to be her little baby, was simply too weird and submissive. That was taking this way too far.
"Shaving. Don't tell me you didn't read your rule list." Uh-oh. Now he knew why he should have read the rules.
"Well, that's a little disappointing, Doug. I was beginning to think maybe you'd avoid a spanking today, but I can't let you get away with not shaving. Hair underneath your diaper is against the rules."
His infantile trance was abruptly shaken loose. Okay, he thought. This is it. He had been uncomfortable and embarrassed up to now, but had been carried along by the illusion created by Mrs. Warren's role-playing. But shaving himself and getting a spanking raised this game to another level entirely. With renewed determination, he shook himself, and thought, This is where I get off the ride.
"Forget it. Look, this has gone on way too long," he said, standing and pacing in front of her. "I'm not indulging your little whims anymore. I went along with the continence test because I thought it would be a nice, easy way to get rid of you. And then I've worn these "brief" things overnight because of my little diarrhea problem and your cruel toilet sabotage. But I'm no longer interested in your freakish diaper service, or your S and M games, so this has to stop."
He took a breath, and noticed that she was looking at him with an amused expression. It was somewhat disconcerting, but he went on, his tone turning rather desperate.
"Yes, I know I got mixed up with you because I was buying those...briefs in that store that day. But they, um, weren't for me, they were really for my grandmother, who is very ill, and somehow everything got all mixed up, and you got involved. So, well, you see, I'm not incontinent, and I want you to take your stuff and get out. If you want my grandmother's address, well, I can get that for you, but that about all I'm going to do for you from now on. So I'd appreciate you unlocking my toilets, and taking your stuff, and giving me back my underwear, and leaving quietly. Thank you." Doug took a deep breath and snuck a look at his audience. He thought that had actually gone very well. He hadn't intended on making up a new lie, but it had come out of his mouth, and he thought it wasn't bad.
Mrs. Warren had sat and listened attentively. Then she said, "But what about your fetish? I know you have a fetish: you told me that last night. And what about the diapers in your closet upstairs, and the used ones in your trash outside? And what am I supposed to do about your incontinence, which you deny but for which we got some pretty extensive evidence yesterday? I can't just ignore that, Doug. It would be irresponsible."
She sat back in her chair. "It doesn't surprise me that you want out, even this early. It happens, because this is a rigorous program, and can be difficult when you first start. But you signed a contract. You made a promise. And you have a problem that needs to be dealt with whether you want to or not. So, I'm not going anywhere, and we won't ever discuss that prospect again. Your continence is too important."
Doug started to sweat. He'd forgotten the admission he'd made about the fetish, and didn't know she'd seen his stash of diapers, let alone that she'd gone through his trash. Wasn't there anything she didn't know? How could he fight this? This attempt had failed, he knew. He sat down uncomfortably. Mrs. Warren continued talking, her tone becoming stronger and more commanding.
"And let's get something straight from the beginning. You will never again tell me what to do. According to your ICP, which you are going to wish you'd read, I am the Mommy and you are the baby. And if we need to add some props to help you remember this, we will. I have adult-sized pacifiers, bottles, clothing, and furniture we can play with if we need to, not to mention spankings. You will never tell me what to do, or question anything I tell you to do. Understood, little boy?"
Silence. He couldn't say it. It was ridiculous. He had too much dignity for this. He had a life. He wouldn't throw it away for this lady or this distorted fantasy.
"Doug? I asked you a question. Tell Mommy the answer."
Silence. He didn't know how to argue with her. It was so absurd.
Mrs. Warren stared at him. She knew what he was thinking. She'd seen it before. It was time to get him to commit to this program. "Doug, I can see that we don't understand each other. But you need to see that there is no choice for you here. And if it's not because you want to get better or because you signed a legal contract, maybe you will obey me because of these."
She reached down and opened her large black purse. She withdrew two 8X11" glossy photos, and showed them to Doug, who gasped in horror. One showed him in the bathtub, with his messy jeans down around his ankles, and brown pasty goo caked on his legs and genitalia. The other pictured him sleeping peacefully in bed, apparently last night, wearing nothing but a diaper. He stared at these for a long time, trying to absorb their significance. Now he understood why she had seemed so confident since last night. These were very powerful elements of blackmail, documentation of what appeared to be totally voluntary activity that just happened to be captured on film. She had been careful not to use pictures of him tied up; these looked like he didn't even know they were being taken, which was true. They also made it look like he wasn't a victim, at all, as though this was the way he normally lived. Like he was a pervert who'd been caught in the act.
Mrs. Warren broke his reverie. "Now, I do know where you work, and I did see the application you're working on for your little graduate program. I don't want to do this, but if you are so irresponsible as to ignore your incontinence, I will be forced to show these to folks who might be interested. I even have the addresses of your family. Even your grandmother, who might be interested to learn that you have a problem so similar to hers," she said dryly.
Doug felt numb. His heart had stopped. This was it. His ultimate nightmare. Despair threatened to flood through him.
How could this have happened? How could he have been so stupid? He hadn't seen this coming at all. He hadn't once taken this seriously or sensed what a catastrophe this could turn out to be. Everything had seemed straightforward and innocent. And all of a sudden he was totally trapped and at the mercy of this fanatical lady. The implications of these pictures were mind-boggling.
Doug's future was in this woman's hands, he realized. She had the ability to ruin his life. He'd worked for years toward this grad program, building contacts, getting experience. It was within reach now, but this woman, with these pictures, could destroy it all.
He'd lost the battle, he saw. This lady was too strong. He couldn't fight her, he couldn't argue with her, and now he was even afraid to make her angry, for fear that she would go public with this blackmail. He had no choice. He had to submit. To anything. To everything. If he wanted a life, he'd have to submit.
Mrs. Warren saw it hit him, and as always, it was the moment she treasured most with her new babies. For it was at this moment, and not before, that each one became wholly hers. She watched him abandon all hope and authority in his life. Essentially he had just begun the mental process of submission, and, therefore, of regression. After a day of fighting, finally their relationship was becoming what it should have been from the start: Mommy and little boy. It was sort of like giving birth, she thought, only better, since there was no pain (for her), and it happened every few weeks.
Now the game changed. From now on arguments would be brief. He would try to please her, she knew, and she would try to frustrate him, both socially (since an isolated baby is a helpless baby) and sexually (so that she'd have lots of excuses, when he inevitably broke down, to spank him and keep him on probation). Yes, this moment was liberating for her, and invigorating, and the latest in a long line of moments to be treasured. She had to admit that once again she'd done a hell of a job.
They stared at each other for several more moments, with fear growing in his eyes, and glee in hers. Finally she broke the silence.
"Do you understand now, young man?"
Pause. "Yes," Doug said quietly. He thought he finally did.
"Yes, what?" She loved this moment. It symbolized the entire transformation from independent man to dependent toddler.
He knew what she wanted. And he had to obey.
Doug stared at his feet, trying to come to grips with his new situation.
"Good boy. I'm glad we finally understand one another. We'll have a great time together, I'm sure, now that that's settled. First, unfortunately, we have some unpleasant business to take care of, though."
Doug's head jerked up. What? Oh, my God, he thought. The spanking. She can't be serious.
But Mrs. Warren smiled knowingly at him and patted her lap. Doug was suddenly afraid. He didn't want this. He'd never considered it as an actual possibility. If he'd known the rules, he would have been good and shaved himself, but he didn't know, he told himself. It wasn't fair.
"No, please," Doug said in a high voice that didn't sound like his own. "I didn't know. How about if I go upstairs right now and do it? That would be okay, right?"
Mrs. Warren smiled. "No, I don't think so. You had your chance all night and this morning. It was to have been done by the time I came. You had a copy of the rules, and I told you you had homework to do. You either deliberately disobeyed, or you weren't paying enough attention to me. Either way, I think a spanking will be good for you."
"No," Doug whimpered. This would hurt. He'd fantasized about spankings, but not about the pain. Now that he faced it, he wanted out.
"Yes," Mrs. Warren said firmly. "Don't keep Mommy waiting. She tends to get more angry when she has to wait, and I don't think you want that."
Doug swallowed hard, and realized she was right. He forced himself to stand, then to shuffle his feet slowly toward his new Mommy.
Doug hesitated, then took a small step toward Mrs. Warren. He really didn't want to do this, but he felt that he had to. He took another step toward her, so that he was now within an arm's reach of her.
She said, "You can go ahead and pull those jeans down."
Hands trembling, he moved to obey her, fumbling with his belt. Slowly he undid his belt, unbuckled and unzipped his jeans, and let them slide to the floor, revealing his bulky disposable diaper underneath.
"Okay, let's go," she said a bit impatiently, indicating her lap. It always took too long the first time. When he hesitated, she reached up and firmly grasped his ear, causing him to yelp with pain. She pulled him roughly down and felt the familiar plastic of a disposable diaper settle on her lap.
Doug suddenly found himself staring at the floor, and feeling very helpless.
"Is this diaper dirty?" he heard her ask him, for what would not be the last time.
"No," he whimpered feebly.
"Good," she said. "Now grab the chair legs with your hands, and don't let go. I don't want to have to fight your hands up here. If you let go, we start again from the beginning. Got it?"
"Yes," came the weak reply. He reluctantly grasped the chair legs with his hands. Then he heard his diaper being untaped, and suddenly felt a breeze meet his bare bottom. He was very scared. His bottom was so vulnerable! He now remembered his childhood spankings, and how helpless he'd felt then. He cursed himself for ever having fantasized about them!
SMACK! The first slap was more painful than he could have imagined, but he had no time to think about it. It rapidly got much worse. And to his surprise Doug found himself crying almost immediately, probably as much due to his being upset about the whole situation as to the painful spanking. It hurt, and it was so humiliating. But he kept his hands on the chair legs like a good boy, because he didn't want to risk the consequences.
And shortly, Mrs. Warren stopped spanking him. He stopped crying out of surprise. Was that it? It hadn't lasted as long as he'd feared. It was bad, but it could have been worse. He could almost handle this!
"Doug, why are you getting this spanking?" he heard from above him.
"I don't know."
SMACK! "Yes, you do, and call me Mommy."
"Because...I didn't shave myself, Mommy."
He felt her rub his bottom. That felt good. "That's right. Good boy." He let out a deep breath, relieved it was over. "I like to make sure my bad little boys know why they're getting their spankings. We can keep going now."
And with a painful spank, Doug learned that his trial was not nearly over yet. And he cried again, out of pain and the frustration of being helpless. Twice more she stopped to have him repeat why he was being spanked, and twice more they resumed. It seemed to go on forever, far longer than he'd expected, and it hurt more than anything he could remember. His bottom burned and stung intensely. Finally she stopped, saying,
"Will you remember to shave your bottom now, little boy?"
Gasping, Doug replied, "Yes. Yes, Mommy."
"Good boy. Would you like Mommy to shave you now?"
"Yes, Mommy," he sobbed.
"Alright, let's go upstairs."
And she stood him up, folding his diaper in one hand. His hands went immediately to his stinging bottom.
"No, no, young man," Mrs. Warren said, brushing his hands down. "That's a no-no. We don't touch our bottoms after our spanking, because that makes it feel better. We want it to hurt for as long as possible, don't we? That way we keep thinking about what a bad little boy we were. Okay? No touching."
He choked back tears. "Yes, Mommy." He hated her. But he kept his hands away from his throbbing bottom.
She led him upstairs to the bathtub, which she filled with warm water and had him sit in. He lowered himself into the water carefully. It hurt to sit down, but he didn't have a choice. He was going to be good. He didn't ever want another spankingas long as he lived. He watched as she found some shaving lotion and a razor and lathered up his groin. He bit his lip as she shaved away his pubic hair, starting at the top and moving down around his penis and scrotum. He stayed very still, because he didn't quite trust her. But she was quite adept with the razor, and had had lots of practice. With a sure hand, she easily took away this vestige of his adulthood, and he looked down in amazement at his bald crotch. It looked so strange.
He lay back and lifted his legs, as instructed, and she continued down around his bottom. Doug idly wondered how long his hair would take to grow back, but he needn't have. It wouldn't be an issue for a long time.
When they were done, he let her lead him back into his bedroom, where she diapered him for the first time. She did it tenderly, stroking and rubbing him gently. It felt good, he had to admit. He fought feelings of affection for her as she did this, but it was hard. She was so gentle and loving as she covered him with lotion and powder, lots of powder, and then taped him securely in. It actually felt nice, though he tried to ignore this. This was the same lady who had just spanked him. His ambivalence frustrated him.
Afterward, she picked up the copy of the rules that he had laying by the bed ("Why didn't I read those?" he asked himself again) and led him, wearing nothing but his diaper, downstairs to the sofa, where she read the rules out loud to him, like a bedtime story.
As he listened to the introduction, he fought the tendency to buy into the philosophy. But it sounded almost reasonable to him, and he wondered if they really did care about him and about helping him. But then again, it was so perverse. How could it be on the level? It was so extremely humiliating, he thought, to be lumped in with people who wet their pants or their beds, and to be treated like he was a baby. And how could they think this would really "help" him? They couldn't be serious. This wasn't a joke or a game. They really were going to treat him like a baby, on purpose, because they said he deserved it. The whole thing, "Working toward wearing underpants again," made him feel so infantile. It really was stupid, he decided, not helpful. They couldn't fool him.
Other thoughts that ran through his mind as Mrs. Warren read what was to become his bible for the foreseeable future involved how he could fake compliance with these rules. There had to be flaws he could find. He was smart, and he had to be able to figure it out. Unfortunately, he knew, Mrs. Warren was smart, too, maybe even smarter, and she appeared experienced at this job. As she read the diaper rules, he saw how smart she was.
Testing diapers was obviously a good idea, and neutralized many of his first disobedient ideas. He wondered if they really did do it, and how. He was trying to think about how he could fake using the diapers (peeing into them without really wearing them, etc.) when his new Mommy told him how her inspectors look for wetting patterns like splattering that gives away bad babies. Wet diapers have to look right, she said, which is impossible without wearing them. He became even more dismayed about the messy diaper quota and rules. He didn't look forward to sitting in his messes every time. Sure, it felt good once in a while, when HE decided to do on his own, but being forced to was gross, and would significantly add to his cleanup time. Using a shower would help, but what if he was away from home?
The part about avoiding public bathrooms struck him as being impossible to enforce. Then he remembered how she had gone over with him his shopping and banking habits. She really would know where he was all the time. She also informed him he had to call her whenever he left his apartment to go out. He could just leave a message on her cellular phone mail, so she could keep track of him all the time. But she said she had other "clients." How did she keep track of all of them? He thought that maybe this was a flaw. He'd have to keep it in mind.
It was when they got to the sex prohibition that he really got depressed. From the moment she read him the rules, he knew he'd never be able to follow them. He could nearly accept being forced to live his secret fetish and ultimate fantasy. It was painful, confining, and humiliating, but at least it was his fetish. He was even now feeling strong sexual urges, and it was these that he thought would make this lifestyle palatable. But no sex? No masturbation? He couldn't imagine. He now did that daily, and that was without a constant stimulus in contact with him. Being sentenced to be in perpetual contact with his fetish object but never being allowed to climax, this was the best description of hell he could think of. He couldn't live with that rule. He'd either have to get out of the program (which he was still determined to do) or figure out some way of getting around it.
