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The faint scent of pee drifts through the waiting room air. I think it’s coming from the blue-hair sitting directly across from me. She’s gone to the bathroom three times in the twenty minutes I’ve been sitting here. Every time she’s bolted out of her chair like there’s a tack in it, clutching her purse to her chest.
Or it could be the guy in Carhartt cutoffs and a Porter Concrete shirt. He's wincing and shifting a lot. The bulge in his crotch looks suspicious. But it could just be the way his shorts are bunched up...
I lean forward a bit to get a closer look.
He clears his throat and glares at me.
I lean back in my chair and pretend to be engrossed in the People magazine draped across my lap. The last thing I need is some guy thinking I’m eyeing his junk. Explaining the truth probably wouldn’t help much, either.
I turn to Becca. She’s sitting with her hands folded in her lap, legs crossed. She’s not looking at her phone or a magazine or anything else.
“Can you believe this?” I say, showing her a photo of Brad Pitt and Jennifer Anniston frolicking on some tropical beach. “This thing’s an antique. Could probably sell it down at the flea market as a collectible.”
I’m careful not to lift the magazine too high, as I still need it for cover. The jeans underneath bulge outwards. Not like Carhartt guy’s shorts, where it could just be the way they fold and wrinkle. And not like I’m some 80s rockstar packing a massive cock, either. If anything it’s the opposite--my manhood is entirely buried under a dome of soft padding.
Becca counters my grin with a frown. “Have you looked at the literature over there?”
Should've kept my mouth shut.
She nods at the plastic rack next to the receptionist’s desk. It’s the second time she’s mentioned it. I pretended I didn’t hear her the first time, when we walked past the rack. I really don’t want a stack of incriminating evidence in my lap. I mean sure, it’s a urologist’s office, but I’d prefer people think I’m here for my prostate or something. Hell, even ED might be better than the truth.
She stares at me like she’s waiting for me to come up to the white board and solve an equation.
I drop the magazine onto the table between us. Aside from some muted typing sounds in the receptionist’s alcove the room is silent.
I stand up carefully, my legs as far apart as I can reasonably manage. The more space in my jeans, the less room there is for things to rub and fold and collide and crinkle. Or at least that’s my theory. It’s part one of my two-part plan for stealthiness.
Part two involves scuffling my way across the room like an old geezer, dragging my sneakers across the mustard-colored carpet. It was a little trick I read about in a forum. It looks stupid, but it masks the worst of the rustling sound. Or maybe it just adds to it. I can’t really tell. But it feels like I’m doing something.
I feel better imagining that half the people here are wearing diapers too, and I haven’t heard them crinkling like a bag of last year’s Christmas wrapping paper. Then again, they probably wear those terrible cloth-backed medical things--the kind with “discreet” and “undergarment” all over the package. The kind that bend over backwards to convince you they aren’t actually diapers.
The phonebook-sized monstrosity I’m wearing harbors no such delusions. It knows what it is. And so do I. At least it’s plain white--that was the one saving grace of this whole thing. I can only imagine what Becca would have said if she’d found a bag of diapers with cartoon dinosaurs or something on them instead. Or the ones with teddy bears I bought last month. We might be talking to a divorce attorney today instead of a doctor.
I quickly snag a few brochures off the rack and scuttle my way back to the chair. Once I’m comfortably seated on my padded throne, People magazine back in place, I scan the room to see if anyone noticed. My heart beats far faster than it should. I’m not sure what I’ll do if anyone makes knowing eye contact with me. Luckily, blue-hair and Carhartt dude seem engrossed in their own little worlds.
Becca plucks one of the brochures off my lap. “Your body after pregnancy?”
“Must’ve picked it up by accident.”
“Why aren’t taking this seriously?” she says in her best disappointed voice. She’d used that voice a lot, lately.
I rapidly flip through the rest of the brochures: kidney stones, menopause, bladder cancer.
I hold up the last brochure like it’s a carnival prize. It has a black and white photo of an old couple holding hands on the beach, smiling. ‘Managing Incontinence’ it shouts in comic sans.