But his heart sunk as he listened to her precautions. He didn't know where he could hide the evidence if his diapers, tissues, laundry, and tub/sinks were off limits. Could she really test all of these? That red dye sounded fake. And what if he smuggled home some tissues and then threw them away back at work? Hmmm...
His mind wandered as she read him about his discipline. Spankings, and some wet thing, messy diapers, blah, blah, blah.
How had this happened to him? It had only taken four days for his life to be ruined by two women. He'd just wanted some diapers for this week, for a little kinky fun. Now, he was living a nightmare, forced back into an embarrassing toddlerhood filled with spankings and diapers. He had just allowed himself to be spanked and shaved. He felt so degraded. How could this be real?
But the alternatives were even worse, he told himself. At least this way, the rest of his life was still intact, and if he could somehow still get out of this program, nothing would be lost. He was still on target for his high-paying life of research, somewhere in the future. His dream was still intact, even if he had to sacrifice a little more for a few days or weeks to achieve it.
His attention was refocused when she started talking about termination of the program. Another continence test, which he didn't want to think about, or a trip to a doctor. That would be embarrassing, sure, but at least it couldn't be tampered with. At least here was a foolproof way out, if everything else failed and six months from now he was still in diapers. This made him feel better: there was an upper limit to this madness. At the most, this surreal distraction would end in six months, and then he could return to his life.
Mrs. Warren finished her little dramatic reading and helped him tape up copies of the mini-list all over his apartment. She then assured him she'd be back often in the next few days and nights to check on him. After a fond little pat on his diapered behind, she left. Doug watched his Mommy drive away in her pink pastel diaper van, and snaked his hands down the back of his diaper, finally able to rub his still-sore bottom in peace.
When Doug had spent several minutes soothing his hot, red bottom, he sat down in stunned amazement to consider what his life had suddenly been turned into. He thought of the mounds of diapers up in his room, destined to be worn and used by him in the near future. He thought of being forced to call Mrs. Warren "Mommy," and essentially forced to do anything she told him to do. It was so humiliating. How could he possibly live with this?
But what could he do? he asked himself. He told himself over and over that he had no choice. That it didn't matter how he got here and what he thought about it. He simply had to play baby now, or risk losing the rest of his life. It was unfair, and miserable, but he had to be realistic: it was his only option if he didn't want to be the laughingstock of his family, friends, and colleagues.
He stared down at the bulky diaper he had sentenced himself to wear. Because he had gotten cute and self-righteous over the phone with Mrs. Sheffield, he was now going to wear the thickest, loudest diaper ever. It would undoubtedly be noticeable, and even more embarrassing was how much he had contributed to this situation. If he hadn't gone into the store, if he hadn't lied about being incontinent, if he hadn't lied about wanting such an unmanageable diaper, if he hadn't agreed to the incontinence test....there were so many ways he could have avoided this, he thought. But at every step, he'd made the wrong move, and now he ws stuck in huge, noisy diapers. It was so thick he couldn't even masturbate through it, even if that was allowed.
But, of course, he had been operating under the assumption that this was a game of which he had control. He now knew differently, but it was too late. This diaper service was a business, and a serious one at that. And he had just contracted them to enslave him in diapers. He snorted. It sounded like a dream come true. But he knew, or thought he knew, what it would really be like. His bottom knew. It was a nightmare.
He told himself he had to take this situation day by day. If he tried to deal with the whole thing, he'd get too depressed. But if he only thought about the next day, he could get through. Tomorrow wouldn't be too bad. In fact, this week wouldn't be too embarrassing, since he was studying at home alone. This was almost what he had intended for this weeks, anyway. No one had to know. Next week would be interesting, though, when he went back to work. How would he ever keep his co-workers in the dark? Bulky clothes, he mused... His real life would be quite a challenge.
For the next day, though, his job was easy. Study as much as possible from his GRE Review Book, and, in the words of Mrs. Warren, "be a good little boy." He actually didn't care how ridiculous that sounded: right now, and for as long as his bottom kept hurting, he was happy to wear his diaper compliantly, and do anything else he needed to. He wasn't interested in risking another spanking right now.
Doug was surprised to find his diarrhea clearing up fairly quickly that afternoon. Mrs. Warren was right again, he thought. He didn't like to admit it, but she seemed to know everything. Of course, he would have been angry at how gullible he'd been, if he'd known how she knew when his BMs would slow down.
And as his diarrhea slowed, he noticed that his diaper consumption was slowing as well. He thought about this idly during dinner. He had a diaper quota to fill, and in the interest of remaining pain-free, he would try to fill it properly, at least in the short term. He calculated his usage for the week at his new, slower rate, and realized he'd be hard-pressed to wet enough diapers. And if he didn't, he knew what awaited him. So he began to drink more that evening. This, he only half noticed, had the effect (desired by Mrs. Warren) of his spending more and more time in partially-wet diapers, as he conscientiously waited to saturate them fully.
By the next day, Thursday, Doug was consciously starting to relax his sphincter control, wetting whenever he felt the urge. His diapers held almost anything, and as long as he had the opportunity to relax and not worry about control, why not? It wasn't like it was important whether he tried to hold it back or not. The rules didn't reward him for that! So who needs it? If I have to be a baby, I might as well take advantage of it, he thought. It's the only perk, after all.
On Thursday, for the first time, Doug felt the need for the first time to have a real, formed BM. This was another little landmark for him, since it involved using his diaper for an "optional" mess: it wasn't like the diarrhea, where he was controlling an emergent situation. It also necessitated wearing the diaper for some time afterward, in an obedient attempt to make the diaper appear "fully used." It usually felt good, but today, as he squished around in his full pants, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being forced to do this, to wear his poop-filled diaper. Mrs. Warren was *making* him do this, and for some reason (embarrassment?) this took away much of the pleasure he usually derived from wearing his messy diaper.
Mrs. Warren stopped by occasionally, and was pleased when she checked Doug's diaper, diaper pail, toilets, and tub. She acknowledged his good behavior with a sticker on his refrigerator, about which she said he should be proud. He found it difficult to get excited about a sticker. It was just one more embarrassing element to this absurd program.
Mrs. Warren had expected this good behavior. It was typical of her new boys for the first few days, what she called the "honeymoon" period. Their bottoms still stung, and the potential humiliation of the photos was still fresh in their minds. They also weren't yet bored with the program, and hadn't had enough time to build up a huge amount of sexual tension.
Doug did come up with some questions for Mrs. Warren, however, as he found minor problems with the ICP. How, for example, was he supposed to blow his nose if she had forbidden all paper products from his apartment? It was easily solved, Mrs. Warren said, by using an old-fashioned handkerchief, which, like his other laundry, was to be inspected by her before he took it to the complex's laundry room. Working out details to another problem, Doug agreed to shave himself every other day to keep his bottom and groin smooth. On Friday, he did this for the first time, and found that it wasn't too difficult, except for his ego.
Saturday was the day of his big test, Mrs. Warren showed up at his apartment early in the morning to see him off. She presented him with a large, pink pastel diaper bag, which he was not so pleased to receive. It was so frilly and infantile that it could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was. He pled his case to her that it was just too embarrassing to take out in public, but Mrs. Warren said that it was more important to be prepared properly than to be socially comfortable, and she therefore wouldn't accept his excuses.
This brought up an issue Doug hadn't considered before. Surely there would be times when he'd have to change himself in public, but how was this possible if he wasn't allowed near restrooms? It wasn't so hard, said Mrs. Warren. First of all, any time he went out, he should already have informed her, so that she or a babysitter could watch him. If the possibility of needing a change existed, they would know about it, and could appropriately interpret his usage of a bathroom. If he used it to change himself, he should naturally have a used diaper to show for it, and this could be checked when he arrived home. He was, however, warned that any trip to a public restroom would be carefully watched and, often, timed. Some of his "babysitters" might even be male and could follow him in. Any activity conspicuous for masturbation or using a toilet would be punished as such. As long as he hurried and was a good boy, he'd be okay.
So he went off with his pink diaper bag to take his test. It lasted through lunch, and he found that by restricting fluids, he didn't have a problem needing a change. This was a relief for him. No one even noticed his bag, or his bulky bottom, or his waddle, or his rustling, probably because everyone was so preoccupied with the test. Doug came home from the test impressed with his academic performance, considering all the stress he'd been under during the preceding week.
With the test finished Saturday night, though, Doug started thinking about the future. He was worried about going grocery shopping tomorrow, his first errand outside his apartment wearing diapers. He also started thinking more long-term, and he was already tired of wearing these huge diapers. It was a pain. He never thought he'd miss the convenience of the toilet, but he was starting to. He'd never been in diapers for so long at one time, and it was wearing thin. In addition, there was also the growing problem of his mounting sexual appetite. He hadn't come in several days, and that was just about a record for him. Plus, he wasn't excited about resuming his public life on Monday when he went back to work. Hiding these bulky diapers might be impossible, and would at the very least be a huge social burden he'd have to deal with constantly.
All in all, he was beginning to feel far less obedient than he had over the past few days. He was starting to see that, just as he'd feared, he couldn't live this life constantly. It wasn't practical or desirable. If he was going to cope, he'd have to figure out some ways to cut corners, to express his independence in little, harmless ways, and to maintain a vestige of his former autonomy.
He mulled this over in his head, before forming a plan for tomorrow. He needed groceries. He assumed he'd be followed, or something, but he wondered how Mrs. Warren would follow him if she didn't know he'd left. What if he left right after she visited tomorrow? She never returned right away. She'd never know. And if she didn't know, he could venture out without his diaper, and not risk embarrassment tomorrow at the store...
It made him a little nervous to think about, but it had to work, right? If he was scared, he could always take along a diaper in the car, into which he might be able to change quickly if he somehow met Mrs. Warren on the way there or back. And he'd hurry, to cut down further the chance of being discovered. The risk, he knew, had to be miniscule. And the symbolism, and implications for later, were enormous to him. If he could poke a little hole in her regime, there might be other opportunities later. His life might end up being manageable after all.
Doug went to sleep Saturday night excited, with the first bit of hope about the future that he'd had in days. As he settled into bed, feeling the now-familiar thick cushion between his legs, and hearing the omnipresent crinkling of his diaper, he could hardly wait until for what the next day would bring.
If he'd been able to see what would really happen, however, he wouldn't have wanted ever to wake up.
Mrs. Warren visited Doug around noon on Sunday, which was great for Doug's plans. After she left, he watched the diaper van exit the apartment complex's parking lot, and as soon as it disappeared, he ran upstairs and took off his diaper. He was going to leave it at home, but on second thought, just to be safe, he folded it carefully and decided to take it with him, on the off chance he saw Mrs. Warren on the way to the grocery store. He wasn't going to take any chances. He pulled his jeans back up, and immediately noticed how strange not wearing a diaper felt after only a couple of days. It felt weirder, of course, because he didn't have any underwear to wear, so his normally-insulated skin was in direct contact with his rough jeans. In addition, for the first time in fifteen years, he had no pubic hair, so he felt the odd sensation of breezes drifting through his crotch periodically.
But he had to hurry. He didn't want to be out of his diaper for more than forty-five minutes this first time. It would be too horrible if she found out. Later, he might explore the limits of his freedom, but right now he wanted to play it very conservatively. So he took the spare diaper, grabbed his keys, and jumped into the car.
He drove carefully to the grocery store, keeping an eye out for pastel-colored vans, but as he expected, didn't see any. He quickly made his way inside the store, grabbed a cart, and efficiently started collecting the items he needed. He was organized and fast; he wanted to take no chances.
He breezed through several aisles before seeing the one thing that could make his heart skip a beat. Mrs. Warren was in the store! He saw her near the cash registers, but she didn't see him, he thought. She didn't have a cart, so it appeared that she must just be looking for something specific. Suddenly it hit him. She was looking for *him.* He didn't know how, but she'd found him. He peeked down an aisle and saw her crossing it at the other end. He knew what he had to try to do: guess where she was heading, and go the other way. He could still escape, get home, and get into a diaper before she caught him. It wasn't a sure bet, but it was possible. He could be quite savvy in these situations.
But damn! How had she found him? And now he questioned why he had even taken this chance. His bottom tingled. He didn't want to cross this lady again. He was still a little sore from the first spanking. Forty-five minutes out of a diaper was hardly worth this risk, he realized.
Thinking quickly, Doug reversed his direction and turned down an aisle, pushing his cart with urgency. He was halfway down the aisle, thinking he might actually make it past the registers and safely to his car, when Mrs. Warren suddenly appeared directly in front of him at the end of the aisle. How?...Doug froze in panic. Seeing him, she turned and strode toward him.
Doug began to feel queasy. What would happen now? He was in an extremely vulnerable situation: he'd snuck out of the apartment without telling her, and he wasn't wearing his diaper. He feared the worst, and Mrs. Warren wasn't one to disappoint.
"Well, Douggie, what a surprise it is to see you here," she said with a hint of sarcasm. "Maybe we've forgotten some of our rules." She paused, letting her eyes sweep over him in a quick, practiced assessment of his diaper status. Doug felt his body tense; he (correctly) surmised that she now knew that he was undiapered. He stared at her face, looking for any sign of this fact, but her expression didn't change.
"Well, Doug, I know it's early in your ICP, and there are a lot of rules to remember, so why don't we go easy on you here?" she said, with just a little too much sweetness in her voice for Doug's taste. "We'll just play the Wet Bet and leave it at that. Okay? If you win, no punishment. If you lose, though, you lose."
Doug mind swirled. The Wet Bet. He'd read about it, he knew. But what was it?
She read his mind. "I know you haven't yet played this little game, so I'll describe it for you. It's very simple. I make a bet with you that you're not wearing your diaper now. I know you're a good little boy, so I'm sure I'm wrong, but you just need to prove it to me. So I ask you simply to wet for me right now. You pee, and then we see who wins the bet. If you win, and you're wearing your diaper, then you only end up with a wet diaper that we can change very easily. If I win, and you don't have a diaper on, that fact will become very obvious very soon. In that case..." Her voice trailed off, indicating the undesirability of that outcome.
"But either way, I have to insist you take the bet. Your only other option would be a particularly severe spanking right here in this aisle. Most of my boys don't like their pants pulled down in public, so I don't get to do that very often. They always take the bet." She sort of smirked at him.
"Well, what'll it be? You wanna take the bet?"
Now Doug was scared. She had him pinned against a wall, and she knew it. Wetting his pants in public versus a spanking in public. He'd had a spanking before, though, and decided that even public humiliation by wetting his pants be better than that. Anything would be better than a *public* spanking! He swallowed hard, as he realized he really had no choice. At least if he sucked it up and wet himself right now he'd avoid any other punishment. It would be humiliating, but it would be otherwise painless, and over very quickly. Then he could go right home and change. He stared at the floor and nodded.
She smiled cruelly, though he didn't see it. "That's a good boy. Now, here's how we'll do it. I'll turn around, and you can start peeing. I'll tell you to start, and then you pee for at least ten seconds. Then you'll tell me when you're done, and we'll try to figure out who won. If your pants are dry, I'll need to see your diaper, of course, to make sure you didn't cheat. That would earn you a spanking, too." She smiled that fake smile again as she said, "Of course, I'm sure you wouldn't cheat." He nodded nervously.
"Okay," she said, turning away to pretend to look at some spaghetti. "Fire when ready."
Doug glanced nervously down the aisle both ways. Not seeing anyone, he tried to relax and empty his bladder. He felt a trickle come out, and then more, so he said, "Okay."