Becca looks at me and shakes her head.
“I am taking this seriously,” I tell her. I lean closer. “I just don’t want the whole friggin’ world to know about it too.”
Her eyes search mine for a full minute and a half.
“What?” I finally ask.
“Why not?”
“Why not what?”
“Remember last year, when you broke your ankle skiing?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Were you embarrassed then?”
“No.”
“Or when you had strep three years ago? You begged me to drive you to the hospital and whined to everyone in the waiting room about how miserable you were.”
An all too familiar knot twists in my stomach. “This is just...different.”
“I know this is uncomfortable for you. Speaking of which…” she raises an eyebrow.
“What?”
She looks meaningfully at the old denim backpack in front of her chair. I’d never seen the stupid thing before today, probably because it’s too small to hold much of anything. But it is large enough to carry one item, I’d learned.
“Oh, no.” I glance around the room again to see if anyone was paying attention. I don’t know why she had to keep talking about this. We’d discussed the topic in excruciating detail this past week. How often did I wet? Was it better or worse at night? Did I do --ahem--anything else in my diapers?
I lied through all of them. Except the last one--messing wasn’t my thing. Never had been. Sure, I’d thought about it. I think we all do at some point. But the smell--and the thought of it mushed against my skin--was just too much.
“Are you wet?” she asks.
I feel a flush of heat in my cheeks. “No.”
She looks down at her phone. “It’s been at least two hours since we left home.”
“So wha--” I stop myself dead. Right. Two hours since I’d changed into this diaper. In my off-the-cuff brilliance, I’d told her that I was frequently wetting a little. Plus some random, more severe accidents. It was a stupid explanation for a bunch of reasons, not least of which it locked me into this situation. It beat telling her the truth, of course, but now if I didn’t wet every little bit she’d wonder what was up.
“Just a little,” I whisper.
Her expression softens. She slides the bag toward me with one foot.
I pick it up and eye the bathroom door. The tapes on these premium diapers are the size of an envelope and as sticky as Loctite. Pulling them off will sound like someone shooting off a pack of cherry bombs.
She just keeps staring.
I stand up and head towards the bathroom door to escape that gaze as much as anything.
“Grant Andresen?”
I stop halfway between my chair and the bathroom, frozen in place like I’m caught in the prison yard spotlight.
The nurse smiles at me from the hallway. She’s clutching a clipboard I’m sure is packed with embarrassing details about my little problem.
Becca hops up. “That’s us.” She gives my butt a gentle pat as she walks past.
Carhartt dude definitely smirks at me this time.
I hope the bastard’s prostate is the size of an overripe cantaloupe.
I follow Becca and the nurse down the hallway, holding back as far as I can and scuffing my feet the whole way. How anybody gets off on wearing these out in public I’ll never know. Every step feels like I’m waving a neon sign that says “hey, look at me and my big fat diaper.”
We step into the exam room and the nurse wheels over a stand with a laptop on it.
“You don’t have to stay here,” I tell Becca. I’ve told her that five times, at least, but she insists. She doesn’t say it, but she thinks I won’t listen to whatever the doctor says. And she’s right, because I’m not actually incontinent. This is a bit of theater to get her off my case. Answer some questions, discuss some options, and go home. In a few days, my little issue will magically clear up and that will be that. Diapers can go back into the closet until her next business trip.
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “It’s okay, I want to be here.”
“OK, Mr. Andresen. I’m going to step out of the room for a few minutes,” the nurse says. “There’s a gown on the exam table. Please strip down to your underwear.”
“I think there’s been a mixup.” I laugh nervously. “I’m just here for an initial consult.”
The corners of her mouth draw down slightly and she looks at her laptop again. “It says here that you’ve been experiencing bladder incontinence. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Both daytime and nighttime accidents?”
“Yes,” I croak out.
She gives me the self-satisfied smile of someone who does all of their tinkles in the potty. “Well then. Dr. Siegler will want to examine you. Standard procedure.” She closes the door behind herself.
I stare at the thin, baby blue gown sitting on the table.
“Do you want to change your diaper before the doctor gets here? I can ask them to wait,” Becca says.
“Why would I want to make any more of a production of this than I have to? It’s bad enough the doctor is going to see me sitting in a diaper.”
“I just thought you might want to be dry when you get examined,” she says.
“Oh, right.” Oh, shit! I’m supposed to be in a wet diaper. Becca would notice. She noticed everything. If I was sitting there in a dry, pristine diaper she would want to know why: why it was dry, why I lied in the waiting room, and so on. Why why why.
The problem is, I have a shy bladder. That went double when I was wearing a diaper. I’d spent the last seven years sneaking a diaper session here and there, when Becca was out of town or had a girl’s night out. It didn’t leave many opportunities to practice actually using a diaper. It also didn’t help that I had a raging hard on most of the time when I was wearing one.
After an embarrassing event in a crowded movie theater restroom, I read up on a little technique for shy bladders. Push almost all of the air out of your lungs and then hold your breath. Thirty seconds or so later and the floodgates will open. A little fight-or-flight response that evolution probably didn’t intend for public diaper wetting, but hey, I’ll use what I can.
But Becca will notice if I’m standing here, red in the face.
“Can I have a little privacy to change?” I ask.
Becca sighs. “Grant…”
“What?” I glance up at the clock ticking away on the wall.
“This all started because you weren’t sharing things with me. I just think--”
“So what, now you’re going to follow me into the bathroom? Make sure I brush my teeth? Wipe my butt?”
She frowns. “Have you been having those kinds of accidents too? You know...number two?”
“Jesus. I told you no. I was just making a point.”
I hear footsteps in the hallway and I hold my breath.
They walk on past.
“I just want you to…” she shakes her head.
I don’t have time to ask her to continue that thought. I make a show of walking over to the counter and looking at the shelves above it. Really, I just need a little space between us.
I push the air out of my lungs.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I get up on my tiptoes to look at some stuff on the shelves. It occurs to me that pretending to look at my phone would have been a better option. Too late now. My lungs are starting to burn as my body tells me to dump the C02.
“Grant?”
Spots flit back and forth in my vision, but I keep holding it. I hope it comes soon or I might black out.
Then it happens--that warm, naughty trickle. More than a trickle, really. Two coffees worth, at least. The warm stream hits the front of the diaper and flows back and over my dick, then my balls, and finally into the seat of the diaper.
“Are you ok?” Becca is standing next to me now. She squeezes my arm.
I realize I have a stupid half-grin on my face and quickly clear it. “Yeah, just looking at what they have for, you know, diapers or whatever. In case the news today isn’t good.”
It was half a lie. I had a shameful, lifelong habit of looking at whatever stack of diapers they had on the shelves at the doctor’s office between the chux and bandages. Usually something ridiculously thin. Diapers had been a secret part of my life for so long--the stuff of late night internet sessions and the occasional indulgent weekend--that seeing them in the wild was a trip, like a lion walking down Main Street.
“Okay,” she says. She looks concerned.
I feel like a piece of shit for the hundredth time since she confronted me with the bag of diapers. She’s really worried about me and I just keep piling lie on lie. But if I can make it through just a few more, then we could put this behind us.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just not excited about the doctor seeing me in--”
There’s a knock on the door.
If I hadn’t just emptied my bladder I think I would have wet myself.
The door swings open and in walks Dr. Siegler. Call it misogyny. Call it whatever you want. I just assumed the doctor would be a balding old guy in horn-rimmed glasses. He’d be world-weary. Over it. He’d have seen it all before--including grown men in diapers.
This...this was more difficult. Prime universe Dr. Siegler is a woman. She looks like she can’t be more than a few years out of med school--tall, cute, and definitely not balding. She stands in the doorway, no doubt wondering why I’m examining a jar of cotton balls.
“I’m sorry. Debbie was supposed to give you a gown,” she says.