She said, "Okay, now ten seconds."
Doug felt his urine rush out now. He really had needed to go. He watched in horror as his crotch darkened quickly, and then he shuddered as he felt hot pee flowing down his legs, soaking his jeans. (These were the same jeans, in fact, that he'd wet just last week in his bathtub.) The insides of his pants legs turned dark blue, and he felt his socks get warm and wet before he saw his tennis shoes flood and then overflow. It would be unmistakable to anyone who saw him what had just happened. By the time he figured ten seconds was up, he was standing in soaking wet jeans, in a small puddle on the floor.
In a weak voice, he said, "I'm done, um, Mommy." (Maybe she wouldn't make fun of him if he buttered her up.) He just wanted to go home and change his pants. They were already turning cold and uncomfortable.
But when Mrs. Warren turned and saw Doug in wet pants, her expression changed to one of anger, something he'd not seen since that first morning last week. He watched her with growing apprehension as she opened her large purse and pulled out what he recognized as one of his diapers. How did she know to bring one, he thought idly. And what was it for?
"Here," she snapped. "You'll need this." She put the diaper in one of his hands and grabbed the other.
She yanked on his arm, dragging him with her in the direction of the registers. He tried to follow, uncertain of what was happening, but acutely aware now of his cold, wet pants. He hoped they were headed outside to the car, but his hopes sank as she led him up to the nearest register. Doug withered with embarrassment as moms and children turned and one by one saw him, wearing wet pants and holding a large diaper.
"Could you tell me where the little boys' room is?" Mrs. Warren inquired of the young lady at the register. She looked about sixteen and had surprisingly large breasts. Doug couldn't help staring at her blond hair and beautiful face. Mrs. Warren was not similarly mesmerized: "I've got one who needs his pants changed."
The checkout girl's eyes widened, and she nodded. "Yes, he sure does. He seems a little big to be having accidents."
Mrs. Warren snorted with derision. "Well, he's apparently not as big as he seems, is he?"
The girl took a moment to study Doug's stained jeans. "No, I guess not. Well, that's what the diaper's for, right? Too bad for him he wasn't in one earlier," she giggled, seeing Mrs. Warren's obvious anger at Doug. Noting the determination on her face as well, she added, "I bet he'll wear one from now on. But anyway, the restrooms are in the back corner of the store. You can change him there."
Doug could have died. He felt his face burn with embarrassment. Could this day get any worse?
"Thank you," he heard Mrs. Warren say. "And I'm afraid this little boy also left a puddle in Aisle #3. If you give me a minute to get him dressed a little more appropriately, I can have him back out to clean it up in a moment."
The girl nodded, staring hard at Doug's pants, clearly trying not to laugh. "That's fine, but you probably need to see the manager first. She likes to know about things like this, and she can get him a mop or something. Oh, by the way, if you need more diapers for him, we ARE having a sale on Attends down in Aisle 7."
"Thanks, but we're very well stocked already. Trust me, we have to be. Now, where is your manager?" The girl pointed at the other front corner of the store, so Mrs. Warren led Doug across the entire front of the store. They passed dozens of people in line to check out, and most of them turned and saw him. Doug started to feel lightheaded. This was horrible.
The manager was on the phone in the customer service area, so they had to wait a moment before talking to her. Mrs. Warren still had an iron grip on Doug's wrist, and Doug instinctively struggled a little to get her to loosen her grip. At this Mrs. Warren wheeled around with fire in her eyes and swatted his bottom. Since it was damp and undiapered, this stung quite a bit, not to mention the added embarrassment it caused him. He was being treated like a two year old, and the worst thing was, with his wet pants and stinging bottom, he felt just like one, too.
"Don't you mess with me, young man," Mrs. Warren said loudly, so that she caught the attention of anyone in nearby lines who wasn't already staring. "You've already done enough."
"Evidently so," said the manager, a stout stern-looking woman who had finished her phone conversation and was now studying Doug's pants with a disapproving gaze. "Looks like you're a little late with the diaper, young man."
Mrs. Warren turned her attention to her, but kept a firm grip on Doug's aching wrist. "Yes, ma'am. I was going to ask you if I could use your restroom to change his pants anyway. Afterward, I was hoping that he could clean up the little puddle he left in Aisle #3 himself, with whatever cleaning implements you might have."
"Of course," the manager said. "I'll leave a bucket and mop in the back hallway for when he's a little more properly attired," she said, smiling at the diaper in Doug's hand. "The restroom is back across the store in the rear corner. And ma'am?" the manager said as Mrs. Warren turned to drag Doug in that direction.
"Yes?" Mrs. Warren replied.
"I don't mean to give unwanted advice, but while you're back there, if I were you I'd give that boy's rear end some attention with my hand. Look's like he's earned it."
Mrs. Warren smiled conspiratorily. "Oh, you read my mind. I'll apologize ahead of time if we're rather, well, noisy."
"No problem. Those rooms are pretty soundproof, and anyway, I'd bet the folks in the store would approve. He has to learn somehow."
Doug didn't have any time to speculate on what that exchange meant. He was so embarrassed he wasn't very aware of what was happening anymore. He was now dragged at what felt like breakneck speed back past all the registers with lines of people whispering, down a side aisle, and to the back corner of the store.
They turned in a short hallway and gound a door marked "Restroom: Men/Women." Mrs. Warren tried the door, but it was locked. She knocked, and a female voice inside said, "Just a second!"
So they waited. Doug nervously held his diaper and tried to ignore the cold wetness of his pants and the pain in his wrist. Mrs. Warren was silent, staring away from him. Doug wanted to know what would happen in that little room, he didn't dare bother her. He assumed they would change his diaper and then come out and clean up the mess. He wasn't looking forward to it. What would really happen would excite him even less, had he known. He spent his time telling himself how dumb he'd been, how he'd never sneak out or not wear his diaper again.
Finally, the door opened and a woman came out. She caught sight of Doug with wet pants and a diaper in his hand, and gasped. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I didn't realize I was taking so long."
Mrs. Warren spoke up right away. "Ma'am, don't blame yourself. This happened out there in the store because someone wasn't wearing his diaper like a good boy. I just need the bathroom so I can remedy the situation."
Doug was finally so embarrassed that he totally tuned out what was happening. He pretended he was somewhere else, and ignored this humiliating experience.
"Oh," said the woman, with a a knowing look at Mrs. Warren. "Do you think he's learned his lesson yet?"
"I don't know," Mrs. Warren replied, "but I'll make sure, just as soon as I can get his pants down in there and turn him over my knee."
The woman nodded sympathetically. "Well, good luck. Don't go easy on that wet bottom, or he'll never learn."
"Don't worry," Mrs. Warren assured her. "He won't forget this."
The woman left, and Mrs. Warren pulled a distracted Doug into the small bathroom. She whipped him around and closed and locked the door, then let go of him. While Doug rubbed his wrist, Mrs. Warren sat down on the closed toilet seat. Doug waited to be told to put the diaper on.
Doug stood quietly and watched as Mrs. Warren pulled out of her large black purse what looked like a changing pad. He had to admit to himself that this woman was always prepared. She must have known that she'd catch him, and had come with everything she'd need to put a diaper on him, he thought. And if he was going to have to lay down on this bathroom's floor to be changed, he was actually pleased at the prospect of using a changing pad.
But she didn't spread it out on the floor. He grew sort of confused as he watched her smooth it out on her lap. He'd never heard of being changed on someone's lap, but it *was* a small bathroom, and he *was* new to this. When the pad seemed well-smoothed out, Mrs. Warren addressed him sharply.
"Alright, little boy. Get those pants down around your ankles."
Doug said, "Yes, Mommy," trying to stay on her good side. She didn't seem to be getting any less angry, which worried him a bit. He obeyed quickly, telling himself this was obviously a necessary step before he could be diapered.
"Come face me," she said shortly. He shuffled over to her. How was this going to work?
"Hand me the diaper now, Doug." So he held it out to her with his left hand. She'll clearly need that, he thought.
"The *other* hand," she said, annoyed.
That's odd, he thought, as he obediently switched the diaper to his right hand and held it out to her. Why should that make a difference?
He found out very quickly. Mrs. Warren reached out with her left hand and took the diaper from his right, as she simultaneously reached across her body with her other hand to grasp his outstretched wrist. In a smooth, strong, and practiced motion, she yanked on his right arm, turning him, throwing him off balance, and directing his fall across her lap perfectly. In the space of two seconds Doug was surprised to find himself suddenly staring at the bathroom floor. He saw Mrs. Warren set the diaper aside, and it dawned on him that she had something else entirely on her mind. It became clearer why she wanted the changing pad on her lap... But this shouldn't be happening, he thought. They'd had a deal.
"Hey!" he yelled in frustration. "That's not fair! I took the bet!"
"And you lost, little boy. So you get a spanking. Don't you remember your rules? By taking the bet you simply prevented this from happening out there in the aisle where you wet your pants. Would you rather we do this out in the store where everyone can see what a bad baby boy you've been?"
Pause. SMACK! Oops. He'd thought it was a rhetorical question. "No."
SMACK! "No, what?"
"No, Mommy. I'm sorry."
"That's better. Now let's have a little discussion about your behavior today. Why don't you start by explaining to me what you've done wrong since the last time I saw you."
He hated her. She was going to draw this out and make it even more humiliating than it already was. But he wasn't really in a position to argue. So he told the floor in front of him. "I, um, took off my diaper, Mommy."
"Yes, and what else?"
"I, well, I went out without telling you."
"That's right. And does that make you a good little boy or a bad little boy?"
"Bad." SMACK! "I'm a bad little boy, Mommy."
"That's true. And what do little boys like you need when they're bad?"
"They need a spanking, Mommy."
"So what do *you* need right now, Doug?"
"I need a spanking, Mommy." He was embarrassed and angry. Never in his wildest dreams did he ever think he'd hear himself say something like that.
"That's also true. And how many spankings do you think you need?"
Doug's blood ran cold. What!? She ought to be kidding, but so far, Mrs. Warren hadn't kidded around very much. "I think I'd like *one* spanking, Mommy," Doug said hopefully.
SMACK! SMACK! Guess not, he thought. Damn. "I need two spankings, Mommy," he said, aware that he'd begun to whimper a little. This was worse than he could have imagined. If that spanking last week was "one," what must "two" be like?
"That's right, Doug. You need two spankings because you broke two different rules today. For my convenience, I'm just going to combine them into one long spanking, though. Now, just as a reminder, after our spanking, do we get to rub our bottom with our hands?"
"No, Mommy." Shit. He'd forgotten about that.
"Why not?" Mrs. Warren asked with a little sadistic glee.
"So it will hurt more," Doug answered obediently. This was so horrible. And worse, his appreciation grew for the fact that he could never, ever tell anyone what he'd been through. It was too embarrassing almost to think about. No one would believe him. How would he get his real life back?
"That's a good boy. I know you can't hold on to chair legs here, so just keep your hands down and out of the way. Any questions?"
Yeah, he thought. What did I ever do to deserve this? To her, he managed a weak, "No, Mommy."
And his bottom tingled with expectation as he remembered vividly the pain from last week. He cursed himself again for having tried such an unnecessary prank. Never again, he promised himself as the spanking began. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! The pain was unbearable right from the beginning, and the knowledge that it would not soon stop and the humiliation and stress he'd already endured caused Doug to start crying almost immediately. Unfortunately, Mrs. Warren actually seemed annoyed by this, and she redoubled her efforts to paddle his bottom. He sobbed, and she spanked mercilessly, until they were both out of breath. When it had lasted longer than Doug thought possible, Mrs. Warren stopped and stood him up.
Tears streaming down his face, Doug's hands immediately and instinctively made their way to his red, hot bottom. He rubbed it as he cried, trying to overwhelm the searing pain that still raged through his rear end. Mrs. Warren reached over, grabbed one of his arms, now limp as spaghetti from his ordeal, swung him around and swatted him several times again.
"No touching, little boy," she fumed. "Do it again and we can start over from the beginning."
Doug fought through his tears to find the energy to say "Yes, Mommy," and to obey, but he managed by holding his arms stiffly down at his sides. All he could think about was how much his bottom hurt, how miserable he was, and how much he hated Mrs. Warren. He was oblivious to Mrs. Warren as she now spread out the changing pad on the floor and laid his diaper out on top of it. She gently guided him down to it, positioned his abused bottom over the back of the diaper and had him lay down. He allowed her to lift his legs, rub some lotion on his hot skin, and sprinkle him with a generous amount of powder before lowering his legs, pulling the diaper through, and taping him up tightly.
He was beginning to stop crying as she stood him up. But he still had no energy to resist her as she did something intended to embarrass him even further once they left this room: she tucked his shirt deep inside his diaper, and pulled the diaper's waist up as high as it would go. When she pulled his still-wet pants back up and buckled them, about two inches of diaper were clearly visible above his jeans. Doug didn't even notice.
Mrs. Warren folded up her changing pad and put it away, then brushed off her strong hands. That had been exhilarating and, as always, excellent exercise. But she wasn't done with Doug today.
Doug was close to getting his sniffles under control as Mrs. Warren unlocked and opened the door. Several employees who had apparently been hovering just outside, entertained by the sound of Doug's spanking, dispersed rapidly. Doug stepped out into the service hallway and was acutely aware of how his diaper insulated his still-hot bottom, so that the heat amplified the continued pain he felt. His legs, on the other hand, were ice-cold and wet from his soaked jeans. He felt completely miserable. But he had another embarrassing ordeal to withstand, if he didn't want another spanking, so Doug dutifully took the mop and bucket he saw waiting in the hall, and slowly wheeled them toward Aisle #3, where a small "SLIPPERY WHEN WET" sign had been placed near the puddle he'd made not half an hour ago.
People he passed whispered and stared, but Doug almost didn't care now. He tried to shut out the outside world, though his inside world wasn't any more comforting.
Mrs. Warren followed at a short distance, keeping a watchful eye on her charge, but he was behaving well. It was then that she knew that while he obviously had an enjoyable little rebellious streak in him, he also would probably end up being one of her best clients. He had a little fight in him, to make it fun, but he also had some common sense, too, and knew when to quit.
Doug mopped quietly. The first time he looked down, he caught sight of the diaper protruding so blatantly from his pants, and it didn't take much to realize that it had been done on purpose. He glanced at Mrs. Warren, who had observed his discovery, and she smiled at him slightly. He took a deep breath and kept mopping. There was simply nothing he could do about it. His bottom hurt more than enough already.
When he'd finished and returned the mop and bucket to the back hallway, Mrs. Warren guided him back to the manager's office. On the way she told him what she wanted him to say.
"Ma'am," Doug started politely, when the manager came over with an amused smile on her face, "I just wanted to apologize for wetting myself here in your store, and for making that puddle over there. I, um, cleaned it all up. I, um, just wanted to say I'm sorry."
"That's good," the manager observed. "I heard quite a racket back there in that bathroom where you two were. Do you think you learned a lesson?"
Doug coughed with embarrassment, and looked toward Mrs. Warren, who returned his glance with a questioning look. "Uh, yes, ma'am. I, um, promise it will never happen again." He was sure of this.
"And how can I be sure of that?" the manager inquired.
"Well," said Doug, "I'm wearing a, um, well, a...diaper now."
"Oh, yes, I see," she replied, pretending to notice for the first time. "Note quite ready for big boy pants, are we?" she said, as if to a three-year-old.
This was so degrading, being treated like this. But he had no choice but to humor these women. "Uh, no, ma'am, I guess not." He noticed Mrs. Warren giving him a meaningful glance.
"Oh, and I wanted to ask you if I might be allowed to finish grocery shopping now," he remembered to ask.
"I guess that would be alright," the manager said, looking to Mrs. Warren, who was nodding at her, for her answer, the way strangers will often do with a child and his parent. "As long as your Mommy thinks you've learned a lesson, and are wearing a diaper like a good little baby boy."
"Yes, ma'am," Doug murmured, his bottom and face burning from the spanking and the embarrassment. "And may I please have permission to shop here in the future?"
"Hmmm," the manager said thoughtfully. "Yes, you may, if you come wearing a diaper which is at all times visible, such as you're wearing now, so that my employees and I can tell the big boys from the little ones like you. Also, I'd like for you to check in here when you first get here so that I can tell an employee to keep an eye on you. Any puddles, misbehavior, or even so much as a wet spot on your jeans will be dealt with very harshly, young man. My children will tell you that I can warm a fanny with the best of them." She smiled warmly at Mrs. Warren, who smiled back appreciatively.
"And one more thing. I want you to bring a spare diaper with you, in case there is a leakage problem. I can find one of my staff to change you, or I can certainly do it myself. Okay?"
Doug nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."
"That's a good baby," the manager said, and winked at Mrs. Warren, who was deeply impressed. She'd actually never been to this store or met this woman before, but this stranger seemed to have a natural understanding for what was going on. Mrs. Warren began to think more of her boys would shop here in the future. What a pleasant surprise.
Doug resumed shopping grimly. The rest of the trip was excruciating, and dreadfully slow, so he had time to consider what had just happened. He'd just set himself up for weekly humiliation and public embarrassment, and had thanked the lady for it. The manager's attitude had shocked and disappointed Doug as much as it had pleased and surprised Mrs. Warren, and he was now questioning whether everyone would approve of how he was being treated if they knew about his situation. It was weird that one of these people didn't object to his being spanked and diapered. (Doug had no way of knowing that he'd simply had the misfortune of encountering another relatively unusual woman; his ignorance made him begin to wonder whether there was more of this kind of thing going on than he had previously been aware of. Any uncertainty about this on Doug's part simply made Mrs. Warren's job easier, so she would have been pleased.) Well, he thought, thank goodness for the fact that this store is out of the way. He'd never seen any of his friends shopping here, and that was the only aspect of today's experience he was happy about.
One thing was for sure, thought, he knew. He wasn't soon going to try to disobey Mrs. Warren again. His bottom throbbed with the heat and pain from his spanking, and the various glances of curiosity and disgust from the other shoppers continued to drive home how misguided this attempt at rebellion had been. Well, he was reformed now, out of necessity more than desire, and he was going to be a good little boy for as long as he could help it, no matter how embarrassing it would be. Embarrassment was better than embarrassment *and* pain. He would do anything to avoid living through another day like today.
Which was exactly what Mrs. Warren wanted, of course. And she had been doing this long enough to recognize the determined look that now shone in Doug's eye. She smiled. This had been a successful venture today, and one that would probably carry her new client through several good weeks of what she considered diaper-training for the future. The next thing she'd probably have to deal with from Doug were his hormones. She smiled. Mrs. Warren could handle that, too.
Doug packed his diaper bag Sunday night without objection. His bottom and ego still hurt from the day's events, and he was in no mood to put up a fuss. Still, he was more than a little uneasy about the following day, when he would head to work while wearing his diaper and carrying his pink diaper bag. He was worried about people at the lab finding out, since the job and the graduate program to which he expected it to lead seemed to be all he was living for now that the rest of his normal life had been taken away. So while he obediently placed three fresh diapers, powder, baby wipes, and lotion into his bag, his mind was racing for ways to make himself less conspicuous.
Some ideas were obvious. He'd decided that, starting tomorrow, he'd go in earlier and leave later. That way he could get to and from his lab unseen and wouldn't have to answer questions about his bulging, waddling, rustling, or his babyish bag. Appearing to work harder wouldn't hurt his admission prospects, either. In some ways he was very lucky to have the job he had: working alone, being able to wear what he wanted and essentially to decide what hours he'd work. These features were excellent, since he now wanted to avoid other people as much as possible and needed to wear something practical. He had bulky pants and a long sweatshirt that might work. Good thing winter's coming, he thought. It would be way harder to wear the kind of bulky clothing that was necessary if it were hot.
It was the prospect of diaper changes that really made him anxious. His floor in the lab building had one unisex bathroom in one of the more public areas. It wasn't uncommon to see lots of people on his way there or back, or for there to be a line. He couldn't carry the diaper bag, or, even worse, a diaper and some wipes, into the bathroom! It hadn't been until after Mrs. Warren left Sunday night that Doug struck on the idea of plastic grocery bags in which to carry clean diaper down and dirty diapers back. If it was around lunchtime when he went, he could even say he was just stopping off on the way to lunch. He felt much better after he pre-bagged his diaper changes for tomorrow. With any luck, he might be able to get away with this without anyone finding out.
Monday morning Doug woke up, dry as usual, and tried to get ready as normally would any other morning, except that this morning he had to wet himself intentionally before his shower, and rediaper himself afterward. He left his apartment early, and indeed got to his lab early as well, before anyone else had arrived. Relieved, he tucked his telltale bag safely into an unused lab cupboard and got to work. He was very conscious of how often he wet himself, as leaks might be horribly embarrassing, and so he checked his diaper several times before deciding at 10:30am that he'd better try to change himself.
So he put his clandestine operation into action and was thrilled when it seemed to go off without a hitch. No one really seemed to notice. From there the rest of the day was easier. He had to change himself once more, in mid-afternoon, and he waited until the halls were relatively deserted before waddling home. All in all, the day had been much simpler than he could have hoped for.
And the next several days went well also, in that he seemed to manage to keep his forced infantilization a secret from his coworkers. Mrs. Warren dropped by every day or so "to say hi." Wednesday night she commented that she'd been told that Doug was being a good boy at work, and that she was glad to hear it.
Doug's heart stopped. Mrs. Warren had an informant at work! Someone in his last bastion of normality *knew* about him. He didn't say anything to Mrs. Warren (sitting down was only now becoming painless), but his mind once again raced, as he tried to pinpoint who his informant could possibly be. He should have known he'd be spied upon. But now he worried that the informance might tell others. Everyone might already know by now! But he couldn't ask, because that would give it away. He was forced to watch everyone on Thursday, looking for clues that they might be on to him. But if anyone knew, they were quiet about it. No one appeared to watch him or react any differently than in the past.
Thursday night, as he was sneaking home after he'd thought everyone had left, he turned a corner and ran right into his lab director, Dr. Stillman, a tall, strikingly beautiful woman in her late thirties, with long brown hair and deep brown eyes. She was also, not coincidentally, the admissions director for the doctoral program Doug hoped to enter next fall.
"Ah...Doug, isn't it?" she asked crisply as she sized him up in front of her. Doug tried to hide his bag behind his legs. "Keeping late hours, are we? Well, that can't hurt. It's nice to see someone working so hard for a change." At this, she sort of chuckled to herself, and kept walking.
Doug stood in the hall after she'd left and tried to figure out what she'd meant by that. It had seemed like a compliment, and yet she'd laughed. She always intimidated Doug, to some degree because he found her extremely attractive. Now, though, in his paranoid mood, he found himself wondering if his boss might actually be the informant: "working hard for a *change*," she'd said. Maybe this had meant something else from what he'd thought. (This would worry Doug for a long time, and perhaps never be satisfactorily settled for him, since she never made any other similar comments and he knew he couldn't exactly ask her directly.)
Other than this incident, the rest of the week was uneventful, and Doug finished his second week of diaperhood smoothly. He was as obedient as he could be, and tried to wet and soil his diaper conscientiously. He settled into a predictable pattern of changing himself in the late morning and midafternoon, and he found that as long as he remembered to do that, he didn't need to think about *when* exactly he wet himself. That seemed convenient to Doug, though he would discover later that it was yet another piece in the puzzle of his undoing.
On Sunday Doug reluctantly and self-consciously waddled into the grocery story, scene of last week's humiliation, spare diaper in hand. The diaper he wore was necessarily pulled up outside his shirt for the world to see. He wished desperately that he didn't have to do this, but he knew he did. He tried to stare straight ahead and to ignore the stares of shoppers, and fervantly hoped that no one he knew saw him like this. He walked over to the manager's office and knocked on the door.
"Well, look who's back," the manager observed when she saw Doug. "And you remembered how I want you to dress as well; that's a good start. What's your name, young man?"
"Doug," he replied, not wanting to get any more detailed than that. Luckily, it seemed as though that's all she wanted.
"Well, I'm Mrs. Johnson, Doug," she said. "As you recall, I told you I'd have one of my employees look after you while you're here. Let's see who's available." She yelled over to the pretty young cashier who had laughed at Doug the previous week. "Emily, have you had your break?"
The young girl nodded. "Just came off it. Sandy has my register." Emily walked over, obviously staring at Doug's visible diaper as she approached.
"Good," Mrs. Johnson said. "This is Doug. Perhaps you remember him from last Sunday: he wet his pants in Aisle 3."
"Of course I remember," she said, giggling. Doug blushed. It had to be this girl.
"Well, this week he'd more suitably dressed, as you can see. But I'd still like for you to babysit him while he shops. Follow him and supervise his behavior. If there is any misbehavior at all, you are to tell me immediately, and you or I will take care of it."
"What do you mean?" Emily asked, looking at Doug with amusement.
"I mean that if he needs it, one of us will give him a spanking back in the stockroom. He got one last week, and it seemed to work well." Doug's head pounded with embarrassment. Doug saw that Emily was having trouble controlling her laughter; Mrs. Johnson, however, ignored her. "Now, Doug, can you tell when you've wet or messed in your diaper?" she asked.
Doug frowned. Of course he could, but why did she have to bring that up now, other than to embarrass him? But he had to answer. "Uh, yes, ma'am," he answered with a very shy glance toward Emily.
"Good. I expect you to tell Emily if it happens so she can change you. Emily, you can use the stockroom for that as well; just ask me for the key. And check his diaper several times each visit while he shops, just to make sure: we don't want a scene like last week because of overflow. If he's wet or dirty and didn't tell you first, bring him back here. He'll need a spanking for that, too, if we think it was intentional." She turned away from them. "That's all. You two come back here when you're done shopping. Be good," she added, presumably for Doug's benefit.
They turned away and headed toward the rows of empty carts. "Did you really get a spanking last week?" Emily asked him immediately.
Doug hung his head. "Yes," he said quietly, hoping she would drop the subject. He picked a cart and they headed for the produce section.
Doug stopped and looked at her. She was half smiling, obviously amused at the idea of his being spanked like a bad little boy. Her blue eyes sparkled, and Doug found himself staring into them for a moment, briefly bewitched by her young beauty. Then he shook himself. She was maybe seventeen or eighteen at the most. And besides that, she knew he was wearing a diaper. Even if she were of a proper age, he wouldn't have stood a chance with that humiliation. "I'd rather not talk about it," he said, finally, and turned to look through a bin of apples.
But she was insistent. "No, really. Why?" When Doug didn't speak, she said, "You wouldn't want me to give my manager a bad report, would you?"
Doug turned back to her, fear suddenly in his eyes. "You wouldn't do that, would you?"
"Maybe, maybe not," she said coyly, her eyes twinkling. "I'm the babysitter. You'd better behave."
Just what he needed, Doug thought. A teenager on a power trip.
"Look," he said. "It's really embarrassing." Perhaps he could play on her sympathy...
And there was silence for a moment. So she does have a heart, Doug thought. Thank goodness. But then,
"Was it because you wet your pants?" She asked it simply, apparently not to tease him, and without malice. She just didn't seem to recognize his discomfort. She only seemed very curious and slightly amused. The question was, *why* was she so curious? She ought to be grossed out. Could she actually be turned on by this? He'd always dreamed of meeting a female who could share and participate in his diaper-wearing.
"`Cause my little brother, Joey, got spanked every time he wet his pants," she went on.
"Oh, really?" Doug replied with irritation, insulted that he should be thought of in the same vein as her stupid little pants-wetting brother. Well, now he knew how she thought of him. He should have known; that would teach him to get his hopes up. He moved on, collecting his groceries.
"Yeah, he's twelve now, and it doesn't happen anymore. But he used to do it a lot, and Mom would spank him for it. But he couldn't help it, I guess." She followed him in silence for a couple of steps.
"So do you still wet *your* pants a lot?" she asked.
"No," Doug answered with more annoyance. As pretty as she was, she was unfortunately turning out to be a pest. If she wasn't interested in him, then she was just being cruel, he decided. He wished he didn't have to tolerate this. Of course, he wished he didn't have to tolerate a lot of things these days.
"But you did last week, and that's why your mom spanked you, right?"
Once more Doug stopped to glare at her. "Look, she's not my mom, okay? Please just drop it."
"She's not?" Emily asked, wrinkling her brow. "Who is she then?"
Oh, boy, he thought: that's the limit. We can't get into *this.* He shook his head. "It's really complicated."
They were now passing the back corner of the store and the hallway with the bathroom where Doug had been soundly spanked the week before. This distracted Emily from her interrogation, and she remembered one of her duties.
"We should check your diaper!" she chirped happily, tugging at Doug's sleeve. Reluctantly he left his half-full cart and followed her into the hallway, where they couldn't be seen by other shoppers.
"Okay, pull down your pants," Emily said, obviously trying to sound mature. However, her enthusiasm and amusement shone through her facade of professionalism.
"Look, you really don't need to do this. I know for a fact that it's dry," Doug offered hopefully.
She put her hands on her hips indignantly. "I'm the babysitter, not you. You're just the baby. And *I* want you to pull down your pants so I can see your diaper." Doug still hesitated. She was so young to be ordering him around. "Do it *now,*" she said sharply.
Doug knew that in this situation, as in many others, he didn't have much choice. He didn't know whether or not she'd really make good on the threat to spank him, but he didn't want to find out. So he unbuckled and unzipped his jeans and self-consciously lowered them to the floor.
"Awwwww...that's a good boy," Emily said, in a babyish tone. She laughed at her own efforts at humor.
Doug blushed again, not finding it quite as funny as she apparently did. Emily leaned over and inspected the little indicator stripe, which indeed verified Doug's assertion of dryness. Despite his embarrassment, Doug felt an erection start to build inside his diaper. For the first time Doug was thankful for the extreme thickness of his diaper, which probably prevented her from noticing. Suddenly she surprised him by reaching out and grabbing the rear of his diaper, squeezing and massaging it gently. She then did the same to the front. Doug was so shocked he didn't know what to do. What if she felt his erection?
"Just making sure," she explained to him as she straightened up again. But she said it with a smile that told Doug for the first time that maybe she *was* actually interested as much in what was inside his diaper as in its state of wetness. So what was she "making sure" of? Whether he was wet, or whether he was hard? he wondered.
Or had he just imagined that little supposed flirtation? To Doug's frustration, Emily now seemed to be subtler about the whole thing than he would have imagined possible for someone of her age. She carried on as if she was really just doing her job, never giving away any more clues as to her feelings or intentions. "Okay, that's good. You can pull 'em up. We'll check again later." She's apparently a very professional tease, he thought, reassessing his baby-sitter. If she really liked him and had just made a little move on him, she wasn't letting on to it now.