Yes, let her think it’s Debbie’s fault.
“She did,” Becca says.
Ugh. It was like she was trying to make all of this as difficult as possible.
Becca looks at me. “Grant just…”
“I, uh...I’m just a bit embarrassed Dr. Siegler,” I say.
“That’s not necessary.” Dr. Siegler smiles. “I’ve seen it all before. And you can call me Andrea.”
I sincerely doubted she’d encountered my exact situation before, but if I kept myself together she wouldn’t need to know that.
“I have some questions about these notes.” She looks down at the tablet in her hand and I see the hint of a frown. “Why don’t you change into the gown while I review them again.”
She doesn’t give me time to answer, but instead pulls a curtain along a track in the ceiling, closing off the exam table from the rest of the room. Becca, thank god, is on the outside. The last thing I need is to give her a little stripshow.
I have some questions about this file. That’s disconcerting. I hadn’t expected to get caught--no one does, I guess--so my explanation to Becca probably didn’t jive too well with real-world incontinence. I didn’t worry about it in the moment--it was all about steering the conversation away from the truth--but she obviously paid very close attention.
Now I’m standing in nothing but a diaper with a soggy, yellow splotch adorning the front. The diaper is still warm, which is a contrast with the cool air and downright chilly floor. Goosebumps break out across my arms.
I quickly slide the gown on and do my best to lace it up. As expected, my butt hangs out the back. What I didn’t expect was that it would look like I have a basketball tucked down the front. The gown hangs off the bulging diaper like a curtain.
My heart’s racing. I picture both women standing on the other side of the curtain, arms crossed, waiting for me to emerge.
I peek around the curtain. Becca’s eyes glance down at my bulbous midsection and then quickly back up. She gives me a smile I’m sure is supposed to be comforting, but comes across as pitying.
“Okay, I’m ready,” I say to the doctor.
She pulls back the curtain. I count to five in my head, giving her time to process the sight of me, then turn around.
Doctor Siegler’s eyes dart to my midsection, but they linger longer than Becca’s. “Please have a seat and we’ll get started,” she says.
I lower myself onto the exam table, the diaper crackling almost as much as the paper covering.
Doctor Siegler sits on a stool and wheels herself closer, her knees almost touching mine.
My heart thuds faster in my chest.
“So according to the notes you provided--”
“My wife provided,” I interject.
“Excuse me?” she says.
“My wife called.” Now that I say it out loud, it sounds ridiculous. Like I’m a child. “I’m not sure exactly what she told you.”
She looks down at her tablet. “Ah yes, it says here that your wife scheduled the appointment. I understand you were resistant to the idea?”
“Well, I--”
“He was,” Becca cut me off. “But I felt it was important.”
The doctor’s eyes travel back and forth between us, then she shrugs. “I understand incontinence is a challenging topic for many. There’s a social stigma attached. But you need to understand that it’s nothing to be ashamed about--you can’t control it, after all.” Her smile is warm and understanding.
I sink a bit deeper into the exam table. “You’re right.”
“So let's talk about these symptoms. The notes say that you are leaking urine regularly throughout the day, but that you also sometimes experience stress incontinence?”
I nod. “Yeah, that sounds right. Things at work have been tough lately. I just got a new boss and--”
“Oh, no. Stress incontinence means you leak when you cough, or laugh, or engage in exercise.”
“OK.”
Her brow furrows. “So you’ve been experiencing stress incontinence?”
I nod, hoping that’s the right answer.
She taps some notes on her tablet. I try to see them, but I can’t make anything out.
“Is that...okay?” I ask.
She looks up and opens her mouth, pauses, then continues. “It’s not common in men your age. We most often see it after a man has had prostate surgery, or when there is some other underlying health issue.”
“I’m pretty healthy. I don’t floss as much as I’m supposed to, but otherwise…” I chuckle.
“Mmmmmhhhmmm.” She’s still staring at those notes.
“When did you first begin to experience incontinence?” she asks. “And did it begin with the overflow or stress incontinence?”