But why would she tease him? he argued to himself as they returned to shopping. Could she possibly know about his ICP's prohibition of sex, and was she therefore being purposefully cruel? No, he thought, that's impossible. His heart quickened. I think she really likes me, he thought excitedly. And she's actually turned on by my diapers! Oh my God, he thought, unable to comprehend the ramifications of actually having found someone who was turned on by infantilism in general, and *his* infantilism in specific. He'd dreamed his whole life...
His musing was cut short as Emily was back on the attack.
"So if you *don't* wet a lot, then why do you have to wear diapers?"
Doug didn't answer. He couldn't think of anything other than the truth that would be believable. Emily didn't seem to mind his silence. She kept on jabbering.
"My brother never had to wear diapers for wetting his pants. Well, I mean after he was about four. He kept right on wetting his pants and his bed, and Mom started spanking him for it. She said he was old enough to know better. And Joey would cry, but then he'd keep on wetting. Maybe he *should* have been put back in diapers, like you..." she trailed off, apparently lost in thought. And then:
"Did it hurt?"
Doug was lost. He had been picking out some laundry detergent. "Did *what* hurt?"
"Your spanking. Did it hurt?"
"Yes," Doug admitted quietly. His inhibitions had dropped slightly since he'd determined that she really did like him. In a relationship as potentially important as this one might be, he could maybe afford to open up a little.
"I bet it did," Emily said enthusiastically. "Did you cry?"
Whoops. Too far, a little voice in Doug's head told him. He thought he could possibly talk about some of this, was dying to get some of it off his chest, and was thrilled someone like Emily existed. But he was deeply embarrassed about some aspects of it, and this was one of them. "Emily, I'm kind of upset about the whole thing, okay? Can we please not talk about this stuff anymore?"
Emily was silent as they made their way toward the dairy products. Then she couldn't resist asking just one more question. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
Doug stopped and stared at her. So much for subtlety, maturity, and professionalism. "No," he said simply.
"Oh," she replied, and didn't say anything else, until Doug was just about ready to check out. "Time for another check."
They walked back to the rear hallway, Doug's anxiety and erection simultaneously rising. What would happen this time? Would it...COULD it...lead to anything? He found himself both hoping that something sexual would happen and scared that it might. He'd always dreamed of involving his diapers in a sexual relationship, and this girl was so beautiful! It was better than he could have hoped for! But then, Emily was so young. Perhaps she was even a minor, which both scared him and turned him off. That was a road he didn't want to walk down. And then there was the omniscient, omnipotent Mrs. Warren, who had expressly prohibited any sexual activity. But Emily was the boss here! If anything happened, it wasn't his fault, right?
He was torn and confused as she again asked him to pull down his pants. Now he was also scared of being discovered: his erection felt huge. He wondered if even his think diaper could insulate it from her touch. Maybe she wouldn't notice.
Doug held his breath tensely as Emily, smiling, reached out and caressed his diaper, first in the back, and then, more extensively, in the front. She got a funny look on her face, as if she was considering something. Doug thought he heard her laugh quietly.
He was about to say something, anything, to ease the tension, when she abruptly stopped, stood, and pronounced him dry. Doug let out his breath. Emily had him pull up his pants, and they went back up front, where Doug paid for his groceries. Then they stopped by Mrs. Johnson's office.
"And were you a good boy today, Doug?" she asked him, though she clearly meant the question for Emily. Doug was pointedly ignored, and he felt like he was three years old, which he noted was becoming a common occurence.
Emily nodded. "Yes, ma'am. He did as he was told. I checked him twice, and he was dry and clean both times."
"Good for him. Okay, Doug, we'll see you back next week. Same deal. Thanks, Emily, you can get back to your register," she added before turning away.
"No problem. No problem at all. G'bye, Doug," Emily said. She flashed him a meaningful smile. "I'll see you next week." At this, she laughed hysterically and walked away.
"G'bye, Emily," Doug said to her back, and sighed as she walked away. She definitely turned him on, even if she was terminally nosy. The boys at her school must drool over her, he thought. He took his groceries to his car, and spent the rest of the day trying to decide how her obvious fondling of him had been meant. Her parting comment, too, was an obvious reference to the activities she seemed to be planning for next week. He was already worried about it. He had a lot to think about this week. Who knew what his next shopping trip would bring?
It was now Friday of the fourth week, and Doug had thus completed a month of his ICP. Not much was happening around the lab, so Doug took the opportunity to walk home for a leisurely lunch in the privacy of his apartment, where a diaper change was less of a hassle.
A month! he thought as he walked home. It seemed impossible that he'd spent a whole month as a baby, but it was true. He hadn't been out of a diaper for more than fifteen minutes at all, and hadn't used a toilet the whole time. He wasn't enjoying it, certainly, but he was getting used to it a little. He was definitely still enjoying the convenience diapers offered. He hardly thought about when he peed these days: as much trouble as cleanup was, he loved not worrying about holding it in until he got to a bathroom. He didn't think that carefully about it, because it didn't seem important to him, but if he had, he would have noticed that he still had to consciously relax his bladder and bowel to empty them. But he was doing it far more often and instinctively. And he enjoyed this freedom, which was what he considered to be his only "perk."
There were lots of things he still *didn't* like, however. He hated limiting himself to one orgasm a week, but he wanted to be very conservative about that, especially at first. He had a good system, but he knew that Mrs. Warren was smart, and if he blew it he might never figure out another feasable system. It was too precious. Most of all, however, he hated subjugating himself to Mrs. Warren, acting like a two-year-old around her. He was still very self-conscious about having to call her "Mommy," and it galled him to have to walk on eggshells around to show her how obedient he was. The only thing that kept him doing it was the knowledge that if he didn't, he'd get something which pleased him even less: a spanking. And so, even though he was constantly humiliated by the fact that he really was literally trying to be a good little boy to avoid a spanking from his Mommy, it was worth it to him to do so.
Doug continued to be depressed about not figuring a way out of this mess. It was beginning to look more and more like he'd have to ride the thing out for the full duration of the six months. This failure was in itself embarrassing , but he was beginning to see the wisdom in not fighting Mrs. Warren. These last few weeks had been degrading, of course, but nothing like his experience with the wet bet that day. And without a spanking since then, the time had passed more quickly, too. If he could just ride this out for another five months and stay on Mrs. Warren's good side, which meant being a good boy, he could count on resuming his normal life in April without so much as a single spanking before that. This plan, because of its relative ease and safety, was becoming more and more attractive to him. With his secret masturbation scheme in place, he could almost imagine making it that long.
His musings ended as he arrived home and started to make his lunch. His diaper was soaked (he'd made it through the morning without a change) but he was hungry, so he put off changing himself until after lunch. He had just finished making a sandwich when he was surprised by the sound of a key in the lock of his front door. Mrs. Warren! he thought. Was he in trouble? She didn't ordinarily visit him during work days, even when he was home for lunch.
"Doug?" he heard her call from the hall.
"Yes, Mommy?" he answered, gritting his teeth slightly at the humiliation of having to call her that.
"We need to talk," Mrs. Warren told him as she entered his living room, with him following closely behind.
"I called your machine," Doug said defensively, hoping to head off any problems. "I told you I was coming home for lunch. I was good."
"Oh, yes, that was a good boy," Mrs. Warren said, sitting down and putting her keys in her big black purse, which seemed to be more full than usual. "That's how I knew to find you here. No, that's not what this is about."
"Was I bad?" Doug asked worriedly. After he'd just considered how lucky he was for not having been spanked recently, this seemed a big disappointment. Could she know about his secret? But surely she'd appear much angrier if she knew...
"Well, no, I don't think so," she replied, "unless you *purposefully* turned in too few messy diapers last week."
"No, I...I..." he stammered. "I didn't mean to; are you sure?" His mind raced. What was the punishment for that?
"Yes, I'm sure," she said sharply. "And don't question me again. My inspectors told me about it this morning after analyzing your diapers from last week. You only turned in seven messy diapers when you were supposed to turn in nine."
"Oh," Doug said. He'd thought he'd done okay last week. The big question was: did he get a spanking for that? "I...don't know what happened. I'm really sorry," he started.
"Well, I'm sure it wasn't intentional, and no, we don't spank for that. Your total number of diapers was fine, so we know you were good about using your diapers. So you don't need a spanking. But I *am* worried that you seem to be slightly constipated. Do you know why I'd care about that?"
"No, Mommy," Doug said, though he was thinking, because you're intrusive and perverted.
"Well, constipation is actually a cause of a special kind of incontinence called `overflow incontinence.' So we always have to make sure our clients stay very regular. That's why we have the messy diaper quota, you know."
"Oh," he said to be polite. He wasn't constipated, and he wasn't really interested. Seven dirty diapers was pretty regular, for goodness sake.
"And that's why any time you turn in too few messy diaper, as you did, we want to make sure it doesn't become a problem."
Whatever, Doug thought. What the hell was the point of this? He wasn't constipated, though he *was* very hungry by now. He needed to move her along so he could eat and get back to lunch. "Okay, well, I'll try to pay more attention this week," he said, hoping that that was what she was looking for.
It wasn't. "Not so fast, little guy," Mrs. Warren said, smiling. "You obviously don't remember your rule list. We need to spend the next day or so making sure you aren't at all, shall we say, `plugged up.'" Doug didn't like the sound of that. "I call it Bowel Encouragement. Does that ring any bells?"
Doug shook his head, beginning to dread the answer. He hoped it wasn't diaper juice.
"Well, we just help you along a little by putting something in your bottom every so often for a day. It's guaranteed to work."
Well, out of everything that *could* be happening, that didn't sound too bad. Still, he wasn't sure he could trust Mrs. Warren. "Does it hurt?"
"No, not really," she replied. "Let's go get you started. Have you had a bowel movement today?"
"No, Mommy," Doug answered. He had himself on a nice regular evening schedule for BMs during the week.
Mrs. Warren smiled with anticipation. "That's fine. Let's go upstairs and get you changed into a dry diaper. I see that one's about soaked."
Doug looked down, but saw no signs of leaking through his pants. He was amazed at how Mrs. Warren could tell these things so accurately. I mean, I'm wearing pants, he thought. Is my diaper still that obvious? Can everyone tell? Or is she just that good?
Mrs. Warren led him upstairs, aware of the impact her comment would make on Doug's confidence in public and on his opinion of her. In truth, she simply had seen him arrive home and assumed he'd not yet changed himself. After a whole morning at work, she'd knew he *had* to be soaking.
With considerable embarrassment, Doug lay back on his changing pad and allowed his pants to be pulled down and his diaper changed. Mrs. Warren didn't do this for him often, and he was still self-conscious enough about it to make the experience painful.
Mrs. Warren ran a baby wipe around his diaper area, cleaning his hairless groin carefully. "Very nice job shaving, Doug," she said. "You're turning into a very good little baby for Mommy. If we can get this constipation problem cleared up, we might consider taking you off of probation in a month or two."
Probation! He'd forgotten he was on probation. Recently it hadn't been *that* bad being on probation, he reflected, as Mrs. Warren placed a clean diaper under his hips and powdered him heavily. But if he could off of probation, then maybe he wouldn't be spied on at work, or maybe his garbage wouldn't be sorted, or his diapers counted. Then he could really get away with stuff! He tried to busy himself thinking how nice that would be while Mrs. Warren finished readying him.
His attention was redirected back to Mrs. Warren as she dug into her purse and retrieved a latex glove and a small unlabeled container, from which she removed two cone-shaped pellets. After donning the glove, she had Doug spread and lift his legs, after which she unceremoniously stuck the two pellets up past Doug's anus, well into his rectum. Doug was caught off-guard by this new experience, and he sucked in his breath sharply, unconsciously also clamping down his sphincter in self-defense. This effort had no effect on Mrs. Warren's finger, which had accomplished its mission and retreated quickly. Mrs. Warren had his diaper taped up before Doug even knew what was happening. His bottom felt a little funny with those things inside, but it didn't hurt or anything. Doug was relieved. That was it?
She had him stand up as she walked over to his dresser and removed from the top drawer a pair of his white plastic panties. She handed them to Doug and told him to put them on, which he did. Then she went back to her purse and, to Doug's surprise, removed from it another pair of plastic panties. These, too, Doug obediently pulled on, wondering idly what the point of two pairs of panties was. He noted as he adjusted the waist that there was something unusual about the elastic band, but before he had even realized that there was a small chain embedded in the waistband, Mrs. Warren had reached over and snapped closed a tiny padlock. Doug looked up in surprise. Why did he need to be locked in?
But Mrs. Warren just smiled and said, "There you go. Now, here's the plan. After a while you're going to want to soil your diaper. I know you're incontinent, but my advice to you is to try to hold it in for at least an hour and a half. The reason for that is that I want these suppositories to stay inside you and melt completely. If you just poop them out now, they won't help you at all. So the rule is, keep them in until they're melted completely; you won't be able to tell, of course, but an hour and a half should do the trick. I'm going to check your diaper when I change it in six hours, and if I find any part of the suppository unmelted, I'll know you didn't get the full effect. If that happens, we go directly to enemas, which you will like even less. First, though, for your comfort, I'd like to try the suppositories." Actually it was less for his comfort than it was to draw out the entire affair. Enemas were over too quickly.
"Every six hours, I'll come here and unlock you, let you shower if you need to, and put you in a clean diaper with two more suppositories. In twenty-four hours, after four messy diapers, I'll assumed you're no longer constipated, and you can get back to your regular life, no pun intended. Okay? Walk me downstairs," she said brightly as she picked up her purse.
Wearing nothing but his diaper and plastic panties, Doug accompanied her to the front door. "I have to tell you, Doug, that as important as this treatment is, I know you'll appreciate my help over the next day. I'd like to hear you thank me for that help every time I see you through tomorrow." She looked at Doug expectantly.
"Thank you, Mommy," Doug said quickly, though he wasn't sure he meant it. At his response, Mrs. Warren smiled a wonderfully evil smile, said good-bye, and left his apartment, telling him she'd be back at six.
Doug looked down at his bulky diaper, now encased in two pairs of plastic panties. He started to get a foreboding that the next day wasn't going to be very enjoyable for him. He'd actually never heard of suppositories, but he hoped they didn't work very quickly, because he had to work this afternoon! There wasn't much to do, just a couple of assays in the lab, but they were timed, and he had to be there all day, until nearly six o'clock, to supervise them. What if he had a bowel movement at work? He had purposely avoided this until now, knowing that the smell would be hideous and difficult to control. He stared at the two pairs of panties he wore and in a flash realized that they must be there for a reason, and that he was probably being set up for a disaster.
Damn that woman! he thought. She must know the effect this might have. She was doing it on purpose. And now he was locked in! He couldn't escape this at all now: judging by the double protection she'd given him, he was destined to have an enormous accident in a potentially embarrassing place, and there was no way to avoid it! He wanted desparately to expel those little pellets right now, before they could do whatever they were going to do. But that would apparently lead to an enema, which didn't sound nice at all, and if he knew Mrs. Warren at all, probably a spanking as well. No, he didn't have a choice. As bad as this day might get, he knew he had to face it.
A glance at his watch told him that this escapade had already nearly made him late for getting back to the lab. So he wolfed down his sandwich and tried to find pants to cover himself, now that he was bigger than ever before. He got his longest shirt and tried it on. It seemed to disguise his diapered state, but when he walked, it tightened against his diaper with every move and made things very obvious, he thought. But that was the best he could do. He had to hurry.
He got to his lab without having anyone comment on or stare at him, so he started to feel better about the afternoon still ahead of him. Until he sat down for the first time and suddenly felt a cramp in his belly. Uh-oh, he thought. It's already starting. He hadn't expected it to be quite this fast-acting. It had only been about thirty minutes since Mrs. Warren had inserted the suppositories. He sat at his desk and tried to concentrate on other things, but soon Doug could think of nothing but his bowels.
He heard a familiar gurgling in his stomach, the same gurgling he'd heard a month ago in his bathtub. This was when he knew that this situation would get much worse before it would get better. He was again filled with the desire to push those angry pellets out into his diaper where they couldn't hurt him, but still he resisted the urge. He wanted to get through this without making it any worse.
The pain and urgency in his bottom got much worse when he got up twenty minutes later to turn off a gel he'd been running. He literally had to clinch his teeth as he stood working so as not to soil himself. By this point the contents of his intestines were screaming to be let loose, but Doug was now determined to go the distance. If he gave in to his urges now, on top of all of the misery he'd already endured over the last hour, he'd also probably be spanked and subjected to an enema.
A co-worker came in several minutes later, and Doug tried to stay still, so as not to move and thereby give away his diapered status. But his friend noticed his obvious discomfort, and suggested he take the afternoon off. Doug nodded grimly but didn't say anything. He knew that wasn't really an option. If he went home "sick," he'd have to tell Mrs Warren, whose remedy might be worse yet. To his relief his co-worker simply shook his head and left.
Doug was sweating by the time ninety minutes were up. But he was elated: he had done it, and now he could relieve himself of this torment. Yet it wasn't much of a victory, he knew, as he was now simply given the unenviable opportunity to mess his diaper at work and then stay in it for four and a half uncomfortable hours. His discomfort would simply shift to outside his body, with the added risk of someone discovering him. He was trapped, and silently he cursed Mrs. Warren again. He was beginning to realize (in part) how diabolical she could be.
A minute later, when the next round of cramps struck him, he realized it didn't matter what he wanted or who was to blame. As he nearly cried out in agony, he instinctively squatted down and urgently pushed what he could of his intestinal contents out into his diaper. And his bowels responded explosively. Doug couldn't help but enjoy the sensation, momentarily luxuriating in the absense of pain and pressure.
When he could, he stood up again and looked around. He lab room was empty, thank goodness. That experience had gone unwitnessed. But now what? How to hide the very full state of his pants? Doug made the unfortunate decision to sit down to think, and immediately wished he hadn't. He felt his diaper's contents squish and spread over his bottom and between his legs. This was indeed a mess!
Once seated, though, Doug realized that if he stayed that way and didn't move, the smell wasn't too bad. So he just spent the rest of his day parked in his dirty diaper at his desk, periodically relieving himself as he needed, feeling no compunction to hold it in now. Luckily, most people seemed to have taken off early on this Friday afternoon, and he had only two further visitors to his lonely lab, neither requiring him to stand. He couldn't believe his luck, if you could call it that, but after the rest of the day he'd had, he was grateful for any break he could get.
He listened for the familiar and distant sounds of keys jingling and doors shutting as the rest of the employees left for the day. When all was quiet, at about five-thirty, Doug gingerly stood, picked up his relatively-useless diaper bag, and waddled out of his lab.
Doug's fear of being smelled on the bus convinced him to walk home, an uncomfortable trip that contrasted vividly with his walk *to* work this noon. Now, with every step he felt the largely liquid load in his diaper shift and squish, and the discomfort only increased over the fifteen minutes it took to get home.
The only good thing was that it was nearly six when he arrived home, and he only had to wait a couple minutes for Mrs. Warren to show up. He couldn't wait. It had indeed been a miserable afternoon, from start to finish. With the exception of his continence test, he'd never been so uncomfortable in his life, he'd never had such a full diaper, and he'd never had to wear a messy diaper for so long. He was thoroughly disgusted, and ready as never before for a clean diaper.
Mrs. Warren was, as always, punctual, and unlocked the outer plastic panties immediately. She watched with an amused smile as he pulled them off. They were obviously dirty on the inside, a sign that his "accident" had overloaded his thick diaper and the first pair of plastic pants. Doug's gratefulness for the necessary protection this afternoon was tempered by the confirmation that Mrs. Warren had known *exactly* what would happen to him today. She tried to play it off as concern for his incontinence, but Doug was beginning to suspect that Mrs. Warren was enjoying his unhappiness. This was such a frightening thought that he pushed it temporarily from his mind. He remained conscious only of a desire to end his ICP at the end of the six months. While thinking, he also pulled the other panties off and untaped his loaded diaper.
"Whew. That *is* a dirty diaper," she said, chuckling.
Doug didn't share her good humor, for he was also embarrassed for her to see him in such a humiliating state, but he reminded himself that it had happened before. And like before, his mind was primarily thinking of getting cleaned up. He waddled carefully into the bathroom and showered, leaving his filthy diaper with Mrs. Warren to examine.
She did, noting the absence of any remaining, unmelted suppository. That was a little disappointing to her for several reasons. It deprived her of the opportunity to "enemize" Doug, which she knew she'd enjoy. More importantly, however, it meant that he was still continent enough of bowel to hold significant pressure in for a long time. But she remembered that all of her boys, most of whom were perfectly on schedule, usually did fine for the first round. It was rounds two and three, which for Doug would come overnight tonight, when their increasingly unconditioned sphincters gave way and allowed their contents out before ninety minutes were up. Exactly when the boys control failed during this difficult day of bowel torture gave her important information regarding their "progress," and this was the major reason that she put her babies through this rectal hell.
Doug took his time in the shower, enjoying the sensation of being out of a diaper for a few minutes. His relief at having escaped the day's earlier torment was all-consuming. He savored the feeling, and couldn't really think about anything else.
And this preoccupation with the present, like every other part of Doug's Incontinence Control Program, was planned by Mrs. Warren. She had discovered that the more her clients were focused on detailed rules and demands, the less capable they were of seeing the bigger picture. Doug rightfully thought today's experience was horrendous, but because it took all of his concentration simply to make it through the day, he couldn't spend any time considering the larger purpose for the ordeal, which was to assess his progress toward incontinence. He was trying only to make it through each day without a spanking; had he known the stakes, he might have shifted his efforts toward avoiding Mrs. Warren's long-term plans for him.
But Doug was so focused at the moment, in fact, that he was completely shocked and dismayed when he emerged from the shower and saw another two pellets waiting for him in Mrs. Warren's gloved hand. He'd forgotten that he had more to endure.
"No, please, Mommy," he whined. His bowels already ached. "I'm all cleaned out, I promise."
"Shush," Mrs. Warren said, pushing Doug back on his changing pad. "No more backtalk. You'll be done soon enough. We have to make sure." Doug compliantly spread and lifted his legs, allowing himself to be powdered, invaded by the glycerine, and rediapered. Mrs. Warren had two clean plastic panties for Doug to put on. Doug watched helplessly as she locked the outer one. He knew better than to object.
"Do I have to wait six whole hours?" he asked, pushing Mrs. Warren as far as he dared.
"Absolutely." She packed up her purse.
"But it's so long in a messy diaper," he whimpered.
Mrs. Warren glared at him. "That's enough, young man. Look at it this way: this is making up for all the time you didn't spend in dirty diapers this week. Remember, now, same rules, if you don't want an enema. Try to wait ninety minutes, and I'll see you around midnight. I'll wake you up if I need to. Now, I suggest you have some dinner."
She left, and Doug waddled downstairs to eat. This time, though his bowels were nearly empty, they were also still very irritated from the previous suppositories, and they reacted quickly and strongly to this new onslaught of glycerine. The cramps and discomfort started within five to ten minutes, and Doug nearly cried several times. This was so pathetic. He wanted nothing more than to control his own bowels, and he felt degraded, angry, and miserable that he wasn't allowed to make his own decision about such elementary functions. Mrs. Warren would have been happy that his greatest desire tonight was craving the ability to mess his diaper when he wanted? Life for Doug had certainly changed. He was pathetic these days, he thought.
But once again he bumped up against that wall he now always faced: Mrs. Warren and her absolute power over him. Though his ego still rejected his current impotent situation, he knew he had to force himself to submit to her difficult will.
So he gritted his teeth and tried to keep his diaper clean. Meanwhile, while his bowels churned away, he unconsciously (and vainly) searched for a way to rationalize his participation in this absurd ICP. If he could gain something, anything, out of this humiliating return to diaperhood, his self-esteem wouldn't suffer as much. Perhaps, he allowed himself to think, Mrs. Warren had actually been right, and he *had* always been a little incontinent. That would make all of this worthwhile, and this pain a little more tolerable. If this were so, then he was in the right hands, and he should just relax and trust in Mrs. Warren's experience with such matters. But even as he allowed himself to think this way, he knew it wasn't true. Mrs. Warren was mean to him. His defensive ego was playing tricks on him, and that's probably just what Mrs. Warren wanted to happen. He shook his head. He hadn't been incontinent. Probably. He didn't think so. But it seemed like things were more confusing these days, which frightened him a little in a vague way.
He was, as always, able to reassure himself that, at the very least, it would all end in five months, and he could return to normality. There was still a finite end to this nonsense, a light at the end of the tunnel.
Doug's second vigil of the day ended just over an hour in, when he decided that maybe an hour really was enough to melt those little pellets, and that waiting longer would hurt too much. Plus, he started to admit to himself, he was getting tired of holding it in: he wasn't used to such a strain. For the last four weeks, he hadn't tried to hold it in at all; now he had diarrhea and was expected to hold it in all day long? No one could do that, he thought to himself, practicing some dangerous denial. He regarded his task as super-human, and something of which anyone would tire.
So once again Doug filled his diaper with loose, brown, sticky poop, and he sighed and grimaced as he sat down in it to watch TV until Mrs. Warren returned at midnight. He decided to try to ignore his messy state, and, in fact, he was beginning to grow used to it. His acclimation to such infantile discomfort showed the effect this month had had on him. Mrs. Warren would have again been pleased.
And she was. At midnight Mrs. Warren arrived and found Doug asleep on the sofa in his filthy diaper, and she smiled. She gently woke him, guided him as he sleepily headed upstairs, and helped him remove his panties and diaper.
This time Mrs. Warren found what she was looking for in Doug's diaper. Two small suppository remnants told her Doug was unable to maintain good sphincter tone for ninety minutes tonight. She was thrilled, but decided to put off Doug's enema until the morning, when they would both be more awake, for her heightened enjoyment of his increased misery. She didn't want him to sleep through it!
Doug showered more quickly this time, realizing that there was no virtue in putting off the inevitable. It would just make everything last longer. He dried himself, and, still naked, headed back to his bedroom, where another diaper was waiting for him, as well as Mrs. Warren, who had two more suppositories ready. He groaned as she inserted them with a gloved finger, and then he obediently allowed her to tape him up and lock him in still another plastic panty.
Mrs. Warren saw his exhaustion and beaten spirit and couldn't resist a smile. "Halfway there, Doug. Twelve more hours."
He grunted in return. He was tired physically and mentally, and her encouragement couldn't help him.
"Sleep well. I'll be here a little late, at about seven o'clock, so that I don't have to wake you too early," she said, stroking his hair gently. "Thank Mommy, and tell her goodnight."
"Goodnight, Mommy," Doug wearily replied. "And thanks," he said unconvincingly.
Mrs. Warren had scarcely driven away when Doug felt his bowel cramp for the first time. He groaned and rolled over in bed, still feeling very sleepy but knowing that he should stay awake for a while. When this round of cramps subsided several minutes later, however, he quickly drifted off to sleep.
In its weakened and exhausted state, Doug's rectal sphincter was no match for the pressure of its contents as they built over the next fifteen minutes. And Mrs. Warren would therefore have loved to have seen the moment, not half an hour after she placed the suppositories, when Doug soiled his diaper in his sleep for the first time in more than twenty years. He didn't even stir when it happened, and was so used to wearing messy diapers (and so tired from the events of the previous day) that he never awoke, and thus was surprised when Mrs. Warren had to shake him awake at seven the next morning.
"Was Douggie a good little baby last night?" Mrs. Warren asked sweetly when Doug's eyes finally fluttered open.
"Yes, Mommy," Doug said reflexively, before he had time to think about whether it was true. He sat up and knew instantly that he was messy. But when last night had it happened?
"Well, let's see, shall we?" Mrs. Warren unlocked his panties and helped Doug pull them down his legs. Then they untaped his diaper, and Doug looked with curiosity down between his legs to his clean-shaven groin, and the diaper underneath, which contained a little bit of poop and two well-formed glycerine pellets which hadn't even come close to melting. Doug caught his breath. Had he fallen asleep? He stuttered a few unintelligible syllables before Mrs. Warren cut him off.
"That's enough. Looks like maybe we weren't quite as good a little boy as we thought. Head on in there and take your shower if you want, and we'll talk about it afterward."
Doug complied, shaking his head in confusion. How did that happen? he wondered. And now what would she do? She *has* to be kidding about the enema, that's absurd, I've never had one of those and I'm not going to start now, he thought, even as he knew that Mrs. Warren didn't break her promises. But it's so drastic. Maybe she won't make me.
But when he returned to his bedroom, of course, there was a large clean bag of soapy liquid hanging from one of his bedposts, with a long tube snaking its way down to his changing pad. Mrs. Warren was holding a container of K-Y jelly and looking at him expectantly.
"Doug, I'd like for you to lay down here for a minute."
Doug was scared. "Mrs. Warren...I mean...Mommy, do we have to? I mean, I'll just try again with those suppository things. Please?"
"Oh, don't worry. We will: we still have one more try with those. But first I'd just like for you to come over here and lie down. Just for a minute."
He knew now that he couldn't escape it, so he slowly approached the bed.
"That's a good boy. On your hands and knees, like a puppy dog, with your bottom down here. Good boy. Now drop to your elbows and put your head down. And spread your legs a little. Perfect."
Doug closed his eyes. He felt a slippery finger touch his bottom, and then felt a small firm object invading him. He involuntarily tried to clamp down against it but couldn't. He heard a click as Mrs. Warren released the valve on the tubing to allow two liters of sudsy warm water to fill his bowels. Doug then felt a warmth in his abdomen and an unusual, nondescript feeling as well. But, Doug was happy to learn, it didn't really hurt at all. It did last for what seemed quite a while. Finally, the plastic object was removed from his bottom. Not *that* bad, Doug thought.
Mrs. Warren said, "Okay, now just hold still for a minute." As Doug waited he felt gurgling throughout his abdomen and wondered what would happen next. Mrs. Warren was considering whether or not to use the tampon at this point. She decided first to test Doug's sphincter further. There would be time for the tampon later, and this could be fun.
"Get up now, Doug." He stood and found Mrs. Warren waiting with a pair of transparent plastic panties, which she helped him pull up his legs.
"Two rules: first, you may not sit or lie down while holding an enema. It's medically dangerous," she lied. She knew from other babies' experience that it was harder to hold it in while standing. "Second, to get maximum benefit, you should hold it in for twenty minutes. After that, we'll put a diaper back on you and let you empty. These panties are just in case of an accident, but I certainly don't expect you to need them. Okay, now run along. I suggest you make yourself some breakfast."