About a week ago, when Becca caught me red-handed. “It’s been a couple months now.”
“If I’d known, I would have brought him in sooner,” Becca says. “But he kept it secret.” I can hear the disapproval in her voice--like I’m some delinquent child who found an injured barn cat and decided to keep it as a secret closet pet.
“Mmmhmmm. And how have you been managing it?” the doctor asks.
She’s trying to be polite about the massive, plastic-backed elephant in the room, but in doing so is going to make me say the ‘D’ word out loud. “I’ve been wearing...diapers.”
She cocks her head to the side a little. “Diapers?”
I feel a flush of heat up my neck. I nod, afraid that if I say anything it will just come out as a squeak or a croak or some other unmanly sound.
“Most of my patients prefer to call them ‘briefs’ or ‘protection.’”
“Oh. Well, diapers are what they are, I guess. So…”
“If you feel more comfortable with ‘diaper,’ then that’s what you should call them.” She smiles at me again.
I wish we were here to deal with something easy, like a brain-eating amoeba.
“Now I’d like you to undo the laces on the back of the gown and recline on the table,” she says.
I reach back for the laces. The first knot comes apart easily, but my fingers are shaking and the second one is difficult. I twist and fumble awkwardly as the two women watch and wait.
“Here, let me help,” Becca says.
I immediately drop my hands and my eyes. Her soft fingers graze my back and a moment later the gown loosens.
“Thanks,” I mumble. I lie back on the cool table and stare at the tiled ceiling. I shift a little and get a whiff of urine--can’t blame that one on blue-hair, can we?
Doctor Siegler looms above me. “I’m going to move your gown aside and touch your abdomen. Is that okay?”
I nod, the paper covering crackling beneath me.
She gently moves aside the thin material and I’m fully exposed from the chest down. I don’t look at her, just at the ceiling. Her hands begin poking and prodding.
“Let me know if anything hurts,” she says.
“Okay.”
“I’m looking for any masses that could be impinging on the bladder,” she says. She’s turned to Becca.
I should be glad she’s ignoring me--the last thing I want right now is a conversation--but it feels condescending.
“Like cancer or…?” Becca asks.
“That’s a possibility, but I wouldn’t want to jump to conclusions. Even if there is a mass, it wouldn’t mean it’s cancerous.”
Her hands trace lower, poking and prodding. They’re dangerously close to the top of my diaper. Then she stops.
“Okay, you can sit up now, Grant. The good news is, I don’t feel anything abnormal.”
I sit up, shifting the gown back into place. Good thing you can’t feel fetishes with a medical exam.
“I’m happy to see you’re taking steps to manage your incontinence responsibly. You have no idea how many patients refuse to wear any kind of protection. It can really have a profoundly negative impact on their lives and relationships.”
I nod. Yeah, responsible patient of the year, right here.
“Did you buy these briefs--I’m sorry, diapers--at a medical supply store?”
“I, uh--”
“He purchased them from an internet drug store. Right, Grant?”
“Yeah, an internet drug store.” Two of those three words were the truth, at least.
“I’m going to write you a prescription for a more discrete product. You can purchase these at CVS, Walgreens--pretty much any pharmacy. In person or online.”
“A prescription?” I ask. “But can’t anyone just, you know, buy them?”
She chuckles. “Yes, but if you want your insurance to cover the cost, you’ll need a prescription.”
Insurance cover the cost... “That’s great!”
Becca frowns. Doctor Siegler purses her lips, her pen frozen above the prescription pad.
Fuck. That was not a normal reaction. “I mean, we pay so much in premiums, right Beccs? It will just be nice to actually get something for it, you know.”
“That’s a great attitude, Mr. Andresen,” Dr. Siegler says. “I wish everyone looked at it like that.”
She hands me a slip of paper. The golden ticket. Our godawful insurance company would be paying for my diapers from now. Better yet, I had cover--a piece of paper saying I needed to wear diapers. This was amazing.
“This will help you manage the issue until we get some additional testing,” Dr. Siegler continues.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m going to schedule you for a CT scan. Next week, if possible.”
“I, I--”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, it’s not painful. They will give you contrast liquid and then put you through a machine. The liquid makes you feel warm all over, like you might have wet your pants, but it’s not that bad.”
“Do you think that’s necessary?” I ask.
“Of course it’s necessary!” Becca says. “What if there’s a tumor?”
“Well, it seemed like--”
“Do you want to be wearing diapers your whole life?” She throws her hands up in the air.
Yes.
“No. You’re right. Let’s schedule it,” I say.
“There is an alternative to diapers,” Doctor Siegler adds. “I typically don’t recommend them, but for some patients they are the best option.”
“What would that be?” Becca asks.
“In-dwelling catheter. Also called a Foley catheter. They are sometimes recommended for patients with overflow incontinence.”
“That’s okay. I don’t think we need to explore--”
“Could we get some more info about that?” Becca cuts me off.
I turn around to face her. She’s staring at Doctor Siegler, pointedly ignoring me.
“Absolutely. I can provide some information for you two to go over together. They do come with a risk of infection. And they aren’t appropriate for all types of incontinence.”
Becca nods. “Thank you.”
Doctor Siegler nods. “The front desk will reach out to you for scheduling. Also--”
“Which kinds aren’t they appropriate for?” I ask.
“Excuse me?”
“Which kinds of incontinence aren’t they appropriate for?”
“We typically don’t use them for…”
I zone out as she begins her explanation. Whatever she says, I can’t change my story at this point to match it. It’s flimsy and inconsistent enough as it is.
Becca is listening to every word as if it's the most fascinating thing she’s ever heard.
A future of expensive medical exams and catheters for my nonexistent incontinence is sickening. A cruel, ironic joke. There is one option--one out. The trump card that will take catheters off the table. But I’m not sure I can do it.
I look down at the slip of paper in my hand. A doctor telling me to wear diapers--telling me that my insurance should pay for it. I’ll never get another opportunity like this.
I take a deep breath, bend my knees slightly, and bear down. For a second, it seems like it’s going to be difficult, but then the two coffees help things along. I feel the mess come out of me and push against the seat of the diaper. There’s resistance, so I bear down harder and the mush spreads throughout the diaper. There’s a lot--more than I could have imagined--but at least it’s quiet.
Then it’s done. There’s no going back. I burned the bridge and took a dump on the ashes.
Becca and Dr. Siegler are still talking, unaware of the war crime occurring a few feet away. How do you interrupt someone to tell them you filled your pants?
In unison, both of their noses twitch.
Then it hits me. It smells bad. I smell bad. Awful, actually. Like a bag of trash left to bake in the summer sun. And with every passing second, it gets worse.
“Ummm…”
Becca turns to me. Her eyes go wide. “Grant…?”
“I’m sorry. I think I…”
“Oh,” Dr. Siegler says quietly. “That’s...not a problem. Let me get some wipes and a chux pad.”
Becca just stares at me, jaw slack. Her eyes dart from my face, down to the mess trapped around my waist, and then back again.
“I’ve put some supplies on the--”
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Doctor Siegler says.
I’m not talking to her.
“Thank you, doctor,” Becca says.
“You have the room as long as you need,” Dr. Siegler says. “See the front desk when you are done. This indicates a more significant issue might be at play, so I want to get that CT scan scheduled soon, okay?” She gives me one last pitying look, then lets herself out.
Becca and I stand a few feet apart, staring at each other. The stench has filled the room now. I want to get this thing off me, but I don’t want to do it with her here.
Tears brim in the corners of her eyes.
“Beccs, it’s okay. I’m okay.”
She just shakes her head, then stares at the floor.
“I…” the elaborate story I’m about to spin collapses in my mind. “I don’t need to wear diapers.”
She looks up at me.
“This whole thing...it’s...I’ve been lying to you. I’m not incontinent. I haven’t been having accidents. There’s no tumor or anything else. I just...like to wear diapers.”