Doug nodded and headed downstairs as Mrs. Warren followed. He was feeling extremely self-conscious of his essentially naked state, and also of the weird feeling of plastic next to his skin. On the other hand, he thought twenty minutes would be no problem, compared with the hour and a half of suppository hell. Mrs. Warren sat down in the living room as Doug poured himself some cereal.
Suddenly he got an unpleasant feeling in his belly. It was sort of vague when it started, but it made him call into Mrs. Warren to ask what would happen just in case he couldn't hold it for twenty minutes.
"What usually happens when you break one of my rules?" she called back. "I'll give you a hint: it involves my hand and your little bottom."
Doug rolled his eyes in response, careful not to let Mrs. Warren see him do it. Everything was spankings with this lady...
Suddenly Doug was dropped to his knees by a huge abdominal cramp and the strongest urge to defecate he'd ever experienced. It was urgent and commanding in a way that even the diaper juice and the suppositories weren't. He simply couldn't stop it. He moaned as his tortured bowels ejected the enema into his transparent panties. Mrs. Warren ran in from the living room when she heard his yelp, and upon reaching the kitchen door, stood and enjoyed the view as the water and stool graphically filled his panties.
The spasm relented for a moment, and Doug tried to catch his breath. What was that?! He was dazed. He tried to clear his head, when suddenly Mrs. Warren yanked him by his arm, forcing him to stand.
"Upstairs, young man. I'll teach you to respect my rules," she said angrily.
"I...I couldn't help it," he stammered. "Please...it wasn't my fault." And then, again, Doug experienced cramps, cried out, and released more enema into his dripping panties.
"Oh, you're begging for it now," Mrs. Warren snapped, forcefully pulling him over to the stairs and dragging him up them. "Wash yourself off and then get in here pronto," she told him. "You've got two minutes to be over my knees, or you're really going to regret it."
Doug was about to cry from pain, frustration, and embarrassment, but he hurried into the bathroom, carefully removed his soaking plastic panties, and stepped into the shower. He let loose another stream of enema, quickly rinsed off, then jumped out, dried himself perfunctorily and, still nude, hurried into the bedroom, where Mrs. Warren sat stiffly in a straightbacked chair near his desk. He stopped abruptly in front of her, suddenly realizing what was about to happen.
"Let's go, little boy," Mrs. Warren said. "You've only got seconds before I *really* get angry." So Doug bent himself awkwardly across her lap, grabbed the chair legs as he had previously been instructed, and waited. His bare bottom tingled expectantly. He hoped that she'd go easy on him, but she sounded angry.
She *wasn't* really angry, of course. As she began to paddle his bottom with her strong hand, she was nearly gleeful about Doug's apparent progress. He'd only taken about three minutes, far below average in this, the most accurate gauge of actual incontinence she had developed. Most boys at this stage lasted eight to nine minutes, but Doug had folded quickly, evidence that he was enjoying and using his diapers properly. Wonderful news. A spanking opportunity was icing for her.
And she enjoyed this icing, letting her steel hands fall sharply on Doug's reddening bottom, hearing the vain whimpers of protest dissolve into sniffles and then into outright crying. She felt a certain satisfaction as she delivered this assault. Doug wiggled helplessly, just like all the others. Grown men indeed, she thought with disdain. Anyone who would allow any of this to happen to himself actually deserved it. These boys, who let her take over their lives and dictate their most basic functions, who allowed her to usurp every last vestige of their independence and dignity, surely must benefit from her discipline. If they'd let themselves fall this deeply into her power, she thought, some part of them must be every bit the little baby she forced them to be. They desperately needed to be punished for their pathetic passivity.
These thoughts spurred ever greater spanking effort, and she continued until she was sure Doug's bottom would be sore for several days. Then she dumped him unceremoniously on the floor, where he lay crying. She went into the bathroom and refilled the enema bag, though this time she only put one liter of soapy warm water, since he probably hadn't even fully expelled the last one.
She forced Doug, who was now only sniffling, back on the bed and told him to lie like a puppy dog again. At this point he started crying all over again at the recognition that he would receive another enema. She smacked his bottom sharply, and he quickly resumed the position amidst his tears. She administered the enema, this time inserting the large tampon she had brought with her earlier.
Doug felt the plastic removed from his bottom, but to his surprise couldn't close his anus. Something was still there, and it quickly swelled with the water from the enema, expanding and filling his anal canal completely. Doug turned his head around, hoping to see what it was, but there was nothing to see. He looked to Mrs. Warren for an explanation, and she nearly laughed out loud at his confusion. Doug didn't understand what was happening, but his bottom still stung enough that he didn't want to ask any questions, so he remained unsure of what she'd done.
She made him put on another pair of transparent panties, this time just for show, since nothing would get out of his bottom this time, and led him downstairs, where he tried to finish making his breakfast. The heat from his burning bottom built up inside of his panties, making it difficult for him to concentrate. This time, when the cramps hit him, he again let out a yell and doubled over in pain, but as his intestines tried to expel the enema, they met the impenetrable resistance of the tampon, and, indeed, nothing came out. Doug was surprised and a bit upset, since the pain therefore continued unabated. The cramps eventually let up, but resumed after another minute, and by the time twenty minutes were over, Doug was crying again. He never even finished making his breakfast.
Mrs. Warren gently led him upstairs and replaced his panties with one of his disposable diaper. He had never been so overjoyed to get into one. Mrs. Warren reached down the back of his diaper with a gloved hand and pulled the tampon's string, gently working it out of Doug's bottom. She withdrew her hand as quickly as possible, leaving the tampon behind, since she knew from experience that the client's anal sphincter was probably totally worthless at this point of the exercise. And sure enough, a liter of liquid immediately and uncontrollably gushed out into Doug's diaper.
So again Mrs. Warren changed Doug, who was nearly catatonic after everything he'd been through. He didn't put up any resistance and probably wouldn't have even noticed the fact that she inserted the last two suppositories before taping him up again, except that she pointed it out and told him to try not to poop for ninety minutes. After locking him one final time into the panties, she finally left for the morning, not to return until after noon.
Doug was not surprised to feel the pellets ooze helplessly out of his bottom into his diaper less than fifteen minutes later. He didn't care. He went to sleep. Not even his sore, hot bottom could interfere with his exhaustion. When Mrs. Warren returned six hours later, she told Doug once again to clean himself up, which he did.
Doug was remotely upset when Mrs. Warren told him that they weren't done yet, that he needed one more enema before it was all over, since he hadn't melted these pellets either. But he had run out of emotion, and felt his misery only dully now.
For twenty minutes following the administration of the enema, he did find the energy to cry, as colonic spasms shook him repeatedly. But then it was over, and Mrs. Warren cleaned and rediapered him, told him to count his messy diapers from now on, and then left him alone.
Finally, he sat numbly on his sofa, relieved to be wearing nothing but a nice, fresh diaper. His bowels felt totally worn out. He couldn't believe what had happened to him over the past day, so he just tried to block it out and watch TV.
Five months, he thought. Five months.
Doug saw a smile spread across Emily's face as she walked over to meet him at the customer service desk. He wondered what she had in mind for today. It didn't matter. He'd long since decided that he wouldn't protest a thing she did today. He'd tried being good, and the outcome had been disappointing enough as to dissuade him from attempting that again. He hadn't even *wanted* to be good in the first place, for goodness sake. So today, he'd go with the flow, and just enjoy it. The result had to be better than last week.
"Hi, Doug!" she said. "I hope you're in a more...cooperative mood today." She wore the confident expression of a young woman who knew that she could get whatever she wanted. She was about to say something else, but Mrs. Johnson caught sight of Doug and interrupted.
"Well, hello, little Doug. Are you going to be a good boy today?"
"Yes, ma'am," Doug said sincerely.
"Good. Did you remember a changing pad this week, just in case?"
"Yes, ma'am," Doug answered, holding forward his lovely pink diaper bag, out of which peeked a vinyl changing pad. He'd given up and just decided to bring the whole bag. It wasn't any more embarrassing than carrying around a clean diaper.
"Excellent. That should be more comfortable for you than the cold cement. And what a pretty bag for a little boy," she cooed, and Doug felt himself turning red. "Alright, you two can get to shopping. Just check in before you leave. Emily, let me know if you need the stockroom key again."
"Okay, Mom," Emily said. She and Doug, as usual, headed toward the produce section. "Mom told me about your special groceries last week," she said with a smirk. "Were they good?"
Doug shook his head. "No," he said with a definite air of resentment. It was mostly her fault.
"No, what?" Emily prompted with a smile. She loved this.
Doug stared at her for a second, confused. Then he understood. "No, ma'am," he mumbled gruffly. She didn't deserve the full treatment.
Emily, however, believed that she did. She grabbed his arm. "Hey. You be respectful to me, young man. I'm just dying to get more practice in that back room. Now answer my question again."
Doug turned toward his pretty, young, and tormenting babysitter. He was embarrassed to have to obey her every whim, but he was trapped and he knew it. "No, ma'am, I didn't enjoy my food this week." He paused, then decided to confront her. "Why'd you do that to me, anyway?"
She snorted. "You shouldn't question me. I'm the babysitter, and that's my job. Sometimes babies need spankings."
"I'm not a baby," he objected, though he could have guessed her response even before she said it.
"Oh, no," she replied sarcastically. "You just wet your pants, wear diapers, eat baby food, and have a babysitter. But you're not a baby. What would *you* call yourself?"
Doug shook his head, and turned to continue shopping. He couldn't explain his situation rationally. He didn't know what he'd call it, anyway, other than absurd.
"That's what I thought," she said. A silent moment was followed by a chuckle. "Did you like the asparagus?"
Doug scowled at her. "No, ma'am."
"Then maybe you'll be a good boy and do what I tell you today." Her expression lightened. "And, hey, don't worry. It'll be fun!"
That was likely to be true, Doug admitted to himself. He started to get nervous as they approached the back hallway.
"Well," she said. "Let's go check you out!" She reached out a hand for Doug, who rather reluctantly took it and followed. He tried to take deep breaths and relax, but he was already extremely anxious, and could feel a raging erection form within his diaper. They went to the hallway, where Doug obediently pulled down his pants, as he had in previous weeks. Emily knelt before him to begin her "examination." She closed her eyes and started stroking the front of his diaper, this time dispensing with the charade of "checking" the back of his diaper. He could barely feel her touch through the thick disposable material, but what he could feel excited him even more. It built and built as she continued stroking him through the plastic and padding. He was breathing heavily and was almost near climax by the time Emily said,
"Oh, I definitely need to look inside today. Any objections?" She looked up at him with a coy, questioning glance.
"No, ma'am," Doug said quietly. He stared ahead, back toward where the hallway led to the rest of the store. Because they were beyond a turn in the hall, he couldn't see the store from where they were, but he wondered what would happen if somebody walked in on them. Employees had to come back here, Doug thought. But Emily did not seem to be concerned, and perhaps she knew the store better than he. Doug, at any rate, could hardly do anything about it. He, too, closed his eyes so he wouldn't think about it.
Emily carefully pulled one tape loose, then the other, then slowly lowered the front of Doug's diaper to reveal his hairless groin and genitalia. His erection, freed from its confines, sprung up energetically and surprised Emily.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, then started laughing. "Oh, so that's how you feel! I can't believe you put up such a fuss last week." She giggled. "But it actually doesn't matter, you know. I'm the babysitter, and we'll do whatever I want to do." Doug opened his eyes briefly and nearly fainted when he saw Emily actually lick her lips. "And what I want to do...is see what happens when I do this..."
With that she reached out with one hand and stroked Doug's penis. He closed his eyes again. It felt so good to be touched. He moaned quietly; it had been so long. Emily giggled softly as she heard it. "See? I told you it'd be fun. You just have to be a good little baby and do whatever I say..."
"I don't think that's such a good idea," a stern voice boomed from behind Emily. Doug snapped open his eyes to see an angry Mrs. Johnson towering over the kneeling Emily, who shrieked and lost her balance, falling backward onto the floor at her mother's feet.
"I...I...I...was just...um...well, I..." Emily stuttered.
Doug awkwardly covered himself with his diaper, retaping it as best he could over a rapidly disappearing erection. Oh, boy, he thought. This was going to be bad. What would happen to him now? How could he ever explain this? He took a deep breath. Two Sundays in a row...
"I can *see* what you were just doing, young lady. And last time I checked that was not on the list of babysitting duties!" Doug let out his breath slowly. Wait a minute, he thought. She seems to be pissed off at Emily. That was strange.
Emily, too, realized where the anger seemed to be directed, and her eyes widened in fear. "It wasn't me, Mom, I swear. He wanted to do it. He made me! He's a horrible little baby!" she said. Doug's heart sank at this: of course he would get blamed. It didn't matter who was at fault, because he would never be believed? He had absolutely no credibility.
"Really, Emily. Doug, whom you were babysitting, made you, his babysitter, do that? Emily, don't embarrass yourself. I heard the whole thing. I know *exactly* what you were doing."
As that information sank in, Doug saw Emily's face drain of all color. Fear grew in her eyes. It began to dawn on Doug that Emily's ploy to blame him had not worked, and that she was still on the hot seat. Could he be spared today? He wanted to clarify this, to ask whether he was in trouble, too, but one look at Mrs. Johnson's fearsome expression convinced him to lie low. She was fuming, her eyes ablaze.
"Let me tell you something, young lady. Being in charge of a baby, even *this* kind of baby, is a huge responsibility. Because in this relationship his judgment counts for nothing, and yours counts for everything. You have think for both of you, and he is forced to trust that you'll do what's right. Sometimes that might mean a spanking for him. But it *never* means sex with him, do you understand? Never. Emily Johnson, breaking a child's trust is the worst thing you could ever possibly do. And by taking advantage of his helplessness, that's exactly what you have done."
Mrs. Johnson was pacing now, obviously working herself up into a frightful rage. Emily was watching, and was clearly scared to death. "I'm sorry, Mommy," she said in a small voice that struck Doug as being very different from her normal tone. Now she sounded like a child.
"Well, that's great, Emily. That helps him a lot now," Mrs. Johnson said sarcastically. "I was trying to use Doug last week in a way that would benefit Doug and be fun for us as well. But that form of teaching doesn't seem to sink in very well for you, does it? I guess you're not mature enough to appreciate it, are you?" She stopped pacing and stared at Emily.
"No, ma'am," Emily said quietly. She'd already guessed how this would end, having experienced this type of situation many times throughout her childhood. Doug, however, had no idea where this was headed. He did recognize Emily's attempt to express regret and obedience in the face of a mother's wrath, since he tried that same tact with Mrs. Warren. He watched the proceedings nervously, still unsure of his own fate.
"I guess we'll have to go back to our old way of teaching you, won't we? It sure worked for all those years. I don't know why I ever abandoned it. I don't care if your dates *knew* that's why you had to be home on time; it was still damned effective. It's the only thing that ever worked for you, isn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am." Emily hung her head. Doug's curiosity grew. Could they be talking about what he thought they were talking about?
He'd wondered about this mother-daughter relationship before. Some of their comments seemed to have suggested Emily having been spanked in the past, but he'd assumed it had been ancient history, the normal and uncommon early childhood punishment. This exchange implied more, much more, as if spanking were a regular part of Emily's teenage years as well. No wonder Emily was so interested in it today.