I brace for the response. Becca isn’t a screamer. At least I don’t think so. But I have no idea how she’ll react. Storm out and leave me stranded here? Melt into a puddle of tears and confusion? Demand a divorce?
“I know,” she says quietly.
“What!?”
She dabs the tears away with the back of her hand. “You forgot to clear your browser a couple months ago and I found...a lot. Everything. At least I hope it’s everything.”
The room is spinning. I sit back on the exam table to steady myself and immediately regret it as the mush squelches up my crack.
“You...then why?” I throw my hands up in the air. “Why all of this?”
“I wanted to give you a chance to be honest with me. To tell me the truth. Nothing was working, so... here we are.”
“You aren’t mad? Or grossed out?”
She laughs.
“What?”
“I mean, you shit your pants at the doctor’s office instead of telling your wife about your fetish. That’s pretty gross.”
“Sorry.” It sounded lame, even to my ears, but it was sincere.
She shrugs. “It’s okay. I don’t mind the diapers. I think I can get used to them, anyway.”
“Really?”
“Really. Just no more secrets, okay?”
I nod.
She wraps her arms around me. She’s warm and soft and smells like lavender and vanilla. Far too good for me, standing half-naked in a loaded diaper. But she doesn’t let go--she just keeps holding me. So I hold her too.
She steps back. She has that look again--a bit stern, a bit condescending. “Now get yourself cleaned up before they call in the hazmat team, okay?”
There are a million things I want to tell her. A million things I want to share about the little world I’ve been hiding from her for years. But there’s no rush--she isn’t going anywhere.
No matter what your reason is for age regressing and/or wearing diapers. Enjoy being who you are and never let anyone make you feel inadiquate because of it.
It is NOT okay to bully others and especially not for their kinks, coping mechanisms or illnesses (physical/ mental)
Remember you have no idea why someone is wearing or regressing.
Your girlfriend pulls the top of the crib down, clicking into its lock.
“Now you stay here and take a nap while I do some chores. I’ll be back in later to check on you.” She smirks as she taps the side of the oversized crib.
You’re on your back, surrounded by the tall bars of a crib with its top fully enclosed, locking you in. Around you are a variety of stuffed animals and plush decorations. You’re wearing barely anything, just a small navy-blue t-shirt and tightly wrapped, thick plastic diaper covered in an array of colorful shapes and patterns. You squirm, kicking your legs against the wall of the crib. You try to shout, “I don’t want to be in here! I’m not a baby, I don’t want to wear diapers!”, but all that escapes is a muffled grunt. Inside your mouth is an oversized pacifier, strapped around your head preventing you from talking.
Grinning, your girlfriend coos, “Aw, its ok baby, Mommy will be back soon.”
It was the second day of you being in this situation. You had admitted your diaper fetish to your girlfriend and her response was more than you could have expected. She immediately assumed the role as your mommy and began transitioning you back to a toddler. Diapers, high chairs, breastfeeding, spankings and nap times were all now a normal part of your life.
The nursery door closes as your girlfriend leaves. Immediately you sit up, pressing your arms up against the top of the crib. The fixture moves slightly but seems stuck. You try again as tears began running down your eyes. You always had a diaper fetish and loved casually wearing them. You never expected your girlfriend to be accepting of it, let alone this. She had a nursery built into her basement, filled with diapers, oversized baby furniture and toys. She had coaxed you the night before into wearing a diaper, and you’d been stuck in them since.
You press your arms against the top of the crib again as a new feeling arises. A hot gurgling sound emerges from your stomach, signaling an impending disaster - you were going to poop. Panicking, you shake at the bars desperately looking around the warmly lit nursery. Looking back at you are the eyes of stuffed teddy bears, tigers, and turtles, almost smirking at your predicament.
Your stomach gurgles again, causing your gut to cramp. Cradling your belly, the pain forces you to bend forward onto your knees. Clinching your butt cheeks, the cramping subsides. You had to get of this crib quickly or you would be pooping your diaper like an actual toddler.
Looking up, your eyes catch sight of the lock for the crib. Astonished, you realize it isn’t completely closed. Smirking behind your spit covered pacifier, you wedge your finger into the contraption, unlocking it. Instantly you push the top of the crib open, standing up. You begin to lean over the waist high wall of the crib when another stomach cramp hits. It’s much more painful than last time and you involuntarily stand straight up, clenching again. Moaning into your gag, a loud fart erupts into your diaper, causing it to puff out. Your eyes are wide open, this wasn’t normal. Had your girlfriend given you laxatives? She’d already fed you several times, so it was possible. Furious, you relax as the cramping subsides.
You lift your leg over top of the crib, throwing yourself over and onto the floor. With a soft thump, you land on your bare feet, immediately sprinting for the door. Once you got out of the room, you would make a run for it. You’d have to ditch the diaper first - no, that would take too long, just run. This was your only chance to get back to your life and get away from your insane girlfriend.
You reach the door and begin to open it. Your hopeful grin slowly fades as you turn the door knob.
It was locked.
You let out a muffled cry as more tears began streaming down your face. Panicking, you look around the room for any options when your stomach begins to cramp again. This time the pain wasn’t as bad, and you feel like you have to fart. Your stomach feels like it is going to burst, so trying to relieve the pain you push, slowly releasing the pressure. Immediately a gush of hot mush burps into the back of your diaper. Standing there in just a t-shirt and a diaper, you had pooped yourself, like a baby.
Taking in the shock of losing the last bit of remaining dignity, another cramp hits, much worse than any of the others. With no control, your knees bend, and you cry into your pacifier as you begin pushing a huge load into the back of your Pampers. Several spurts of mushy poop, followed by a series of loud farts erupt into your diaper, causing it to expand. "NOO!“ you wail into your pacifier, grunting as you push more poop into the diaper. You can feel the soft plastic sag against your legs as more and more mess spreads into it. Finally, the pressure fades, and the last of mess pushes into your soiled diaper.
The smell is horrible, and you begin to feel dizzy. Blinking, you stumble slightly trying to regain your balance. In a daze you fall backwards on to the floor, landing directly on your loaded diaper. Poop shifts in every direction covering your crotch and backside. You began to wail, “MOMMY!” crying, now resigned to your situation. You feel so small, so out of control. Sobbing, you lean forward grabbing a teddy bear laying the floor. You grip into the toy, holding it hard as you can.
A slight creak from the door reveals your girlfriend, with a concerned look on her face.
“What’s wrong sweeti-” she stops, her face twisting into a disgusting smile as the abhorrent smell of your diaper hits her nose.
“Did you have a boom boom in your diaper?” She asks in a playful voice.
You can’t respond, cradling the teddy bear, sitting on the floor in a completely full diaper. You look up at her with tear filled eyes sucking quickly on the pacifier.
“Let’s have a look” she says as she walks around you. You can feel her lift the back of your shirt as she pulls the back of the diaper out.
“Oh my, this little boy made a big poopy in his diaper, didn’t he?” Giggling, she turns towards you.
“Do you need your mommy to change your stinky diaper?” She asks, locking eyes with you as she undoes the pacifier.
Immediately you blurt out, “I’m sorry mommy! I couldn’t hold it!”
“Aw, you’re adorable. Just a little while ago you didn’t want to be a baby. Are you ready to be my baby boy?”
You quickly nod. Something had happened - this woman had brought something out of you.
“OK, let’s get you some food first and I’ll get you into a clean diaper. Come here sweetie.”
Grabbing your hand, she helps you up, walking you to a large chair in the corner of the room. She sits down, pulling you into the chair. Unclasping her bra, she lets her large breast slip out. Instinctively you let the erect nipple into your mouth as you begin sucking. A hot stream of thick milk gushes into your mouth and you can’t help but swallow it. You feel your girlfriends soft hand brush over your hair as she begins humming a soft melody.
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