But he'd have time to think about that later. Right now, Mrs. Johnson was pulling out her keys. She found the one she was looking for, and crisply opened the stockroom door behind them. With a backward glance, she said, "Come on, you two."
Doug's heart pounded. Both of them? Was he, despite his clear innocence, going to receive a spanking today as well? He watched Emily get up and trudge into the darkness of the room beyond. Doug followed her, shuffling towards the door, his pants still down around his ankles. He dared not pull them up until he was told.
But Mrs. Johnson stopped him before he went in. "You can pull up your pants, Doug. You're just a victim today, not a criminal, so you won't be punished. But I would like you to see that even big kids get spanked if they need it, so I want you to watch."
Something small changed inside Doug at that moment. Up until now, everything he had experienced had been directed, somewhat maliciously, at him. If there was a dispute, he was wrong. If anyone was angry, it was at him. It had seemed that the whole world existed simply to humiliate and punish him. He had been alone. And up until three minutes ago, today seemed to continue in that mold, placing him in a no-win situation where anything he did was punishable.
But now he felt a little like he thought Moses must have as that ocean split in half to let him through. He was saved. Through an act of an all- powerful deity (in this case, Mrs. Johnson) his fate had been reversed today, and he didn't know how to feel. Two feelings, though, prevailed over others. One was that he was neither the least fortunate human on the planet anymore nor alone in his misery. Here, right before his eyes, was another near-adult being treated like a child. His spirits were boosted by the company, and this heartening realization added to his elation at having avoided a spanking, so that he found himself nearly gleeful as he pulled up and rebuckled his pants over his diaper.
But simultaneously, his heart went out to Emily, for he knew the fear and unhappiness that she was feeling at this moment. As much as he resented her abuse of him, he wouldn't wish his experiences on anyone. He would even have tried to help her, but he knew that he was powerless to do so. Pleading for mercy for Emily would probably lead to a spanking for him as well, and that wouldn't make anybody's day better.
Mrs. Johnson waited patiently for him to finish getting dressed, watching as he carefully adjusted his diaper so that it would be visible to other shoppers when they returned to the store. She followed him into the stockroom, flipping on the lights and letting the door close behind her.
She strode purposefully to the chair by the wall, the same chair that Emily had sat in one week ago, and pulled it out from the wall before stiffly seating herself in it. Emily lingered several feet away, eyes downcast, sniffling quietly. Doug stared at her, noticing that she, like him, wore jeans, and wondering if, like him, she would have to pull them down. Against his will, an erection began forming at this thought.
"Let's go, young lady. You should know the drill," Mrs. Johnson said sharply to her daughter. "Get those jeans down."
Doug stood transfixed at the image of his tormentor unbuttoning and lowering her pants to her ankles. She turned away from him, and an occasional shy glance toward Doug indicated her embarrassment about this situation. Doug saw her adjust her pink flowered underpants self- consciously.
Mrs. Johnson saw this, too. "Being embarrassed should be the least of your worries, little girl. He's just a baby, remember? He doesn't care how you look. And anyway, as interested as you were in seeing him, don't you think he's earned reciprocity? Pull those underpants down immediately."
"But Mom..." Emily whined.
"But, nothing!" Mrs. Johnson exclaimed, rising in a surprisingly fluid motion, reaching over and grabbing Emily's elbow, swinging her around and swatting her forcefully on her bottom through her panties. "Don't try any backtalk today, little girl. I'm not in the mood."
"Yes, ma'am," Emily said, her voice trembling from embarrassment, pain, and probably some angry frustration. She was too old to be treated like this. After another shy glance toward Doug she slipped her fingers inside her waistband and eased her panties down her legs. Doug again stared, and he couldn't help but admire her athletic buttocks and legs. It was a great view of what was soon to be a very red and sore rear end. Emily stood awkwardly, no doubt feeling Doug's eyes sweeping her body.
"Come on over," Mrs. Johnson told her, and Emily, after only a brief pause, slowly shuffled to just outside of an arm's length of her mother, naturally wary of coming any closer. But Mrs. Johnson's eyes narrowed at her, and Emily forced her legs to edge forward just a bit...
An arm shot up, grabbing one of Emily's wrists and pulling her forcefully over Mrs. Johnson's lap. Emily screamed and flailed but could do nothing to prevent herself from landing smack dab across her mothers thighs, right where Mrs. Johnson wanted her. ("Told you it worked," Mrs. Johnson commented wryly.)
And true to form, Mrs. Johnson next sharply demanded, "Do you know why you need this spanking, little girl?" Her right hand was poised above Emily's vulnerable and tender bottom.
"Yes, ma'am," Emily called out in a trembling voice.
"...Because I was bad. I was playing with the baby's little thing, and that's wrong."
"You'd better believe it. And this ought to show you just how wrong it was." And Mrs. Johnson let her hand drop, releasing a mighty blow to Emily's bottom. Doug flinched out of habit, and Emily cried out. Doug could see the fear on her face as she awaited the next spank. It came several second later, and the others were also well spaced out, in order to let the sting of each sink in before the next, Doug assumed. He watched grimly as the tempo of the paddling increased. Unconsciously his hands found his own (well-padded) bottom and rubbed it repeatedly. Relief thaqt it wasn't him again flooded through him, as well as some inexplicable guilt (it certainly wasn't his fault) and more understandable pity. This wasn't as difficult as having a spanking himself, but watching wasn't turning out to be any fun either.
As he watched, he could tell as Emily entered all the stages he had experienced the week before: first simple crying, then screaming, then wailing, and finally a hopeless, defeated whimper of exhaustion that convinced Mrs. Johnson to ease and finally to stop the furious onslaught. Emily, like Doug before her, was dumped on the floor and spent a moment crying before she became alert enough to pull up her panties and jeans. (Unlike Doug, Emily had not had an accident during her spanking, despite what had to have been an equally traumatic experience. Doug wouldn't think about this until several months later.) Mrs. Johnson stood and brushed herself off, replaced her chair by the wall, and approached Doug.
He was understandably somewhat scared of her right now, despite her earlier reassurances, and couldn't help backing away from her, but Mrs. Johnson knelt down and beckoned him forward, as with a shy child. Doug was surprised to see her face filled with tenderness.
"By the way, did something like what happened today out in the hall also happen last week?" she asked him gently.
Doug stared at the floor and nodded silently.
"And that's what you were trying to tell me last week?"
He stared at Emily, standing now and rubbing the seat of her pants and still sniffling. "Yes, ma'am," he said quietly.
"Well, I'm sorry I didn't listen," Mrs. Johnson replied sincerely. "I don't think it will happen again."
Doug nodded silently at this promise, inferring from the way it was said that Emily would no longer be his babysitter. This was comforting in a way, but strangely, Doug wasn't entirely pleased by this.
And indeed, the homely girl was called to finish escorting him around the store. As Doug retrieved his cart, he caught sight of Mrs. Johnson leading Emily out of the store, and he correctly concluded that that was the last he'd see of Emily, at least in the foreseeable future. The grocery store would become a less threatening, but also, he had to admit, a less exciting place to shop from now on.
That night Doug had trouble sleeping. The day's events seemed to replay themselves continuously in his head. The whole experience had left him feeling disturbed and unhappy, but it took him a lot of thinking to figure out why. He knew it had to do with the whole Johnson attitude about spankings and the way Mrs. Johnson treated her daughter. Considering how many times Emily must have been beaten by her mother as she grew up, Doug suspected that he couldn't really comprehend the many ways she'd been affected by such continuous violence. Perhaps it was only natural that Emily should at times obsess about spankings. He decided he wouldn't try to judge her, as he'd been tempted to do before. But there were still so many unanswered questions.
For instance, why was she turned on by it? How had she sexualized her painful experiences. At times, such as last week, she seemed downright sadistic. Is that what excessive spanking does to a kid? Doug wondered. He could easily imagine Mrs. Johnson as being abusive, despite her facade of "caring" a child's well-being. Was this an example of passing down abusive behavior from one generation to the next? How would Emily treat her children?
And how would she have treated him? What had she been looking for with him? A playmate for S and M games? A baby to abuse? Someone with whom to share the pain of her upbringing? They had already shared many strange experiences; what might they have shared if things had happened differently? It was sad, really: it had only been today that Doug had realized what similar situations they were in, and suddenly, before he could explore the possiblities or answer any of the questions, Emily was snatched away. He didn't know where she lived or went to school, how old she was, or how she felt about any of this, including him. She didn't know anything about him, either. Their only link was through Mrs. Johnson, who obviously wasn't going to help get them together.
So Doug doubted that he'd ever find answers to his questions, or even see Emily again. What a rare opportunity she had been. How sad to have lost her.
Doug's next week, simply put, was hell. For five days he received an unforgettable series of spankings that left him sore for nearly two weeks afterward. And things didn't really get better after that. Mrs. Warren's chastity device, unfortunately, turned out to be everything she'd said it was, and more. Early and exhaustive experimentation early on proved it to be inescapable. The straps prevented the motion necessary to slip it off in any direction. He was definitely stuck in it for the duration.
The sheath itself wasn't really uncomfortable, as long as Doug's penis was flaccid. It fit well, and there was very little chaffing. But he soon grew to hate the straps that ran around each of his thighs and attached to the sheath. With every step, they tugged the sheath from side to side, gently massaging Doug's penis against the smooth gel of the sheath. In his deprived, excitable state (which only worsened, of course, as time went on), it led quickly and efficiently to the beginnings of an erection, which was just as quickly and efficiently terminated by what felt like a thousand needles digging into his penis. He had no idea how it worked, what was under the gel, or why it never seemed to draw blood. But it was undeniably present, and excruciatingly painful. It happened nearly every time he walked, and when the pain hit, he'd literally double over and have to fight a yelp of distress. After the better part of a minute, the venous congestion would disperse, and the pain would abate; he would straighten up and walk for another few steps until it happened again.
And so, yes, he began to hate and fear these mini-erections, despite his knowledge that it was not erections per se that were painful, that he was only being made to feel this way by Mrs. Warren. But what could he do? With every step he took, the association of sexual stimulation and intense pain was etched more and more clearly into his consciousness. And he indeed found himself swearing to himself that he'd never have another erection again, if only the pain would end. He made such oaths despite the fact that he knew he wouldn't be able to follow up on them later. He knew his resolve wasn't that strong, that he'd eventually have to give in to his desires and masturbate again.
But those straps hurt him.
In addition to the torment caused by the chastity device, he also had to deal with the ongoing humiliation of having to drink from a baby bottle, even at work. He was forced to bring a bottle from home, hide it under his desk, and surreptitiously suck on it when he was thirsty or at lunch. He constantly lived in fear of being discovered by coworkers, or worse, his boss, the lab's director. A week into this punishment, he was surprised to notice that the mug he kept at his desk had disappeared at some point. He didn't know who had taken it, or when it had been taken, but he had to assume that Mrs. Warren, or her informant, was responsible. He didn't say a word about it, of course; what could he say?
He had to use bottles at home as well, and since he found it impossible to drink anything quickly out of it, he usually ended up sucking on a bottle more or less constantly when he was at home just to satisfy his thirst. And since he had to wear one of his bibs whenever he ate or drank anything, Doug found himself wearing a bib, and drinking from his bottle, nearly the entire time he was at home.
These little humiliations added up. Doug never felt more degraded than when he finished a bottle, removed his bib, changed his wet or messy diaper, and put on his pink sleeper for bed. He practiced this sequence nightly, however, without cutting corners. He knew from experience what happened when he tried to break rules.
As Doug tried to deal with all of this, the last thing he thought of was his continence (or lack thereof), which was, of course, the whole point. In fact, in the midst of all these other hassles, he was beginning to forget to be upset about having to wear diapers. They were edging their way into his concept of what was "normal" for him these days; if he just had to wear his diapers, and didn't have to worry about all the other nonsense, he wouldn't have complained at all.
It was near the end of his third month in diapers that he woke up for the first time in a wet diaper. The first time, he wasn't really sure if he'd done it in his sleep or if he'd awakened and wet it semi-consciously, but as time went on and he woke up wet more and more often, he began to suspect the truth. It was sign of how much his perspective had changed that he didn't regard this development with alarm. But Doug was necessarily becoming very good at rationalization, and he reasoned that this was simply a temporary condition brought on by the constant usage of diapers during the daytime, and would surely resolve, along with everything else, as soon as he resumed his normal life in another couple of months. And for now, what was the harm? Like his other unconscious diaper-usage, it actually made things more convenient, since he didn't have to wake up to take care of things in the middle of the night. His diaper and stuffer were certainly thick enough to handle the overnight load, and so Doug decided that the end result would simply be a better night of sleep.
Three weeks into Doug's enforced chastity punishment, he decided to try to make a bargain with Mrs. Warren. After spending several days mustering the necessary courage, Doug asked her if she might agree to take the thigh straps off if he wore the rest of the device an extra two weeks. Mrs. Warren was delighted by this offer, seeing it as "progress" by Doug, and agreed immediately, since she didn't currently have another client who would be needing the device before Doug would be done with it. For Doug it was a victory of sorts. Since he was already swearing not to have an orgasm afterward, lengthening the punishment didn't deprive him of anything, and he rid himself of the most heinous part of the punishment. And he was kind of happy: for the first time since he could remember, he had exerted a little control over his strange life.
At the end of the two months, in February, the sheath came off completely, and Doug was happy to return to his "normal" life. He was disappointed when Mrs. Warren said he still had to use the bib and the bottles, but he wasn't going to argue. He forced himself to be grateful for what he could get; the bibs and bottles were starting to seem less horrible now, anyway. They certainly weren't worth fighting over.
By the time his punishment was over, Doug ended up feeling ready to try p to keep his promise not to masturbate. When he had first been locked into it, he had focused on more rebellion, and spent many hours trying to dream up new plans for clandestine masturbation. He had thought of something that would probably work; it revolved around masturbating out the back door of his apartment at night in the grass, a plan that would have seemed utterly bizarre and obscene to him several months earlier. But he was now in desperate straits, and he'd thought he wouldn't be able to wait until he got out to try it.
As time wore on, however, and he began, against his will, to resent his erections, he'd slowly decided to shift his post-punishment strategy to one of lying low. After all, he'd lasted two months without an orgasm; surely he should just wait two more and be done with this whole ordeal. The two remaining months would pass much faster if he were not being actively punished for something; he ought to be good, get out, and then recover his life. Abstinence seemed a small price to pay to expedite his freedom, even in the face of a diaper fetish, which, although less obvious these days, must still be hiding there underneath it all. It was indeed the ultimate sacrifice, but it was still worth it if it helped him bear his ICP better.
Doug realized that he was two-thirds of the way through his ICP, and he started thinking more and more about the future, specifically what would happen after this diaper torture was over. His interview for the graduate program had, as expected, gone well, and his boss, the lab director, had essentially assured him that the rest of the application process was a formality, and that for all intents and purposes he could plan on entering the program in August. Doug was, of course, overjoyed at this, for he'd structured this entire year around this very opportunity. It appeared that his work had paid off, and that despite the strange twist his life had briefly taken, his overall goals were still in sight, and if he could just live through the last two months of this thing, his dream life was waiting for him. He looked forward to having to decide between the equally enticing prospects of a high-salaried private sector position and a juicy teaching job at a top university somewhere. Either way, it looked like his future would be well-paved.